Computers: Plugging into the Networks

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Attorneys in the Minneapolis-St. Paul area use Lawyers-on-Line to compare notes on troublesome judges. In other cities there are separate systems for astronomers, doctors, photographers, gardeners, senior citizens and gays. There are teen-agers everywhere, swapping software and trading tips to the latest high-tech adventure games. Pirate's Cove, Sherwood Forest and Warlock's Castle are hangouts for hackers and phone phreaks who want to bootleg copyrighted programs or get passwords for the computers at banks, schools or government installations.

Among the most popular systems are the so-called conference trees. Rather than storing messages in the order they were written, tree systems are organized by subject matter. This encourages topic-oriented discussions on anything from college tuitions to Middle East policy. Users start at the "trunk," a list of subjects for debate (NEIGHBORHOOD-POWER, NUCLEAR-ARMS), and climb "branches" of subsidiary messages (GIVE-PEACE-A-CHANCE, NUKE-EM-ALL). As subsequent callers add their own opinions, the trees can grow into dense thickets of give and take. In Santa Cruz, Calif., a conference called START-A-RELIGION began with a manifesto that declared, "Religion is too important to be left to the churches or to the profiteers," and invited tree people to "create one we can be comfortable with." Ten months later, the computer had become so clogged with ideas that the Sysop was forced to delete 95% of the messages to leave room for other users. The discussion eventually evolved into a loosely organized movement called Origins, whose members now meet in Santa Cruz on Sundays for brunch.

Part of the appeal of the computer networks is voyeuristic: like party lines in the early days of telephones, they permit strangers to listen in on personal conversations. Although some may find the fishbowl atmosphere intimidating, others, like Sir Weej, are exhilarated to discover an audience that will respond to their thoughts. "I sense fertile ground here," he says. "I have not felt so connected and vital in a long time."

Inevitably, some telecomputers have discovered ways to use the new medium for the most intimate form of human communication. Subscribers to Compu Serve's "Citizen Band" facility have taken to exchanging fantasy sexual scenarios with strangers. "We're dancing in my living room," begins a typical CompuSex seduction. "And I'm unbuttoning your blouse."

Not every CompuServe subscriber is entranced. In the current issue of Ms. magazine, Writer Lindsy Van Gelder describes an encounter her twelve-and nine-year-old daughters, masquerading as sophisticated older women, enjoyed with a long-distance correspondent. "I'm French-kissing you now," cooed the would-be seducer. To which the kids promptly typed: "P-tooey!!!"

— By Philip Elmer-DeWitt