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          _/_/_/_/_/    _/_/_/_/_/    _/_/_/_/_/
        

I n f o r m a t i o n,  C o m m u n i c a t i o n,  S u p p l y

-------------    E l e c t r o Z i n e  ------------------------------

********************************************************************************
                      Established in 1993 by Deva Winblood
            Information Communication Supply  5/18/95  Vol.2: Issue 6-1
                      Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
          
                 
     S T A F F :          Email:                 ICS Positions:
    ==============      ============             ==============
    Steven Peterson     STU000012255             Managing Editor, Writer
    
    Russel Hutchinson   c/o org_zine             Writer, Subscriptions
          						     
    David Trosty        STU000037486             Writer, Poetry Editor 

    George Sibley       FAC_SIBLEY               Editing, Faculty Supervisor
    
    Others TBA          All addresses @WSC.COLORADO.EDU
  
                  _________________________________________
                 /=========================================\     
                | "Art helps us accept the human condition; |             
                |  technology changes it."                  | 
                 \                         - D.B. Smith    /
                  \***************************************/
 _____________________________________________________________________________
/                                                                             \
|        ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State       |
|   College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about    | 
|   topics that are important to all of us as human beings. If you would like |
|   to send in a submission, please type it into an ASCII format and email it |
|   to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you     |
|   want it to be published.  We will do our best to make sure it is          |
|   distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used.             |
\_____________________________________________________________________________/ 

  REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere 
  you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
  came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.

  DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the 
  views of the editors of ICS. Contributors to ICS assume all responsibilities
  for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating copyright laws and 
  protections.

          |\__________________________________________________/|
          | \                                                / |
          |  \   T A B L E       O F      C O N T E N T S   /  |
          |  /                                              \  |
          | /________________________________________________\ |
          |/                                                  \|
          |    Included in the table of contents are some      |
          | generic symbols to help you in making a decision   |
          | as to whether an article or story may express      |
          | ideas or use language that may be offensive.       |
          |     S = Sexual Content  AL = Adult Language        |           
          |     V = Violence        O = Opinions               |
          |____________________________________________________|
   |------------------------------------------------------------------|
   | 1) First Word -=- Free offer: Best of ICS, 93-4.                 |
   | 2) Smoke -=- Poetry by Joe West.                                 |
   | 3) WorldNet Tour Guide -=- By Steven Peterson: Description of    | 
   |    the International Tutors Service. With Commentary [O].        |
   | 4) Imprisoned Love -==- Poetry by Joe West.                      |
   | 5) Hackers -=- Poetry by David Trosty.                           |
   | 6) Accept ->>> Delete Form 1040 *.*;*.*  Part 2  -=-             |  
   |    Cyberpulp fiction by Steven Peterson; conclusion of a story   | 
   |    started in the previous issue [ICS2-5]. [AL]                  |   
   |------------------------------------------------------------------|
   |                           ICS 2-6-2                              |        
   | 7) Cryptography, the Constitution, and the EFF -=- Editorial     |
   |    By Steven Peterson: the EFF, an activist group, is funding a  |
   |    federal lawsuit challenging the ITAR regulations concerning   |
   |    mathematical algorithms--find out why. [O]                    |
   |                                                                  |
   | 8) 3 Haikus -=- Poems By Joe West                                |
   |                                                                  |
   | 9) Long Shot -=- Short Story By Elizabeth Kurtak: Fresh Fiction  |
   |    from the modern American West. [AL]                           |
   |                                                                  |
   | 10) Iguanasicle -=- Poem By David Trosty                         |
   |                                                                  |
   | 11) Warehouse District: These Important Years -=- Experimental   |
   |    fiction, a romp for the imagination inspired by Husker Du.    |
   |                                                                  |
   | 12) Last Word -=- We're Back, and we have a Web version!         |  
   +------------------------------------------------------------------+

   |------------------------------------------------------------------|
    ------------------------------------------------------------------ 

        +-----------+
        | First Word  \ 
        +---------------+ 
 
        F R E E  O F F E R !!!

        The staff of ICS recently assembled a "Best of ICS, 1993-4"
double-issue and we're pleased to announce that it's ready for email 
distribution! The issue collects the finest non-fiction, essays, poetry, 
and short stories which have appeared in ICS during the first two years 
of our noble experiment. Instead of mass-mailing this 150 kbyte file to
everyone on the list, we have elected to make this special offer--if you
would like a *free* copy, send an email message to: 

                    org_zine@wsc.colorado.edu

In the body of the message, type "Send Best-Of ICS"--we'll gladly send 
it along at our convenience. The decision *not* to mass-mail reflects
our awareness that some subscribers may not want a collection of older
material they have already seen; or, perhaps, email access is limited or
expensive, and we don't want to stuff people's accounts with large files.

Note: this file will also be available via anonymous ftp on our
      regular site: etext.archive.umich.edu  --cd pub/Zines/ICS.
      Coming Soon . . . the html/Web Version.
                                                              -Ed.

-+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+-

 Smoke

Where does it start,
when will it end?
An ill fated thought...
joined with
six years of joy,
 hope,
 curiosity,
 boundless energy,
 and measureless love.
Once human
now mere cold flesh
and more blood
than can be measured.
At the hands of an
Inhuman beast and
Louder than thunder
with its demonic maw
comes death.
Its smell still lingers
Its breath still hangs
in the cool evening air
an insane epitaph
over the body of a child.
GunSmoke.
               >fini<    
              Joe West   (4/25/94)

-+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+_+-
   -----------------------------------------------------------------------

            _________________________________________________
           /               W o r l d    N e t                \
           \____________       Tour Guide        ____________/
                        \_______________________/
                         |    International    |
                         |       Tutors        |
                          \                   /
                            \---------------/

     WorldNet Tour Guide is a feature which appears in ICS from time to time. 
The Guide consists of articles designed to help you in using the WorldNet to 
the fullest potential. These articles will range from tutorials on aspects of 
the 'Net (programs) to reviews of places and stuff we find out on the WorldNet
(content). Why? Because together we know more than any one of us can know.

