Copyright (c) 1995 

                          TELL 'EM BILL SENT YA 
                             By Michael Hahn 
 
     In the summer of 1995, the Exon bill passed the Senate. The
prurient popular press inadvertently helped it through the House,
and President Clinton's veto was easily over-ridden by the 
heavily-Republican Congress. 
     In the summer of 1997, newly-elected President Pete Wilson 
collaborated with his cronies in the Congress on the most sweeping
"morals" legislation in eighty years... 
                                  * * * 
     Dave Jenkins finished the report with a sigh. He rolled the
last page out of the platen, and draped the dustcover on the
Selectric. As he straightened the stack of erasable bond, he
remembered his days as a starving undergrad. No one really used
computers for schoolwork in 1981, and he'd had a portable
Smith-Corona with a couple of sticky keys. The ability to use a
typewriter was now as much a part of his job as the degree he got
from Columbia. 
          "Agent Jenkins!" his boss boomed as he passed the open
door. "Come on in here a second." 
     "Yes, sir?" Dave said, sliding his trenchcoat from his
shoulder to his arm. J. Arthur McDonald was a notorious stickler
for decorum; agents who loosened their ties before leaving the
building often found themselves transferred to a Bureau office in
the southwest. Dave had no particular desire to work in a federal
office building in a hot state with grumpy militia fanatics for
neighbors. 
     "Nice work on the Alexandria crackdown. Doggoned BBSes are 
like cockroaches; you pull off the baseboard and find a whole
nest." McDonald studied a paper on his desk, then looked up at
Dave. "Your work's been exemplary lately, Jenkins. I think you
might find yourself promoted very soon now." 
     "Thank you, sir." Dave was more than a little relieved.
McDonald was usually passing out reprimands, not commendations. 
     "Good night, Jenkins. Keep up the good work." J. Arthur
McDonald returned to the papers on his desk, and Dave beat a hasty
retreat. He stopped outside the building to loosen his tie and pull
on his trenchcoat, then looked back at FBI Headquarters. 
     At least he'd chosen a growth industry when he finished 
school. Given his background, a law degree had all but assured his
recruitment by the Bureau. Law enforcement was about the country's
only growth industry these days, at least among the legal
businesses. 
     Seven years after the Exon bill, computer networks were
regarded as all but extinct. An occasional renegade BBS made the
evening news, but in 2002, the Internet had been returned to the
military and possession of a modem by a private citizen was a
felony. Personal computers disappeared from desktops almost as
quickly as they had appeared. Most businesses had simply chosen the
better part of valor when the use of a computer became a suspicious
act. 
     The only real data processing took place on mainframes. IBM
hadn't forgotten how to produce "big iron", and as some businesses
dumped their desktop computers, they discovered a need to put the
data someplace. As Apple and Microsoft evaporated, IBM, Digital
Equipment Corporation, and Honeywell enjoyed a tremendous
resurgence in their business. 
     As he turned up M Street toward his Georgetown apartment, Dave
considered his place in the grand scheme of things. As a rookie FBI
agent, he'd found himself assigned almost immediately to the BBS
task force. His was one of the last B.A. degrees in computer
science awarded in a world dominated by personal computers, and his
knowledge on the subject of communication networks made him a
valuable commodity for an agency suddenly charged with enforcing
the new "blue" laws. 
     While computer bulletin board systems were not technically 
outlawed in 1997, the obstacles to running one became almost 
insurmountable. All BBSes were assumed to be trafficking in illegal
material, and most judges looked the other way when law enforcement
agencies played fast and loose with probable cause and search 
warrants. Equipment was confiscated and evidence was manufactured.
The Federal Communications Control Act of 1998 outlawed networks
operated by private citizens and levied heavy penalties against
those violating the statutes. Most folks stopped fighting the
trend. They traded in their computers for microwave ovens, and
started watching more television. 
     Dave punched in his security code on the keypad by the door,
picked up the mail under the slot, and dropped his coat on a chair. 
He sorted the mail as he thawed a frozen dinner in the microwave. 
The inanities of "Lucy and Desi: The Next Generation" drifted in
from the living room wallscreen. 
     The blue envelope brought him up short. He tapped it on the
counter, tore off one end, and pulled out a small slip of paper. 
"6001 Executive Blvd., Rockville, back door" was all it said. He
read it twice, committing the address to memory, then ran water
over the note and the envelope to dissolve them. The residue
flushed easily down the kitchen drain. 
     He ate slowly, reading a map of the area around the District.
Rockville, Maryland wasn't far, and the address seemed to be near
a Metro station. He finished his dinner, grabbed his coat, and
headed for the subway. 
     The train was crowded; more people were out on the town now
that there wasn't as much to keep them home. Most theatres were
doing a booming business, particularly those featuring revivals of
old, safe plays. The move away from technology had changed the look
of twenty-first century movies and television, and most people
preferred the live theatre to the pablum playing at the local movie
houses and on the wallscreens in their homes. 
     Dave left the White Flint Station, walked across the parking
lot and down Executive Boulevard. The streets here were almost
empty, and he was conscious of his exposed position. With a deep
sense of relief, he reached a stone-and-glass cube, ducked around
to the back of the building. There were three steel doors in back,
two of them clearly attached to a loading dock. He walked to the
third, rapped sharply twice. 
     A gruff voice from the other side of the door said, "We're
closed. Come back tomorrow." 
     Dave responded, "Billy G. sent me," and heard the beep of a
security code being entered. The door opened briefly, and a large
hand ushered him into the darkness. He was guided through the dark
by an unseen man probably wearing night-vision glasses. 
     They stopped, the man rapped on what must have been a door,
then moved away. The door opened, and as Dave stood blinking in the
sudden brightness, a voice boomed, "Howdy, stranger. Pull up a
keyboard." 
     "Hi, Doug," he replied, and looked around the room. There were
a dozen people here tonight, each of them seated before a small
computer. The workstations were all attached to a central system
with a large monitor and a bank of modems. 
     "Looks like a good setup. How long do you plan to stay here?"
Dave asked the balding man beside him. 
     "A couple of months, I think. The dummy site you raided in 
Alexandria will keep the Feds off our backs for a few weeks; thanks
again." The balding man, once the sysop of the largest BBS in
Florida, was on the FBI's "Most Wanted" list. 
     "It's the least I could do.  After all, we have my late sister
in common." Dave settled in at a console, logged on to the BBS. 
His almost-brother-in-law returned to the central machine, the
modems sang, and a small group of people resumed communicating via
e-mail with the rest of the world. 
                                    END