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THE PHANTOM OF THE OPERATOR
---------------------------
The time is 3a.m. and I am sitting in front of my favourite computer
terminal debugging my little eyes out because I have to have a lexical
analyzer program slipped under my prof's door by nine in the morning or
I can kiss the course good-bye. Things are looking good because there's
almost no one on the system and response is like lightning, when what
to my wondering eyes should appear but
C
R
A
S
H !
Translation for those who've never worked on that piece of silicon
silliness called a computer: the system just went tits up and I died
along with it.
Okay, am I worried? First reaction is naturally to shout the foulest
obsenity that springs to my tongue, but am I really worried? No. I sit
back and say to myself, what the hell, the operator will boot the system
and then I can carry on. Three or four more shots at compiling and all
the obvious bugs will be gone, then I can tackle the documentation and
still have the whole schlamozzle done in time to watch 20-Minute Workout.
I rise from my swivel chair, kip into the undergrad lounge for a Sweet Marie
from the vending machine, then chomp my way back to the terminal room
where I expect to see the system alive again.
Well. Silly me. I hit the RETURN key and what do I see but a big nothing.
Nada. As Julius Caeser might have said, Nihil. The system is still flatter
than a squirrel on the highway, and me with my degree on the line. This is the
moment that the Kid realizes all the operators buggered off and won't
be back till 8 a.m.(All right, I should have remembered sooner, but here I've
been a good and noble student all my life and have never before had to
pull an all-nighter to finish an assignment. And if you believe that,
I have some farmland in Arizona you might like.)
Anyway, this leaves me in a quandary, because I can't very well get my
bloody program working if the machine won't talk to me. I pace out into
the hall in search of inspiration. On the door of the machine room is a
cheery little sign decorated with happy faces:"The Operators will be back
on duty at 8 a.m. If the system goes down during the night, contact
Campus Security and describe the problem. They will attemp to help."
So, ever the optimist, I truck back to the terminal room and pick up the
on-campus phone that's there for just such emergencies. Dial the number and
wait six rings before a gruff voice says, "Hello."
"Hi. The Bun just went down and it would be real nice if someone came
over to boot it." Now of course the Security guy doesn't know that the
Bun is our pet name for the computer, but he's well trained in talking to
apparent loonie's and he's no doubt keeping me on the line so someone
can trace the call, when all of a sudden the phone goes dead.
Friends, a free testimonial to the wonders of the telephone monopoly:
never in my life have I had a phone go dead on me. I've benn hung up on
more times than I can count, but never has the phone system dropped out
from under my very lips. I can't believe it. I say lame things like
"Hello? Hello? Wakey, wakey, " and such like until I really cotton onto
the fact that something has come between me and my friendly Kampus Kop.
Then, my first instinct is to imitate the old movies and jiggle the little
jobbie that the reciever rests on, all the while saying "Hello? Hello?" . . .
which is all very amusing and makes me feel Barbara Stanwyck, but does sweet
dick all as far as the phone is concerned. Of course, it never works in the
movies either.
I hang up again and return to the terminal, on the off chance that
someone with a key to the machine room was working late somewhere else
in the building and has arrived to resurrect the late great machine.
I hit RETURN and lo and behold, a little sign-on message scampers its
way across my screen. At least, it looks a bit like a sign-on message.
Usually the computer prints out something like
HSLA-2, 003
WATERLOO TIME-SHARING,MAY 1, 3:15 a.m.
userid--
and this is what I am expecting. (by the way, "userid" stands for User
Identification, TABRADLEY in my case, if you're interested.) As I say, I
expect to see something pretty mundane, but what actually greets my
baby browns is
HSLA-13, 666
WALPURGISNACHT TIME-SHARING, HOUR OF THE SNAKE
ABANDON HOPE, ALL YE WHO SIGN ON HERE!
userid--
Ha Ha, say I. Comical buggers abound at the university and all of them
are interested in screwing up the system. Every April Fool's Day they do
something to the computer:change the sign-on message to something they
find funny, for example. One of the usual gang of idiots is mucking about
in the machine room for giggles, but what do I care provided the hunk of
metal works? I type in my userid, comme ca,
userid--tabradley
as well as my password, which I am sure as hell not going to put in print,
and I'm off to the races.
At this point, I expect to see news. The news is usually tit-useless
trivia about changes to programs nobody uses, but you suffer through
it anyway in case something important comes up. This night, the news that
prints out is this:
01/May/84 : Satanic Victory
The forces of hell have overthrown the
Bun as of 3 a.m. this morning.hence-
forth the system will be used for
administering the large population of
the netherworld, which has been grow-
ing rapidly during these times of moral
decay. All users signing on in the future
are automatically damned to eternal
perdition. We apologize for the incon-
venience.
01/May/84 : PROGRAMMERS WANTED!
His Satanic Majesty wants experienced
programmers for immediate employment.
Must know Fortran and Cobol ; Pascal and
ADA an asset. Apply in blood c/o the Dead
Letter Office or send electronic mail to
userid 'lucifer'.
Ha Ha, and ha ha again. I give the requisite minimum number of chuckles,
resolve to gripe like hell in the morning to whoever will listen, and
proceed to go about my business. Said business involves running my
program on a given collection of test input. I type in the command and
recieve the not-so-welcome reply PROGRAM NOT FOUND. This is annoying
to say the least. I poke in my catalog of computer files and discover,
much to my dismay, that it's empty. Nothing. Nada. As Jean-Paul Sartre
might have said, Rien. This, as they so aptly put it, is the last straw.