     If you would like to write a file or document to appear in this section, 
please do so. Send your final copy (in ASCII format) to:

                          ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
                                 -------

  
        Once more, into the metaverse.
        It was bound to happen; the idea, the obvious application for a
new technology based on cheap, efficient communication: the effort to bring
International Tutoring to the Internet is already underway courtesy of Michael
Berns, a professional educator from the University of Toronto, Canada.

        The "International Tutors" program (referred to as -IT- hereafter)
will be the first large-scale effort to bring multi-lingual tutoring services
to pre-school, primary, secondary, post-secondary, and continuing education
students on a worldwide basis. A global non-profit corporation, -IT- employs 
tutors who have been certified or licensed by the appropriate agencies in 
their fields and are currently practicing or recently retired. Typically, 
fees conform to local standards and vary between U.S. $15 and $40/hour; 
these fees may be waived or reduced in the case of students who can 
demonstrate need.

        -IT- is offering services in all areas of study as well as
assistance in Job Search and School Selection techniques, holistic medicine,
real estate, and health and sex issues. -IT- covers all the standard subjects
of academic study: math, science, history, et. al.; what is most intriguing,
however, are the plans -IT- has for language studies and adapting tutoring
programs for the hearing, speech, and visually impaired. The benefits of
using native speakers (er, writers) of a foreign language for individualized
instruction are obvious, providing the tutors can overcome the verbal
limitations of the medium. For the impaired, the medium of the Internet
may provide a new means for instruction and personal development free from
the social and psychological pressures of the "mainstreamed" classroom.

        As a working English tutor, I must express certain reservations
I have with any effort to "technologize" education: a perfectly Skinnerian
learning machine is, at best, inhuman. Although I happen to ascribe to a
subjectivist approach to writing instruction, I think most educators would
agree that people *need* the nonverbal cues and reassurances teachers offer
with their physical presence. As Edward Hall points out, not all of the
message is carried in the explicit code of the language; indeed, it is
this problem which has thwarted all efforts to create a reliable machine-
translation program (i.e. french->english). The pure text format of -IT-
also reinforces the Western bias for linguistic intelligence; the machine,
if overused in education, may create "one-trick ponies" and threaten or 
alienate people who happen to be gifted in another sphere of intelligence 
(i.e. kinesthetic, spatial, or musical).

        If at all possible, I'd have to recommend that people first
look for tutors in their own backyard; there's just no substitute for the
living, breathin' thing, scary as the situation may be. A program like -IT- 
does have its uses: people living in remote areas, people who have unique 
difficulties with f2f arrangements, people who are highly mobile and wish to 
pick up another language for business purposes--for them, this program may be 
an ideal solution to a unique (or common) set of problems. 

       The cost for -IT- services seems a bit high for the gestalt of the 
'Net: they're looking for volunteers, and it seems as if it could be a winning 
proposition all around if enough educators give of themselves to eliminate the 
need for fees. Once again, the nature of the Internet poses the question: 
are we ready and willing to give form to a "trans-cultural nation dedicated 
to cooperation versus competition, to the idea that people should have a 
better means of exchange than property or money, that there should, in fact, 
be some other basis for human interactions?" In the atomized world of 
cyberspace, can we found the Woodstock Nation's classroom?  
       We'll find out . . .

        To Contact International Tutors:

        http://www.inforamp.net/~it1

                    or

        email: mberns@oise.on.ca      

^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^*^
><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

 Imprisoned Romance

Two souls alone and free
find bliss in each other's arms.
Expectations and inspirations
born worlds apart
meet in the passion of hope.
Believing they will share life
side by side
they vow true love forevermore.

A societal pulse beats beneath the surface
mocking their vision of love.
Values surface
screaming a silent scream
unheard in their ignorance
and wishful awareness.
Life changes roar down upon them
tearing the veil asunder.
Confusion and chaos reign supreme
cackling at their shackles of tradition
Damned beyond redemption.....why...WHY!?!?

To love someone,
you must understand.....know them
and both must be free to be themselves.
Otherwise they stand condemned:
players on a stage of illusion...or.....
disillusioned prisoners of hope.
		>fini<   (10/12/94)

Joe West

^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^^
-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-===-=-=-=-=-=-==-=-==-=-=-=-=-

Hackers

A rag-tag circle
of youth
attempting
to defy gravity,
bullshiting.
Sending arc
to arc.
A flailing octopus--
contorting,
twisting
a tangled web
of intentions
without reason.
Such a mindless game
fits these mindless people.

-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=-=
/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\/\


>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>  Part 2  >>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>>
                     ACCESS->>> DELETE FORM1040 *.*;*.*
                            By Steven Peterson


   [Recap of Part 1: Agents Rider and Crenshaw are following the digital trail
    of the mysterious "Nitehack': a whiz who has cracked the IRS systems and
    encrypted terabytes of data across the TRSNET. All the agents have to go
    on is a ransom note for the absurd figure of $184,642.  While the massive
    IRS "Electronic Return Verification" database can be backed up, the feds
    don't have years to spare reconstructing the system. When we left Rider
    and Crenshaw, they were about to download and read the latest message
    from the enigmatic Nitehack . . . ]

        Rider and Crenshaw craned over the laptop, re-reading a message on the
small, greenish screen:

        From: remailer@dr.anon.xtel.se
        To: president@whitehouse.gov
        Subj: the $184,642 question

        >  Taxes are not levied for the benefit of the taxed. <<L.Long>

        mQCNAy9q: a pinky finger of the beast for the boys down at
        the NSA. A show of faith, if you will. Wire transfer the
        tab to account #243-56-9857, International Trust, Geneva,
        and I'll send the rest. Do not delay, the key is stored
        on an old floppy . . . .
                                   --Nitehack
        -------------------------------------------------------------

        "Christ," Crenshaw muttered, "eight characters are useless."
        Rider heaved a sigh and replied, "that string's gotta be huge,
more than a thousand bits. A show of faith . . .  gimme a break. That
arrogant pixel pusher is baitin' the White House."
        Crenshaw cleared the screen and began pecking out his report
for HQ. Not much to report, the trip was a wash as far as real clues went.
Nitehack had gained access to the student accounts one way or another, and
unless the lab drone fingered somebody, there wasn't much point in hanging
around.
        "Let's roll," Rider mumbled as he turned the key and fired up the
government-issue brown sedan.

