Terminal Compromise by Winn Schwartau (my reading book .txt) 📖

computer time, reconstruc-

tion of data banks and system protection.

Again we are warned, that the infection has continued to spread

and that some strains of the virus are programmed to detonate

over a period of years. The Columbus Day Virus is called by its

creators, the “Data Crime Virus”, a name befitting its purpose.

When it strikes, it announces itself to the computer user, and by

that time, it’s too late. Your computer is kaput!

What makes this particular computer virus any more tantalizing

than the hundred or so that have preceded it? The publicity the

media has given it, each and every year since 1989.

The Data Crime, aka Columbus Day Virus has, for some inescapable

reason attracted the attention of CNN, ABC, CBS, NBC and hundreds

of newspapers including this one. The Associated Press and other

reputable media have, perhaps due to slow news weeks, focused a

great deal of attention on this anticipated technological Arma-

geddon.

Of course there are other experts who pooh-pooh the entire Virus

issue and see it as an over-exploited media event propelled by

Virus Busters. Sam Moscovitz of Computer Nook in Dallas, Texas

commented, “I have never seen a virus in 20 years. I’ve heard

about them but really think they are a figment of the media’s

imagination.”

Virus Busters are people or firms who specialize in fighting

alleged computer viruses by creating and selling so-called anti-

dotes. Virus Busting Sean McCullough, President of The Virus

Institute in San Jose, California thinks that most viruses are

harmless and users and companies overreact. “There have been no

more that a few dozen viral outbreaks in the last few years.

They spread more by rumor than by infection.” When asked how he

made his living, he responded, “I sell antidotes to computer

viruses.” Does he make a good living? “I can’t keep up with the

demand,” he insists.

The Federal Government, though, seems concerned, and maybe for

good reason. On October 13, another NASA space shuttle launch

is planned. Friday the 13th is another date that computer virus

makers use as the intended date of destruction. According to an

official spokesman, NASA has called in computer security experts

to make sure that their systems are ” . . .clean and free from

infection. It’s a purely precautionary move, we are not worried.

The launch will continue as planned.”

Viruses. Are they real? Most people believe they are real, and

dangerous, but that chances of infection are low. As one highly

respected computer specialist put it, “The Columbus Day Virus is

a low risk high consequence possibility. I don’t recommend any

panic.” Does he protect his own computer agaist viruses? “Abso-

lutely. I can’t risk losing my computers.”

Can anybody? Until October 12, this is Scott Mason, hoping my

computer never needs Tylenol.

Scarsdale, New York.

The Conrail trains were never on time.

Scott Mason regularly tried to make it to the station to ride

the 7:23 from the wealthy Westchester town of Scarsdale, New York

into Grand Central Station. If he made it. It was a 32 minute

ride into the City on good days and over 2 hours when the feder-

ally subsidized rail service was under Congressional scrutiny.

The ritual was simple. He fell into his old Porsche 911, an

upscale version of a station car, and drove the 2 miles to the

Scarsdale train station. He bought a large styrofoam cup full of

decent black coffee and 3 morning papers from the blind newsman

before boarding the express train. Non-stop to Harlem, and then

on to 42nd St. and Park Avenue and wake up time.

Tyrone Duncan followed a similar routine. Except he drove his

silver BMW 850i to the station. The FBI provided him with a

perfectly good Ford Fairlane with 78,000 miles on it when he

needed a car in New York. He was one of the few black commuters

from the affluent bedroom community and his size made him more

conspicuous than his color.

Scott and Tyrone were train buddies. Train buddies are perhaps

unique in the commuterdom of the New York suburbs. Every morning

you see the same group of drowsy, hung over executives on their

way to the Big Apple. The morning commute is a personal solace

for many. Your train buddy knows if you got laid and by whom.

If you tripped over your kids toys in the driveway, your train

buddy knew. If work was a bitch, he knew before the wife. Train

buddies are buddies to the death or the bar, whichever comes

first.

