                                  T H E

                               Z E P H Y R

                      __     M A G A Z I N E
                     {__]++++++++++++++++++++++++++[]
                     Issue #22                7-22-86

                A weekly electronic magazine for users of
                            THE ZEPHYR II BBS
                        (Mesa, AZ - 602-894-6526)
                    owned and operated by T. H. Smith

                        Editor - Gene B. Williams

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                                (c) 1986

    THIS ISSUE:

       The popularity of cloning as a topic of discussion has
    diminished in the past few years, but there was a time when
    rumors abounded. Rumors such as the successful cloning of
    rabbits, monkeys and even humans. One rumor even claimed that
    scientists were cross-cloning humans and apes, to create a race
    of powerful, but relatively stupid, laborers. All these rumors
    persisted despite the claims of prominent scientists that such a
    thing was presently impossible.
       This denial was dismissed as the efforts on the part of these
    scientists to simply hide the truth.

           YOU'RE IN THE ARMY NOW . . . AND NOW . . . AND NOW

       Gleason Farley lay on his small cot and stared at the ceiling.
    Tomorrow, his best friend was being discharged, and Gleason was
    to be transferred to duty at some remote spot called Westenville.
       No friends. Nothing! Just some desert installation where he
    was to watch the gray-green radar screen for 8 hours every day.
    And what the hell would be flying over Westenville?
       Another damn-typical military job with no sense behind it.
    Routine. Day in and day out. Routine. Damned, bullin' routine
    nothingness!
       At the top of his list of complaints was that he'd have to
    leave Sheila behind. With her looks, it wouldn't be long before
    another guy would make his move on her . . . and she'd be gone
    forever from the little world of Gleason Farley.
       He could picture the scene. After six months of steadily
    dwindling letters, he'd receive a quiet, unperfumed letter, which
    would begin with a formal, "Dear Gleason, . . . I hope you can
    understand this . . . " and it would be over.
       Sure, Sheila would be lonely. But what kind of girls could he
    expect to find in Westenville? Probably full of Zeldas and
    Gertrudes (although Gleason had known one terrific lookin' Zelda
    back in high school), and all in uniform.
       He remembered a friend of his, consigned to a station
    somewhere in Panama. Every letter Richard had sent him was filled
    with depression brought on by simple boredom - and of course the
    nearly total lack of female companionship.
       Gleason envisioned his own letters home.
       "Dear Mom;  Hope you're all well. Everything here is the same.
    Today we had some unusual excitement when a non-GI fly landed in
    the Colonel's soup and boiled away to a nondescript mass of
    protein. Bon apetite. But the real excitement came when the
    screen showed a blip. A bird flew over. At least we know that the
    radar is working."
       Damn! What a life. And still a whole 'nother year to go.
       "Gleason, let's celebrate tonight."
       "Oh, hi, Ben. What's up?"
       "My time is up! Let's hit town tonight and raise some hell.
    I'm leavin' tomorrow, and I just gotta say goodbye to this place
    in style."
       "I don't know, Ben. I don't feel much like celebrating."
       Ben sat on the edge of the cot and gave Gleason a semi-painful
    punch. C'mon, Gleas. It's not that bad."
       "Oh, sure. You're going home tomorrow. I'll be stuck in . .  .
    Westenville . . . for a year."
       "Aw, you'll make it okay. I'll keep in touch."
       " . . . and tell me how much fun you're having, right?"
       "Hell, Gleas. You're about as cheery as a dead dog."
       "I'm sorry, Ben. The whole damn situation is a bummer. You're
    off to home and good times. I'm off to some weird place no one
    has ever heard of, while Sheila gets picked up on by some
    officer, no doubt." He paused, then suddenly jumped from the cot.
    "Well, to hell with all of 'em. Let's go to town."