                  *                   *                   *

        "Is Mr. Jess in?": an elderly voice crawled across the wires,
a note of cool authority and sly self-assurance in the simple question
perked Melinda's attention.
        "May I ask who's calling?" she replied with curt efficiency.
        "Richard Greyson, it's rather important."
        "One moment, please ...," Melinda punched a series of keys before
buzzing Jess. The light on her _a:_ drive blinked as she returned to her
dictation. Her boss, Jess, hated the keyboards and codes; he preferred to
operate in the verbal mode. The coded phone lines gave him a false sense of
security: a weakness, a window, a way to implement her plan.
        The little green light winked out moments before Jess summoned
Melinda into the tobacco-stained confines of his office. Leather chairs
and a metal desk: he liked his comfort, and Melinda acquiesced to his
anachronistic wishes. The two weeks she had spent brushing up on the old
notation schemes had been worth it: Jess bought the act without blinking.
        "To Hal Lanier, Cauldron Aerospace," Jess began, "re: records,
Hal, I have the correct backups for your claims, 1992-8. We should have
you processed by the 1st, and we'll send along a copy to GPO for the defense
contracts. The IRS extends its apologies for any inconvenience, etc., etc."
        "Get that out right away, Melinda."
        "Of course, sir."
        After entering the text, Melinda concatenated her files and sent
them out: siamese twins, bound for a different destinations.

                  *                   *                   *

        The President reclined behind his desk, a gaggle of advisors and
technicians vying for a peek at the screen; the latest message:

        From: remailer@dr.anon.xtel.se
        To: president@whitehouse.gov
        Subj: Step 2

        > When the fox gnaws--smile! <L.Long>>

        AzEAAAEEAKd5TPTvxMsDL8UWEYADiukOzUxpfDh0SUwxs3lTnjmDyrMm

        Very Good, boys . . . transfer received and duly entered.
        $184,642 just doesn't buy as much code as it used to . . .
        And I'm afraid the rest of the key isn't a cash proposition;
        if you want the philes back intact, you're going to have to
        build them a new home. That's right, the '86 corporate
        military-industrial loopholes are next; the press should
        be alerted, no?
                               --NiteHack
        ------------------------------------------------------------

        "Dammit, lean on those Swedes! Crack that box and find out where
this message originated or I'll . . .  "
        "Mr. President, shall I green-light our agents in Stockholm?"
        "YES!!! You imbecile. This Hack, this crank, wants to rewrite a
place for justice into the tax code, the economy, and hell, government.
        "We'll have it within the hour, sir."
        When he signed the executive order for the IRS "Electronic Return
Verification" datasearches, the President had been surrounded by techno-
sharks after a bite of the U.S. taxpayers. They were spouting _60 Minutes_
propaganda, promising to nab the cheats and "streamline" the collection and
refund process. Nobody foresaw the obvious result of machine surveillance:
with ruthless logic, the TRSNET system had identified the biggest dodgers
in the economy; the coterie of corporations intimately involved in political
funding controlled the players, called the shots, made fortunes. Meanwhile,
the overzealous prosecution of citizens made possible by the machinery fueled
the ancient antagonisms between the individual and the state.
        "Uh, sir, Mr. President? Incoming data from the browsers, I think
you should see this ..."
        "What is it?"
        "Sir, Nitehack flooded the Nets; mail-bombed everything in sight
with detailed, annotated transcripts of corporate officers conducting back-
room negotiations for doctored documentation. At least twenty-million users
had access to this before we powered down the whole system; the press is
barking like mad dogs, sir, and we've restored the phones."
        The President reached for his Maalox: the soothing comfort of cold
plastic and creamed chalk. It had to end; the era of information made every-
body an amateur Dan Rather, a Thomas Paine of the desktop revolution. Yet
another advisor entered the room and spiked the President's peptic juices:
        "Sir, we've cracked the box in Sweden . . . umh, the signal's been
traced back to the U.S. . . ."
        "I guess I have to ask, where to?"
        "Sir, the IRS, sir. We've tracked it to an account registered to
a Peter Jess, a mid-level administrator in Ogden."
        "Get him. But be civilized about it, he may be another red herring.
But get him . . . his records, his papers, everything."
        "Right away, sir, the NSA has two agents in the area."

                  *                   *                   *

        The call came over Rider's cell phone, a stern voice issuing orders
to apprehend, confiscate, conceal. Apparently, it was an internal affair;
they were on their way to the complex in Ogden because the bossman had
never trusted the IRS, personally or professionally.
        "Crenshaw, looks like they broke the box in Sweden: new target, and
get this--our target is on staff. A mid-level shmoe named Jess."
        "Suppose he's in?"
        "Oh, yeah. They got him tied up in teleconference."
        "Figures. It'd be poetic if we got him while the wire's in."
        "Heh, heh. Jack in, tune out, get 'cuffed."