I type the USER command to find out who is currently signed on, and I get
+lucifer *tabradley
Wow. The Prince of Evil and me sharing the same computer. Pardon me for not
being awestruck. I summon up the electronic mail program and fire off the
following epistle.
*mail to lucifer
. Will your Satanic Majesty kindly bug off
. with the cute stuff and let me get some
. work done? Bring the system up properly
. and return ye to the depths from whence
. ye came.
I sit and simmer for a few moments, and of course I get a reply.
1 lucifer , Walpurgisnacht , Hour of the Snake U
Mortal Worm, how dare you address me in
that tone of voice? Your soul is forfeit!
Uh-hunh. A classic example of why the impressionable should be kept
from fantasy role-playing games. This feeb has allowed the pigeon of reason
to fly the coop. I give it one more shot the polite way.
*mail to lucifer
. Dear Lord of Infamy:
. I have an assignment due at 9 in the
. morning, I am in a rotten mood, and I
. will personally fill your nose with Dr.
. Pepper if you don't stop being a smartass.
. Comprendo?
The answer:
2 lucifer, Walpurgisnacht, Hour of the Snake U
You shall be cast into the outer dark-
ness, human vermin. Tremble at my power!
This is the very momment that the lights go out in the terminal room.
So okay. I'm sitting in the terminal in the dark with this curse
glowing greenly at me from the display screen, and I am really and truly
pissed off. Mad as hell and not going to take it any more, to coin a phrase.
I type
*mail to lucifer
.this means war.
Let me explain that I am just an ordinary computer science student.
I do not have any super-permissions that let me make the computer
walk and talk backwards;I don't have any clever way of getting around
the security system;I don't have a key to the machine room door,
or any of other sneaky things someone else might use to clobber this bum.
I simply have native wit and a colossal Mad on. I sign off and start again.
HSLA-13, 666
Walpurgisnacht, Time-Sharing, Hour of the Snake
Abandon hope, all ye who sign on here!
userid--
I type in 'lucifer' as my userid. It asks for my password. This is the
point at which the Kid has to be clever. Most people use really predic-
table passwords:it's just a matter of psychoanalyzing the subject,
then a bit of trial and error. I try the following errors.
satan
satanic
majesty
damnation
hell
hades
dis
@ brimstone
god is dead
Bingo on 'god is dead'. I get signed on, sweet as a charm. People with
delusions of deviltry are so predictable.
I am now very dangerous to this "lucifer" turd. As far as the computer
is concerned I am him. I am about to commit suicide in his infernal name.
It takes me all of thirty seconds to write the following program:
/* Take this */
'SP DISC'
Do forever
Say 'Satan and dead bears have an understanding.'
End
Exit /* never gets here */
This, ladies and gents, is called an infinite loop. It just keeps printing
out the same message forever and ever, amen. It eats up processor time, it
eats up storage space and it racks up an incredible usage bill in no time flat.
For those unfamiliar with our noble system, everyone (including mush-for
brains like "lucifer") has a dollar limit on how much computing resources
he can use. Go over the limit and the computer craps you off into the
outer darkness where you can wail and gnash your teeth till doomsday
as far as the machine is concerned. And one little infinite loop program
can consume 47 times its own wieght in excess resources in the blink of
an eye.
I start 80 of them. All running simultaneously under good ol' Lucifer's
account. His bill shoots up faster than the dials at a gas pump. Money
bleeds out of him like water. A conservative estimate says he has
ten minutes to live. Tops.
I walk down to the lounge for another Sweet Marie. The place is
deserted. God knows where the janitors have gone. For a second or two
I get kind of edgy about being alone here, but what the hell?
These computer nerds aren't violent, they just like power-tripping.
I'm okay, provided he doesn't have a pitchfork handy.
Back to the terminal room and turn on the lights as I enter.
I check his Satanic Majesty's resources and find that his number
(666?) is almost up. I have no idea what he's doing at this momment.
What would Lucifer do if he signed onto a computer? Write Cobol programs?
Tickety-tick, tickety-tick, and Lucifer's resources hit the big
goose egg. All the terminals running my infinite loops beep in outrage
and display the message
resources exhausted***
cp disconnects
Tee double-hee, say I. Put that in your pit and smoke it.
Suddenly, there comes this humungous scream of fury that echoes through
every corner of the Math building. Papers shake off the desks, hand-driers
turn on in the washrooms, vending machines belch out Taco chips in shock.
I start toward the door to see what's going on. when I am hit by a stinking
cloud of sulphurous smoke that is billowing from the general direction
of the machine room. I do the usual gagging number, hack hack, double over,
fight back the chocolate bars that are intent on debarking my stomach,
and by the time I am in any condition to contemplate hitting the fire alarm,
the smoke is completely gone and the corridor is as quiet as a grave.
Okay. I admit it. I am just the tiniest bit freaked out. Running home
looks like an attractive prospect. Running home and killing a case of beer
looks like a REALLY attractive prospect.
But I have an assignment to do. I go back to the terminal, very slowly
but I go, and I hit RETURN.
HSLA-2, 003
Waterloo Time-Sharing,May 1, 3:45 a.m.
userid--tabradley
password
#############
1 mail message waiting
*mail printunread
1 god May 1, 3:45 a.m. U
Well done, my good and faithfull servant.
And the TRUELY weird thing about this whole business is that my program
works perfectly the first time.
THINK ABOUT IT...
A STORY BY JIM GARDNER @ WATERLOO
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