       Ben went his way. Gleason went his, and Sheila went hers.
    After a few months at Westenville, even Sheila's predicted letter
    had little effect other than to serve as at least some kind of
    change in the tedium.
       Westenville turned out to be worse than he had imagined. In
    point of fact, it didn't really exist. Westenville might have had
    real, live people in it some hundred years ago, but those few had
    left the area long before, leaving an area only a hermit could
    love.
       The post was a simple four building set-up . . . one barracks
    for the seven enlisted men, one for the three officers, one which
    was aptly called "The Mess" (and bore a faded sign across the
    equally faded door to prove it), and one to house the useless
    radar equipment, which was there, apparently, to make someone's
    brother-in-law a little richer for the sale of equipment to the
    government.
       Or so it seemed to Gleason.
       Other than an occasional hazy blip of a flock of birds,
    nothing appeared on the screen.
       The nearest town was 65 miles distant, and that sparsely
    populated berg was declared off-limits due to the "Top Secret"
    status of the post.
       The asphalt patched concrete ribbon, jokingly called a
    highway, bore the weight of perhaps three cars per day. Once each
    month that road and the 5 mile stretch of dirt path between the
    post and the road, strained under the unaccustomed weight of the
    supply truck. Between deliveries - nothing. To avoid the problem
    of daily mail delivery, the post office readily agreed to accept
    the Top Secret title for the installation. The mail came once
    each month, with the supply truck. And that was screened.
       All this, for an outpost which seeminly served no useful
    purpose other than to test the frustration and boredom capacity,
    and the patience, of the few soldiers assigned to it.
       And yet, somewhere in that vast expanse of the military was
    someone with a heart. A microprocessor had been installed, and
    was interconnected through a network to a master library located
    in D.C.  Once the special access code had been fed into the
    system, the operator would have access to virtually anything ever
    put into print.
       It wasn't long before Gleason learned the machine's language,
    and then learned how to ask questions. It became a game - a
    contest to see who on the post could find the most outrageous,
    most useless bit of information.
       "Sex Life of a Paramecium."
       "Three Militarily Approved Methods for Performing a Bowel
    Movement."
       "A History of Buttons - 1906-1908, Vol. 7."
       "Raising Worms for Cookies & Fun."
       "Installing a 3J765-8a Light Bulb in a 916Y-2 Socket."
       "Four Noted Authorities Speak Out on Smoking Lettuce."
       The access code contained 248 numerals and letters, and was
    fed into the system through an automatic memory circuit. At first
    Gleason merely keyed up the memory and let it do the work. One
    day he stumbled across a written copy of the code and began to
    punch it in directly.
       On the last digit, instead of a "3" he missed and keyed in a
    "W," but then twitched slightly and ended up with a "WW."  Before
    he could reach the control to erase the command and try again,
    the screen went blank and then suddenly began to display a long
    list which moved by too quickly for Gleason to detect what it
    was.
       He sat, amazed, staring at the screen. In the upper left
    corner he noticed the words, "DALLAS, TX" holding steady. The
    named changed periodically, each time to the name of another
    city, intent on going through the entire alphabet of cities until
    Gleason hit the control and stopped it.
       "Phone numbers! Well, I'll be damned, I'm getting phone
    books."
       He keyed the terminal back to "READY," and punched out the
    code, with the same error at the end. Again the list of names,
    addresses and phone numbers sped by.
       "Well, this won't win me any prizes," he thought, "but . . ."
    and again he brought the computer back to "READY."
       This time, he changed a digit in the middle of the code, being
    careful to note which change he had made on a piece of scratch
    paper.
       The letters, "AP" appeared in the upper left. The center of
    the screen displayed a continuous flow of bits of news from all
    over the world, each headed by the name of some city.
       READY
       Another deliberate error was followed by a comendium of
    government documents, ranging from bills still locked on the
    floor to bits of law taken out of context and in quotation marks,
    followed by varying lengths of comment written by some
    disembodied Congressman, or judge, or agent, or . . . (There was
    no way to tell which, as the only identifying marks were code
    numbers.

       READY

       Gleason keyed in still another combination.
       Blank screen - then -

       SECURITY BANK - REQUIRES DC-7a CLEARANCE"

       - then blank -
       - then a repeat of the same message.
       He tried again, with the same results. The next time he keyed
    in a random series of numbers.

       ILLEGAL ENTRY - - - - SECURITY - - - ILLEGAL ENTRY - - - SEC

       Another random series.

       ILLEGAL ENTRY - - - - SECUR

       Another.

       ILLEGAL ENTRY - -

       Another

       ILLEG

       Gleason brought the computer back to READY and tried various
    combinations of the access code. Some led to various news lines,
    others to lists of various things, and a few to more guarded
    security codes. Several hours later the only thing he knew which
    he hadn't at the start of the day, was that the network contained
    an incredible amount of information, most of which either made no
    sense or was useless except to those few people who could
    understand the symbols in the read-out. He also knew one more
    thing. Something had become available to relieve the boredom.
       The next day he began again, trying more and more combinations
    - receiving more and more useless information, and a few more
    security locked systems.

       READY.
       SECRET - - - - CLASS 2 CLEARANCE

       Gleason keyed his driver's license number.

       CODE - - - - 1. BASIC (CLASS 2)   2. DETAIL (CLASS 1)      SEE
    SUPPLEMENTAL 327G

       Program - 327G

       LISTINGS - - - HIGH SECURITY PROJECTS - - - USAF, USN, USMC,
    USA, SAC, CIA, FLO, & GSR PROJECTS 18976-23471
       SEE CODE SPECIFICS FOR EACH PROJECT
       ILLEGAL ENTRY PUNISHABLE - USE SECURITY ACCESS CODE
    IMMEDIATELY
       327G OUTMODES ALL PREVIOUS MODES
       USE SECURITY ACCESS CODE IMMEDIATELY
       >

       "Now what the hell have I stumbled onto?" muttered Gleason. He
    picked 18976, the first project listed, and followed it again
    with his driver's license number.