        Melinda caught Jess' attention, motioned him to lend an ear.
Caught up in his phone call, he didn't notice the laptop she set on one of
his leather chairs. The tasteful case matched the rich, buttery color of the
buckskin; Jess glanced over it and focused on his gesticulating secretary.
        "Mr. Jess," then, in hushed tones, "I have to leave for my dentist
appointment. The reference files you wanted are on the hard-drive, click on
the Cauldron icon. If you have time, look over your correspondence and initial
it for me, I'll send it out when I get back."
        "Yes, I've seen the reports," he growled into the mouthpiece. Then,
a motion waving Melinda away: he was in his element, oblivious to the lesser
concerns of data. "What do you mean, the numbers are wrong . . . "
        Melinda quietly withdrew and went to her desk. Grabbing her mouse,
she started closing windows. Finally, she reached the system prompt and
entered the command: C:\> fdisk. Three clicks and the screen blanked,
a demolition in progress. Wiped clean, all evidence consigned to digital
oblivion, Melinda sighed and attached the tape drive. Two commands and
the machinery took over, rewriting the data. Tracks covered, one click to
reset, and she rose with quiet dignity; it was too easy.

        Rider and Crenshaw passed Melinda on the way to Jess's office:
she gave them a little wiggle, a flip of the hair, they barely noticed her.
They found him on the phone, eyes wide, staring at their badges and flustered
beyond dignity.
        "Wha-wha-what is this! What do you want!"
        They found it, the laptop machine in the leather case.
        Inside, files and codes crammed into each other; they spelled out
the fate of an institution. Crenshaw started pulling up text: the transcripts
from the 'Net bombing, source-code files for what looked like a worm program,
and finally, a key. Rider pulled out hard copies of NiteHack's email and began
calling out the first eight characters:
        "m, Q, C, N, A, y, 9, q."
        "Bingo!" Crenshaw copied the file to a diskette and tossed it over
to Rider, who had just finished cuffing Jess. "Lock and load, Rider, set to
transfer file . . ."
        "Mr. Jess, you have the right to remain silent . . ."

                  *                   *                   *

        She walked into his office, just the right touch of blond ditziness
setting him at ease. 
        "Oh, I can use computers . . . when I have to . . ." On to pillage.

                     -------------------------------------
                     Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson
 
______________________________________________________________________________

            Information Communication Supply  9/20/95  Vol.2: Issue 6-2
          
                 
     S T A F F :          Email:                 ICS Positions:
    ==============      ============             ==============
    Steven Peterson     STU000012255             Managing Editor, Writer
    
    Tim Halas           STU000058410         	 Writer ... 	
  
    David Trosty        STU000037486             Writer, Poetry Editor 

    George Sibley       FAC_SIBLEY               Editing, Faculty Supervisor
    
    Others TBA          All addresses @WESTERN.EDU

-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/-/\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\-\


         o    Cryptography, the Constitution, and The EFF   o
         |                By Steven Peterson                |
         |=                                                =|


----BEGIN PGP MESSAGE-----
Version: 2.6
hIwDEAC+6ttFScEBA/4p/eTt/G+8EsdJsyiIIrhQ9vG1AO9dEv7/4S7enE1bOfkJ
pFYUccaY9iho4JxRZH8aeiWzj1Q5UKem+UmMDRNCl6oOJdKMRvtxVi/VkZBJQ3eS
F5IVKRVzg6/V9NrXWBpFirb9Nz7OPhoSJE2333s6enBtfnm21lFsPKrj0BWXOISM
A8awmkw7sf5NAQP/RYoKCjgh1Ana4/W3qcWWXK+MMWSGOn0FgTUsjJSxKY . . .

     The garbled mass which opens this essay is an example of "cyphertext,"
a term used to describe digitally encrypted (or coded) text files. I created
it by using a freely available software program called "PGP"--basically,
PGP is a program which uses advanced mathematical algorithms to generate
"1028-bit keys" which are then exchanged and used to encrypt messages and
data with military-grade codes. This program puts a truly awesome amount
of cryptographic power in the hands of users around the world; in fact,
no one has managed to "crack" a PGP-encrypted message since its release--
the experts term it a "computationally infeasible" task. Variations on this
technology will almost certainly play an essential role in bringing the
world of business on-line, and, perhaps more importantly, PGP offers the
most viable method of protecting the privacy of personal communications
on the Internet.

     Last February, an American civil-rights organization known as the
"Electronic Frontier Foundation" filed a federal lawsuit in an effort to
lift the restrictions which limit our right to use, produce, and distribute
information and software that uses advanced encryption technology to "armor"
or protect data. Currently, cryptographic materials in the U.S. are categor-
ized alongside munitions and other physical weapons under the "International
Traffic in Arms Regulations" (ITAR). These regulations, designed to limit the
proliferation of weapons and weapons technology, requires people who wish to
publish cryptographic software and papers on the subject to obtain a license
from the U.S. State Department--and violating the terms of this license
(e.g. releasing a "freeware" cryptographic program across the U.S. border
via the Internet) carries a severe penalty: ten years in jail, a million-
dollar criminal fine, plus civil fines (Johnson 6.0).

     The EFF lawsuit, filed in February of 1995, challenges the ITAR export-
control scheme as an "impermissible prior restraint on speech, in violation
of the First Amendment." The plaintiff in the suit is Daniel Bernstein, a
graduate student in mathematics from UC-Berkeley who has developed a new
encryption algorithm and wishes to publish and discuss his work with
colleagues and the general public (what would be a violation of the existing
regulations). Bernstein is contending that software and its documentation
"are published, not manufactured; they are Constitutionally protected works
of human-to-human communication, like a movie, a book, or a telephone
conversation" (EFF 1).

     Continuing his attack on the First Amendment violations in the ITAR
licensing scheme, Bernstein asserts that "these communications cannot be
suppressed by the government except under very narrow conditions--conditions
that are not met by the vague and over-broad export-control laws. In denying
people the right to publish such information freely, these laws, regulations,
and procedures unconstitutionally abridge the right to speak, to publish, to
associate with others, and to engage in academic inquiry and study. They also
have the effect of restricting the availability of a means for individuals to
protect their privacy, which is also a Constitutionally protected interest"
(EFF 1). His argument, therefore, challenges the authority of our government
to maintain any real control over cryptographic knowledge which is produced
by individual citizens; this information, in many cases, is already diffused
throughout the world (in the form of PGP programs).