While Scott and Tyrone had been traveling the same the morning

route since Scott had joined the paper, they had been friends

since their wives introduced them at the Scarsdale Country Club

10 years ago. Maggie Mason and Arlene Duncan were opoosites;

Maggie, a giggly, spacey and spontaneous girl of 24 and Arlene,

the dedicated wife of a civil servant and mother of three daugh-

ters who were going to toe the line, by God. The attachment

between the two was not immediately explainable, but it gave both

Scott and Ty a buddy with their wives’ blessing.

The physical contrast between the two was comical at times.

Duncan was a 240 pound six foot four college linebacker who had

let his considerable bulk accumulate around the middle. Scott,

small and wiry was 10 years Ty’s junior. On weekends they played

on a very amateur local basketball league where minimum age was

thirty five, but there, Scott consistently out maneuvered Ty-

rone’s bulk.

During the week, Tyrone dressed in impeccable Saville Row suits

he had made in London while Scott’s uniform was jeans, sneakers

and T-Shirt of choice. His glowing skull, more dark brown than

ebony, with fringes of graying short hair emphasized the usually

jovial face that was described as a cross between rolly-polly and

bulbous. Scott on the other hand, always seemed to need a hair-

cut.

Coffee in hand, Tyrone plopped down opposite Scott as the train

pulled out of the open air station.

“You must be in some mood,” Tyrone said laughing.

Scott laid down his newspaper and vacantly asked why.

“That shirt,” Ty smirked. “A lesson in how to make friends and

influence people.”

“Oh, this?” Scott looked down at the words on his chest:

I’m O.K. You’re A Shithead.

“It only offends them that oughta be offended.”

“Shitheads?”

“Shitheads.”

“Gotcha,” Ty said sarcastically. “Right.”

“My mother,” groused Scott. “VCR lessons.” Ty didn’t under-

stand.

“I gave my mom a VCR last Christmas,” Scott continued. “She ooh’d

and ah’d and I thought great, I got her a decent present. Well, a

couple of weeks later I went over to her place and I asked how

she liked the VCR. She didn’t answer, so I asked again and she

mumbled that she hadn’t used it yet. I fell down,” Scott laughed

out loud.

“‘Why?’ I asked her and she said she wanted to get used to it

sitting next to her TV for a couple of months before she used

it.” Tyrone caught a case of Scott’s roaring laughter.

“Wheeee!” exclaimed Tyrone. “And you an engineer?”

“Hey,” Scott settled down, “my mom calls 911 to change a light-

bulb.” They laughed until Scott could speak. “So last night I

went over for her weekly VCR lesson.”

“If it’s anything like Arlene’s mother,” Tyrone giggled, “trust-

ing a machine to do something right, when you’re not around to

make sure it is right, is an absolutely terrifying thought. They

don’t believe it works.”

“It’s a lot of fun actually,” Scott said fondly. “It tests my

ability to reduce things to the basics. The real basics. Trying

to teach a seventy year old widower about digital is like trying

to get a square ball bearing to roll.”

Even so, Scott looked forward to those evenings with his mom. He

couldn’t imagine it, the inability to understand the simplicity

of either ‘on’ or ‘off’. But he welcomed the tangent conversa-

tions that invariably resulted when he tried to explain how the

VCR could record one channel and yes mom, you can watch another

channel at the same time.

Scott never found out that his mother deprogrammed the VCR,

cleared its memory and ‘Twelved’ the clock an hour before he

arrived to show her how to use it. And after he left, she repro-

grammed it for her tastes only to erase it again before his next

visit. If he had ever discovered her ruse it would have ruined

her little game and the ritual starting point for their private

talks.

“By the way,” Scott said to Tyrone. “What are you and Arlene

doing Sunday night?”

“Sunday? Nothing, why?” Tyrone asked innocently.

“My mom is having a little get together and she’d love the two of

you . . .”

“Is this another one of her seances?” Tyrone asked pointedly.

“Well, not in so many words, but it’s always possible . . .”

“Forget it.” Tyrone said stubbornly. “Not after what happened

last time. I don’t think I could get Arlene within 20 miles of

your mother. She