       PROJECT 18976 - USAF, USMC & GSR-3576f
    RE:  LASER RECON VIA ORBITING STATION
    PURPOSE:  STANDARD ATMOSPHERIC AND GEOLOGICAL SURVEY FOR
    PREDICTION OF WEATHER CONDITIONS
    RESEARCH TEAM:  Robert H. Smith, H63421T; Donald R. Johanssen,
    PT39714; Col. Stanley R. Murray, AF79135; Col. Benjamin B.
    Hartley, MC67545
    DETERMINATION:  Feasible
    FILE: 18976 - - - CROSS 4578-G - - - CLASS 2

       Realizing that to try to break into every code would take more
    time than he had, Gleason began keying numbers at random.

       PROJECT 12373 - USAF, USN, USMC, USAC, SAC, GSR-8934
    RE: BIOLOGICAL STUDIES
    PURPOSE:  CLONING - WARM - - SYSTEM 536c
    RESEARCH TEAM:  CLASSIFIED
    DETERMINATION:  CLASSIFIED
    FILE:  21373 - - - CROSS 9878 - - - -
    CLASSIFIED TOP TOP SECRET - - - CLASSIFIED TOP TOP SECRET - - -

       Gleason tried the cross reference file, but his license
    number, apparently, did not have sufficient clout to break the
    heavy security. On a hunch, he tried something different - the
    number behind one of the names listed as a member of a research
    team in another biological project.

       READY
       GSR-1-N417-3   MD697 - - - - ? - - - - 21373/9878

       The screen blanked for a moment, then -

       21373/9878 - - - AUTHORIZED   GSR-1-N417-3  MD697
       CLONING
       COMMENTS:  DUE TO PUBLIC PRESSURE, MILITARY STAFF AND
    PERSONNEL MUST BE CUT. VOLUNTEER BASIS SUGGESTED, OUTMODING
    SELECTIVE SERVICE SYSTEM.
       SUPPLEMENTAL:  VOLUNTEER BASIS DOES NOT PRODUCE SUFFICIENT
    NUMBERS TO CONTINUE NECESSARY LEVELS.
       PROBLEM:  SUFFICIENT MILITARY FORCE, WITHOUT ENDANGERING
    PUBLIC OPINION OF POLITICAL ELECTEES AND OTHER GOVERNMENTAL
    AGENCIES.
       SUGGESTED SOLUTION:  INCREASE MANPOWER ARTIFICIALLY, VIA
    CLONING OF EXISTING MILITARY PERSONNEL.
       PREDICTED RESULT IF SUCCESSFUL:  UNLIMITED MANPOWER
       PREDICTED ADVERSE EFFECTS:  PROJECT MUST RECEIVE MAXIMUM
    SECURITY CLASSIFICATION TO PREVENT PURPOSEFUL OR ACCIDENTAL
    DISCLOSURE OF PROJECT. DONORS TO BE TAPPED DURING NORMAL PHYSICAL
    EXAMS W/O KNOWLEDGE OF PURPOSE.
       RE:  SUCCESS WOULD CAUSE PR PROBLEMS POSSIBLY LEADING TO MORAL
    HYSTERIA; UNSUCCESS WOULD LEAD TO POSSIBLE MORAL HYSTERIA AT
    ATTEMPTS, PLUS PROBABLY POLITICAL POWER WEAKENING.
       FINAL:  PROJECT 21373 - CROSS REF. 9878 - AWARDED 16 MARCH
    1975.   FILE ACCESS LIMITED TO PERSONNEL OF CLASS 1c CLEARANCE OR
    HIGHER. RESULTS CLASSIFIED UNDER 9878 CROSS REF 17 MARCH 1975.
    ALL PREVIOUS FILES KEY LOCKED TO 9878/1c MIN.