     The EFF, a civil-libertarian group dedicated to preserving individual
rights on the Internet, is sponsoring Bernstein's suit and providing legal
assistance for several reasons. Chief among these reasons is the belief that
"cryptography is central to the preservation of privacy and security in an
increasingly computerized and networked world" (EFF 1). In essence, the EFF
is concerned about the potential for a "surveillance society" emerging as a
consequence of advanced data manipulation technologies (i.e. search engines
which could easily track an individual and generate a running "electronic
profile" for investigative purposes); their interest in this matter, there-
fore, is more than academic.

     Understandably, the NSA, the FBI, the CIA, and other U.S. law enforce-
ment agencies are very concerned about their ability to conduct wiretaps and
monitor the public computer networks for terrorist, drug-related, and other
nefarious activities; in response to the perceived threat of "unreadable"
cryptography, the U.S. federal government has launched an effort to install
an encryption standard of their own in every computer. The so-called "Clipper
Chip" would offer a standardized encryption program for everyone; it would
also feature a "backdoor" created for law enforcement use in duly approved
wiretaps, email searches, and database-access requests (Barlow 44).

     While federal courts are deciding this issue (the EFF expects the
case to take several years), you can take action to forestall a misguided
government's effort to restrict freedom of speech and privacy: first, you
can (and probably should) download a working version of PGP and begin using
it to encrypt your email. If and when the U.S. government imposes the Clipper
Chip scheme, you may want insure your privacy with this alternative tech-
nology (use PGP, *then* Clipper).

     Utilizing encryption technology on a personal level, right now, will
remind the federal government that the cat, so to speak, is out of the bag;
therefore, they should end the folly of trying to contain or legislate how
data will be secured. Email messages are just too easy to intercept and scan
for interesting keywords. This can be done easily, routinely, automatically,
and undetectably on a grand scale. International cablegrams are already
scanned this way on a large scale by the NSA (Zimmerman 3).

     Take the time to download the latest version of PGP via "anonymous
ftp" while you still can . . . for U.S. readers, ftp net-dist.mit.edu
-cd pub/pgp and then download the "readme" file (it contains directions
and warnings required for downloading the program); for readers outside
the U.S., ftp to ftp.funet.fi  -cd pub/crypt/cypherpunks/pgp/pgp262 for
the latest version. PGP is distributed as a .zip file--use the > bin
command before the > get pgp262.zip command.

     Take crypto in your own hands: it's free, it's easy to use, and
there are versions available for all of the popular platforms.

---------------------------------------------------------------------------
                            Works Cited

Barlow, John Perry. "Jackboots on the Infobahn." _Wired_. April, 1994. 40-9.

EFF. "EFF Sues To Overturn Cryptography Restrictions." Press Release.
     San Mateo, California: Feb. 21, 1995.
     http://www.eff.org/pub/EFF/Policy/Alerts.

Johnson, Michael. "Data Encryption Software and Technical Data Controls in
     the United States of America." Internet File. Longmont, Colorado: 1994.
     http://www.cygnus.com/-gnu/export.html

Zimmerman, Phil. "PGP User's Guide, Version 2.6." Computer Software. Boulder,
     Colorado: 1994. ftp rtfm.mit.edu --cd pub/pgp
----------------------------------------------------------------------------

{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}

1) Haiku

Floating in Darkness
I shuddered as I embraced
the bright Flaming Sword             >7/16/92<


2) Haiku

Wings spread across sky
Eyes glowing bright, breath steaming
Life breathes in Darkness             >7/16/92<


3) Haiku

In Idyllic Dreams
We Belly Bump, Belly Bump
Procreation, or.......               >7/16/92<


Joe West

{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}{|}


                               Long Shot

                        By Elizabeth A. Kurtak


     I really can't recall why she came in that first time. The Saddle
Rack is certainly no place for a young lady.  Of course, Angel was like
that. There was never any guessing what that girl was going to do.
     She came in with one of her friends and they broke every last rule
of pool etiquette. They barged into the table and started playing each
other when their quarters were up, totally disregarding the winner of the
last game (Jesus, John bitched about that one). After about forty-five 
minutes of their bullshit, some of the boys started getting pretty
mad. You see, the Saddle Rack isn't one of those swinging-singles bars you
find in Denver or California; the boys come here to get away from all that
feminist bullshit. They didn't appreciate these foolish little girls
coming in and taking over their pool table. For Christ's sake, they didn't
even know how to hold their sticks!
     After the boys had razzed them for awhile, John walked up, picked
up the eight-ball and sank it for them. He then informed them that
their game was over. A smart girl would have left, and Angel's friend
was a smart girl. Angel, on the other hand, put up two more quarters 
for another game.
     She ended up shooting against me, and I was glad. I thought she
brought a little light into the place, with her sparkly blue eyes and
white hair.  There ain't a movie star alive that can outshine a sixteen-
year-old girl on the brink of womanhood. It just isn't done. 
     Not to say that I didn't feel silly. I couldn't think of a damn thing 
to say to this girl. She was missing an easy side-shot, aiming to put it in 
the corner all the way at the other end of the table.
     "Why are you taking that shot? For Christ's sake, what's wrong with you?
Take the side . . . it's right there."
     I didn't want her to look stupid in front of the boys.
     "Shut up," she told me. I watched her sink the eight at the other end
of the table.
     "I like the long ones," she said, her remark eliciting laughter and
ribbing amongst the boys.  She turned red and smiled.
     "Who's up?" John was up; he was the best shot in town. He picked up
his quarters and left.
     "You pussy!" 
     She called John a pussy. John has been cowboying and hunting for 
thirty-five years. I had never heard anyone call him anything like a pussy 
before.
     John turned around, murder in his eyes.
     "I may be a pussy, but I'm certainly not going to shoot against a
little hole like you. You better watch your mouth little girl; it might
get you in trouble some day."
     She glared right back at him. John nodded at us, and, with a breathy
snort, was out the door.
     "So, who's up?" she asked.


