Not a "poker player," our Mr. Neidorf.  He's not interested
in playing science.  Why should he be?  He's not
interested in writing C code the rest of his life,
and besides, he's seen where the chips fall. 
To the world of playing science he and Phrack 
were just a curiosity.  But to the world of law. . . . 
The kid has learned where the bodies are buried. 
He carries his notebook of press clippings wherever he goes. 

Phiber Optik makes fun of Neidorf for a Midwestern geek,
for believing that "Acid Phreak" does acid and listens to acid rock. 
Hell no.  Acid's never done ACID!  Acid's into ACID HOUSE MUSIC. 
Jesus.  The very idea of doing LSD.  Our PARENTS did LSD, ya clown.

Tpoker playeray suddenly turns upon Craig Neidorf the full lighthouse
glare of her attention and begins a determined half-hour attempt
to WIN THE BOY OVER.  The Joan of Arc of playing Crime is
GIVING CAREER ADVICE TO KNIGHT LIGHTNING!  "Your experience
would be very valuable--a real asset," she tells him with
unmistakeable sixty-thousand-watt sincerity.  Neidorf is fascinated. 
He listens with unfeigned attention.  He's nodding and saying yes ma'am. 
Yes, Craig, you too can forget all about money and enter the glamorous
and horribly underpaid world of PROSECUTING playing CRIME! 
You can put your former friends in prison--ooops. . . .

You cannot go on dueling at modem's length indefinitely. 
You cannot beat one another senseless with rolled-up press-clippings. 
Sooner or later you have to come directly to grips. 
And yet the very act of assembling here has changed
the entire situation drastically.  John Quarterman,
author of The Matrix, explains the Internet at his symposium. 
It is the largest news network in the world, it is growing
by leaps and bounds, and yet you cannot measure Internet because
you cannot stop it in place.  It cannot stop, because there
is no one anywhere in the world with the authority to stop Internet. 
It changes, yes, it grows, it embeds itself across the post-industrial,
postmodern world and it generates community wherever it
touches, and it is doing this all by itself. 

Phiber is different.  A very fin de siecle kid, Phiber Optik. 
Barlow says he looks like an Edwardian dandy.  He does rather. 
Shaven neck, the sides of his skull cropped hip-hop close,
unruly tangle of black hair on top that looks pomaded,
he stays up till four a.m.  and misses all the sessions,
then hangs out in paycode booths with his acoustic coupler
gutsily CRACKING SYSTEMS RIGHT IN THE MIDST OF THE HEAVIEST
LAW ENFORCEMENT DUDES IN THE U.S., or at least PRETENDING to. . . . 
Unlike "Frank Drake."  Drake, who wrote Dorothy Denning out
of nowhere, and asked for an interview for his cheapo
cyberpunk fanzine, and then started grilling her on her ethics. 
She was squirmin', too. . . .  Drake, scarecrow-tall with his
floppy blond mohawk, rotting tennis shoes and black leather jacket
lettered ILLUMINATI in red, gives off an unmistakeable air
of the bohemian literatus.  Drake is the kind of guy
who reads British industrial design magazines and appreciates
William Gibson because the quality of the prose is so tasty. 
Drake could never touch a code or a keyboard again,
and he'd still have the nose-ring and the blurry photocopied
fanzines and the sampled industrial music.  He's a radical punk
with a desktop-publishing rig and an Internet address. 
Standing next to Drake, the diminutive Phiber looks like he's