       HIGHLIGHTS:
         EX. 1-17 (REVISED) UNSUCCESSFUL
         EX. 18-37 (REVISED) SUCCESSFUL CLONE OF WARM BLOODED MAMMAL
    (IE 1-50 KG)  13 DEATHS (9 PRE - 4 POST)
         EX. 38-147 (REVISED) SUCCESSFUL CLONE OF PRIMATES. 9 DEATHS
    (9 PRE - 1 POST)
         EX. 38-148 - HUMAN - - - DONOR: UNKNOWN.  RESULTS: DEATH
         EX. 38-150 - HUMAN - - - DONOR: HERMAN MELSHINE.  RESULTS:
    DEATH
         EX. 38-151 - HUMAN - - - DONOR: UNKNOWN.  RESULTS: DEATH
    AFTER 6 MONTHS
         EX. 38-152 - HUMAN - - - DONOR: UNKNOWN.  RESULTS: CLONE
    STILL LIVING - MENTAL RETARDATION, UNDER PROTECTIVE CUSTODY.
    SUGGEST TERMINATION AND DISPOSAL (PENDING)
         EX. 38-153 - HUMAN - - - DONOR:  T. GREGORY HORTMAN.
    RESULTS:  STILL LIVING - INTERNAL ORGAN MALFUNCTION. SUGGEST
    TERMINATION AND DISPOSAL.  (CARRIED OUT)
         EX. 38-154 - HUMAN - - - DONOR: T. GREGORY HORTMAN.
    RESULTS:  SUCCESS. ALL FUNCTIONS NORMAL. TERMINATED
         EX. 179-134 - HUMAN - - - DONORS:  VARIOUS (MULTIPLE - CROSS
    REF. 9878a)  RESULTS: TOTAL SUCCESS. ALL SUBJECTS STILL LIVING
    AND IN CUSTODY.
         EX. 250-537 - HUMAN - - - DONORS:  VARIOUS (MULTIPLE - CROSS
    REF. 9878b, c, d)  RESULTS:  ACCELERATED GROWTH COMPLETE. 9
    DISPOSED; 256 FUNCTIONAL. MEAN AGE OF ACCELERATED PHASE - 19
    (CROSS REF. 9878/1,m)
         NOTE:  SEE OTHER 250-SERIES AND 251-SERIES EXPERIMENTS
         CONCLUSION: BASED UPON RESULTS, PROCESS IS NOW CONSIDERED
    FEASIBLE AS A PRACTICAL ALTERNATIVE. TRAINING SHOWN TO PROVIDE
    SUBJECTS WITH ARTIFICIAL PAST. IMPLANT TO TRIGGER TERMINATION IF
    NEEDED IN ALL SUBJECTS.
         SELECTIVE SERVICE CAN NOW BE OUTMODED. SUGGEST CONTINUED
    PUBLIC REGISTRATION TO PROTECT PROJECT.
         ALL FUTURE REFERENCE FILES KEYED TO . . . . .
         ILLEGAL ENTRY - - - ILLEGAL ENTRY - - - TRACE

       The screen went suddenly blank. Gleason tried to key the
    machine back to READY without success, and then found that he
    couldn't even get it to let go of the phone connection. The
    screen suddenly lit up again.

       ILLEGAL ENTRY TRACED - - - NETWORK ENTRY ACCESS UNIT
    35469A09D8C1. LOCATION POSITIVE. GRID 548 GRID 197A USAC
    INSTALLATION - CODE 657T9TS - - - TERMINATE - - - ILLEGAL ENTRY
    TRACED TO

       Gleason stood and ran from the room. Where in the desert could
    he lose himself? Where could he go that the combined search
    forces wouldn't find him?
       He turned to look once again and saw the screen was continuing
    the display. His name and serial number were repeated three
    times.
       He walked away slowly, so as not to raise suspicion, and made
    his way to the gate and out onto the desert. He knew he wouldn't
    have long to get lost, but he just might make it to the mountains
    off to the west.
       Behind him the screen displayed one final message before going
    blank.

       USAC UNIT CPL. GLEASON R. FARLEY - SUBJECT EX. 251-547 -
    TERMINATE. IMPLEMENT AUTO-DESTRUCT MODE - CODE 3 - ASSUMED
    INSANITY AND APPARENT SUICIDE.

    Until Next Time

       That story was actually written some time ago, and was
    dedicated to a friend of mine who was about to entry the service.
    It was a "going away" present, of sorts.
       Just to reassure you, the story IS pure fiction.
       Isn't it?

       Next time:
       You've probably noticed that the magazine doesn't go up every
    week the way it used to. It will still go up, but the lack of
    response and participation leads me to believe that perhaps it
    will serve the users (and readers) better if there is a longer
    span between issues.
       The original reason to have a weekly magazine was to encourage
    the users to check into Zephyr at least once per week. Judging by
    the amount of response (or lack of it), that didn't seem to be
    working out. To be very blunt about it, knocking out a weekly
    issue just to get 5 or 6 responses isn't worthwhile.
       Consequently, the magazine will now appear approximately every
    2 weeks instead of weekly.
       If I'm wrong, and you DO want weekly issues, show it by taking
    part. This week, for example, we have a fine topic for discussion
    - namely cloning. It isn't possible to clone a human now, but one
    day it likely will be possible. What are the implications? And as
    a side issue, how about genetic engineering? The changing of the
    genetic structure to cause a lifeform to become something
    specific in design. (This is already being done on simple life
    forms. How about genetic engineering to make people invulnerable
    to a certain illness?)

       Past issues are still available in the download section.
       So is the file called QUESTION - for which I am *still*
    waiting for even one response.

Zephyr Magazine is © Gene Williams. All rights reserved.