                  *                   *                   *


     Angel was no dummy, not academically, and certainly not at life
itself. She was naive and outspoken (like my first ex-wife when I first
fell under her spell). I began to enjoy her company; she became a regular.
She had studied some philosophy, and I appreciated the distraction.
Hell, sometimes she even made sense and her peculiar wisdom offered
me some degree of comfort. She was so full of life, so excited, like
it all made sense to her. Sometimes I thought it was rubbing off on me,
but later, when the nightmares would come, I knew it would always be like
this, and I would always be what I've become. I could never go back to the
innocence where she lived.
     "Why are you so serious all the time, Dave," she ventured to ask me
one night.
     "Because I have regrets.  You have any regrets?"
     "No, I suppose I'm not old enough to have any regrets yet. What do
you regret?"
     "Lots of things."
     "Like what?"
     God she was pushy, but she wasn't smiling.  "Like being in Vietnam,
and getting married, and bringing a kid into a world that don't want it.
Does that answer your question?"
     "Some of it.  You shouldn't freak out about your kid, though.
My parents weren't going to have kids because of the Cuban missile crisis.
They thought the world was going to end; I'm awfully glad they decided to
have me and my sisters."
     She looked at me, but controlled herself from prying any harder.
I don't believe in talking about my problems: they're my business.
I don't know why I could talk to this kid . . . I never talked to anyone 
else. All the boys ever talked about was football and ranching, and I 
wasn't particularly interested in either.
     "My daughter is five: she has AIDS. She got it from a transfusion
when she was born." 
      I'd said it. I felt tears rushing to my eyes, and I pushed them back 
down with the rest of the garbage. She looked at me with her sparklers, and 
put her hand on mine.
     "I'm sorry. Where is she?"
     "She's with her mom, in Denver. She's in and out of the hospital--
Children's, you know?"
     "Yeah, man. I know."
     "I guess I should go see her."
     "Yeah. You should." She looked like she was about to cry too.
     "Thanks, kid," my voice broke a little.
     "Anytime, Dave." 
     She hugged me hard, like I was her dad. I couldn't remember the last 
time I'd hugged anybody (months? years?). The lounge was empty, except for 
the bartender and us, so there was no teasing.

                  *                   *                   *

     "This sucks!" Angel let her head fall to the bar in defeat.
     "It may suck, but it's important, dammit."
     "Not to me. I'll bet I could get through the rest of my life without
ever using math."
     "You already use it everyday!" I watched her get up to take another
shot. It was getting late. Angel had been playing singles since 7:30, and
no cowboy had beat her yet. In between runs, we were doing algebra. Angel
had found out she could graduate early if she could get through the math.
I told her, "Pool is math, it's all angles, and forces."
     "That's physics," she retorted.
     "Well, physics is a form of math, dammit!"
     I believe in math. Math's the only damn thing in this world that
comes out the way you expect it to. You can always get an answer out of
it, and that answer is a correct answer. Life should be so tidy.
     "I had physics my first year of college, got an A in it too," John
offered, surprising damn near everybody.  He'd been quiet all evening,
and hadn't played a game yet. I think he was waiting for someone to get
Angel off the table.
     "Is that how you learned to throw your lasso?" Angel asked, a little
sarcastically.
     "No, it's how I learned to beat smart-mouthed little girls at pool."
John put quarters up for next game. She smiled. It was her break, but
nothing went in. John never gave her another shot.
     "Do your homework, little girl," he told her, looking amused as hell.

                  *                   *                   *

     There were a lot of drifters coming through town in early spring,
helping with cattle birthing and getting the ranches together for summer.
Of course, they all came into the Saddle Rack like the rest of the
cowboys. Last year, there was some bottle and chair throwing, nothing
too serious.  Some people call it cabin fever; things get a little crazy
in the mountains come February and March. Angel was shooting up a storm,
and some of the cowboys didn't take to getting beat by a girl all the
time. I asked her to be careful, to be a good winner, and she was.
     "You ready, little girl?" John asked.
     "Yup. I can't believe you're going to give me another chance to beat
your ass."
     "I'm just bored." John laughed.
     "Okay, rack 'em up." This time, she sank a stripe on the break. John
was deserving a little payback, and he never got a single shot at that
table. When she shot at the eight ball, he even tried using one of Angel's
distraction techniques: sticking his tongue in and out, making a sound
like a turkey. He cracked up everyone in the bar, including Angel. It
didn't matter, she went for the long shot, and made it.  She had kicked
his ass. John got a mean look on his face, mean as I've ever seen him.
He walked over to her, raised his hand (I thought he was going to hit
her), took her hand, and shook it nice as you please.
     "Good game, Angel" he said.
     "Thanks, little cowboy." John laughed.
     Angel and John decided to shoot doubles, and be partners after that.
They were basically unbeatable.  It's not a good idea to fuck with the
drifters, however. I don't think Angel knew anything about it (she said
she didn't), but apparently, John was making a little money on a sure
thing . . . one particular cowboy, name of Rick (who was probably short
on cash anyway), took offense to being capitalized on. After the game,
Rick and John went outside. I heard raised voices (I expect everybody
did), and then John came back in with fifty bucks, and I forgot all
about it.
     The next night, there were only a few of the locals in. John had
his own cows to tend to, and he wasn't around either. Me and Angel were
working on her math, when in comes Rick the drifting ranchhand with a
sawed-off shotgun.
     "Where's John?" he asked. You could smell his intoxication from
across the room.
     "Not here," I told him, staying seated, not wanting to agitate him.
     "WHERE IS HE!"
     "He's out calfing, like you probably ought to be doing," offered
Angel, getting up. I tried to pull her back down, but she was quick, and
the inch of shirt I'd seized slipped through my fingers. She walked up to
him, smiling a little.
     "What kind of gun is that?" she asked him.
     "Remington," he told her.
     "Wow, can I see it?" she looked up at him with those sparklers. She
was a pretty girl, but nobody's that pretty. I still don't understand it.
He *gave* her the gun, I mean what the hell?  She popped the safety on
neat as you please, and ran out the back door. Me and the bartender
stood up, prepared to restrain him, but he just stood there, disarmed,
and watched her run away. After awhile, she came back in. She hadn't gone
far. I figured she was just listening outside to see if it was cool to
come back in.
     "Can I have my gun back?" he asked.
     "No. Not 'til tomorrow," she told him, like his mother.
     "I want my gun," he whined.
     "Go hunt for it then," she said.  "It can't be far."
     He went out the back to look for his gun, and we locked up all the
doors.
     "What the hell were you thinking?  You could've got yourself killed!
Why didn't you let us handle that?  What's wrong with you?"
     "He knew I wasn't going to hurt him. I'm too little. Anyway, I played
that guy last night, and if he shoots guns as bad as he shoots pool, we
were never in danger anyway."
     I wanted to scold her, but no words came.
     "Go home, Angel," I sputtered, and that was the last thing I got to
say to her.

                  *                   *                   *

     I went to visit some war buddies in one of the old mining towns
     the next night. We had dinner, talked some shit, and lost some money.
All night long I'd had a bad feeling I just couldn't shake, so I left 
early and headed back. I got in just before the bar closed, only to find
out that Angel had been eighty-sixed from the bar.
    Apparently, some of those damned drifters in town hadn't taken to
her; they failed to appreciate her skill and wit. The bartender said
they'd gotten louder and louder, until the owner who lived above the
place came down to see what all the commotion was about. He decided
Angel was responsible for the problem, and had kicked her out. The
bartender said she was very upset when she left and had told the owner
"he sucked," and he should "fuck right off."
     I talked to him about it the next day. I had cooked for him in the
restaurant for four years, and thought I might be able to make him see
reason. He just said, "Those cowboys are my bread and butter. I know
she's grown on you boys, but she just comes in here and makes trouble
and drinks free Cokes all night."
     She meant a hell of a lot more to us than that, and if the owner
had ever passed any time in his own bar, he might have seen that the
light had gone out of the place, and wasn't coming back.
     I called my ex-wife early the next morning. I told her I was no
longer working and had time to come down for a visit. 
     "Which hospital . . ."

                  *                   *                   *

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
                   Copyright 1995 by Elizabeth A. Kurtak
--------------------------------------------------------------------------
 <^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^><^>

Iguanasicle

The lizard lies
in death's shadow.
A buried bone 
in winter.
Limp leather
lying there.
Lifeless, still,
a ton of lead.
Arctic air 
turns reptile 
into glacier--
cryogenic calamity.

Via human intervention
hot-rock caresses
cold lizard's
underside.
Tundra-belly thaws.
Gelatnous blood
flows again.
A tiny spark
fires up
a pea-sized brain.
Consciousness?

It is a new dawn
for my lizard.
Dr. Frankenstein
would be proud
of me.


^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^-^

             |-------------------------------------------------|
             |   Warehouse District: These Important Years     |
              \             By Steven Peterson                /
                \-------------------------------------------/
                |  >> Revelations seem to be another way   |
                |  >> to make the days go faster anyways   |
                 \ ___________________________-- MOULD __ /
                                               --------

    The scent of a thousand dead dinosaurs simmering in the hot summer
sun: the EL clattered past the smoldering remains of the faded industrial
district, carrying Constance toward her new home. The thick convection
currents rising in the July afternoon parted reluctantly for the train
as it rolled and jerked to a slow, grinding halt.
    A thin stream of black smoke curled up from the top of the train, a
cartoonish signal complete with the sound of sparks barely audible in the
suddenly silent car. Constance was about to sweat for the first time since
the "killer" heat wave struck a week ago . . .

    "Man, I don't wanna sit up here an' bake all damn day, YO, conductor,
when we gettin' off this crazy thing?"

    The outburst from the young man sitting three rows behind Constance
broke her concentration; he was penetrating the filter, the soft wall of
fiction she used to keep the world in order. So was the heat. Shuffling
through her catalogue of responses, she feigned deafness and stared out
the grimy window: the sun flashed off chrome in heliographs, arcs of dull
light forcing the eyes upward.

    "I said, YO, conductor . . . we spam-in-a-can up here, do somethin'!"

    Meat. Hot, trapped meat. Not an image Constance relished under the
circumstances; she could feel sweat beading on her face, mascara and blush
melting in front of the window. Her dress, a conservative print in subdued
tones, began to cling as she cautiously fanned herself.
    The light forced her eyes to the inside of the car, to glance at her
neighbors. The forced eye-contact, polite nods and gestures felt wrong:
the heat, the scene, and that man behind her (the loud one)--all three
were attacking Constance's awareness, reminding her that she was in the
presence of _others_. Somebody began to rattle the windows.

     "Can you people believe this? Hottest day of July, an' they just
leave us up here to fry. I say we climb down; it's only a hunnert yards
back to the last ramp. Yo people . . . let's bust outta this oven!"

     The kids on board began to bang on the windows while the adults
stirred from their seats. Constance's composure evaporated as the thought
of climbing down the tracks, with these people, crushed her sense of
propriety. Trust that loud-mouth, the kids banging on the windows,
for her rescue?

     "Yo, conductor: move this heap or we movin' without ya . . ."

     Voices mixing and blending, a murmur of general agreement: "let's
do it . . . Mommy, where are we going? . . . what they gonna do, airlift
the whole car?"  Panic gripped Constance as she scattered her vision: a
profusion of images served up by the eyes and thrown through the wall of
her expectations, fear plucking the chord of her prejudice and propriety.
     The first man, the loud man, opened the door and poked his head out.
Had there been juice in the car, a siren would have howled. Constance
waited for the stern, safe voice of authority to stop the motion and
give her a place to look, an approved response to the situation. Finally:

     "THIS IS THE CONDUCTOR, PLEASE REMAIN IN YOUR"

     The loudspeaker squalled with feedback, then fell silent. The loud
man poked his head back in and chuckled, "what  . . . he goin' to git up
off his fat arse and come git me?" The heat and pressure of the moment
broke with explosive laughter; the thin vapor separating the mixed-bag
of hot humanity dissolved in a flash.
     The first people were out the door, carefully picking their way
across the ties when Constance finally decided to face facts: join the
parade or roast like a Christmas duck. As she stood to join the slow-
moving queue, her blood flushed hot and fast; little white tracers flew
at the periphery of her vision, she felt dizzy, and she sensed an energy
flowing from the people. For an instant, she forgot who she was and why
she was on the EL. She staggered on awkward dress-heels toward the door:

     "Yo sister . . . c'mon, you alright? Oh, uh, take off them shoes
if you comin', sister--it'll toast your tootsies, but you won't fall."

     The loud man's voice softened, just a little, as he extended a hand
toward Constance. She looked into his brown eyes, stared and shook on her
wobbly ankles; in that instant, she saw past the clothes, the hair, the
jewelry and saw a man willing to help her--a knight without armor. She
grasped a seat and leaned over to slip off her heels:

     "There you go . . . c'mon, I'll walk ya down."

     Wiping her brow, Constance nodded at the loud man and stepped through
the door. The searing metal bridge-tie melted the bottom of her nylons on
the first step; the current of pain traced a path up her legs, up her
spine, merging with the thin feedback from the man's grip in the acid-
clear pool of her consciousness. A quick smile and a weak tug:

     "Thassit . . . step quick and it won't be so bad. Let's go."

     Walking on fire. Each step brought a new flash of current, a staccato
pattern of sensation which overwhelmed her ability to process. From the
chaos of signal, Constance found a clarity: lucid moments of perception,
the animal realization of the moment. Gripping the loud man's hand, she
savoured the human bond--a return to the open trust she last knew as a
child. Approaching street-level, she felt the attention of a crowd; the
conductor was red-faced, screaming:

     "Wait! I need statements, wait . . ."

     The heat killed the spectacle: no one waited, the moment had passed.
Constance clutched at the loud man's arm:

     "Here's yer shoes lady. C'mon, leggo, lady, I gotta bus to catch."

     She caught herself: sweat-soaked, rumpled, nylons curling up around
her ankles. Reflexively, Constance touched her hair and reached for her
shoes (*I need those tonight*). Silently, she nodded at the loud man and
turned away, the soles of her feet tingling.

     Later, in mixed company: "of course it was dreadful, but without a
little excitement in my life, I just seem to drift into a haze."

--------------------------------------------------------------------------
                 Copyright (c) 1995 by Steven Peterson
--------------------------------------------------------------------------

<><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><><>

        +---------------+
        |  Last Word      \
        +-------------------+

        We're back! Despite any rumors to the contrary, ICS is living,
breathing, and mutating in slow fashion as we recruit more writers, more
editors, and more ASCII demons to fill your head and your hard-drives.
Excuse the long absence .  .  .  the staff went on road trips, started
recovery, or just whiled away the short summer months.

        Our first new face for 95-6: Tim Halas, a Western State student 
and Net-neophyte (we'll change *that*). Send him Email. Lots of it. >8*)

        Late-Breaking News: ICS is on the Web! That's right, the last
five issues of ICS and the "Best-Of" collection is available in html
format--point your browser to:

        http://www.western.edu

        Scroll down to "Other Campus interests"--point and click to
open the ICS Home Page; use the links to open the available issues.
Note: it takes us awhile to post new issues in this format, so maintain
your subscription for timely delivery . . .

        The collection is great for burrowing into back-issues: every
story, poem and article is linked to the table of contents--it's much
faster than scrolling through a regular ASCII file forwards or backwards.
When you're through with the ICS collection, use the "Go To" feature on
your browser to open

         http://www.geopages.com/sunsetstrip/1312

it's a fun spoof on the Western home page (make one for your school!).

         You can expect fresh issues of ICS every three weeks or so now
that we're back in session (there are, after all, credits to be earned).
Please, send in your ideas, feedback, stories and poems for future issues.

                                                        Live Well,
                                                                    -Ed.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
	ICS would like to hear from you.  We accept flames, comments, 
      submissions, editorials, corrections, and just about anything else  
      you wish to send us. We will use things sent to us when we think  
      they would be appropriate for the issue coming out. So, if you send  
      us something that you DO NOT want us to use in the electrozine, 
      please put the words NOT FOR PUBLICATION in the subject-line of the 
      mail you send. You can protect your material by sending a copy to 
      yourself through the snail-mail and leaving the envelope unopened.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
BACK ISSUES: Back Issues of ICS can be FTPed from ETEXT.ARCHIVE.UMICH.EDU
  They are in the directory /pub/Zines/ICS.
--------------------------------------------------------------------------------
ICSICSICSICSICSIC/  I C S  \ICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSICSIC
                 \        /       An Electronic Magazine from
                  \      /           Western State College
                   \    /            Gunnison, Colorado.
                    \  /           ORG_ZINE@WESTERN.EDU
                     \/    '*'   
-----------------------------------------------------------------------------
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