In the Beginning was the Command Line

In the Beginning was the Command Line

                             by Neal Stephenson

About twenty years ago Jobs and Wozniak, the founders of Apple, came up
with the very strange idea of selling information processing machines for
use in the home. The business took off, and its founders made a lot of
money and received the credit they deserved for being daring visionaries.
But around the same time, Bill Gates and Paul Allen came up with an idea
even stranger and more fantastical: selling computer operating systems.
This was much weirder than the idea of Jobs and Wozniak. A computer at
least had some sort of physical reality to it. It came in a box, you could
open it up and plug it in and watch lights blink. An operating system had
no tangible incarnation at all. It arrived on a disk, of course, but the
disk was, in effect, nothing more than the box that the OS came in. The
product itself was a very long string of ones and zeroes that, when
properly installed and coddled, gave you the ability to manipulate other
very long strings of ones and zeroes. Even those few who actually
understood what a computer operating system was were apt to think of it as
a fantastically arcane engineering prodigy, like a breeder reactor or a U-2
spy plane, and not something that could ever be (in the parlance of
high-tech) "productized."

Yet now the company that Gates and Allen founded is selling operating
systems like Gillette sells razor blades. New releases of operating systems
are launched as if they were Hollywood blockbusters, with celebrity
endorsements, talk show appearances, and world tours. The market for them
is vast enough that people worry about whether it has been monopolized by
one company. Even the least technically-minded people in our society now
have at least a hazy idea of what operating systems do; what is more, they
have strong opinions about their relative merits. It is commonly
understood, even by technically unsophisticated computer users, that if you
have a piece of software that works on your Macintosh, and you move it over
onto a Windows machine, it will not run. That this would, in fact, be a
laughable and idiotic mistake, like nailing horseshoes to the tires of a
Buick.

A person who went into a coma before Microsoft was founded, and woke up
now, could pick up this morning's New York Times and understand everything
in it--almost:


   * Item: the richest man in the world made his fortune from-what?
     Railways? Shipping? Oil? No, operating systems.
   * Item: the Department of Justice is tackling Microsoft's supposed OS
     monopoly with legal tools that were invented to restrain the power of
     Nineteenth-Century robber barons.
   * Item: a woman friend of mine recently told me that she'd broken off a
     (hitherto) stimulating exchange of e-mail with a young man. At first
     he had seemed like such an intelligent and interesting guy, she said,
     but then "he started going all PC-versus-Mac on me."

What the hell is going on here? And does the operating system business have
a future, or only a past? Here is my view, which is entirely subjective;
but since I have spent a fair amount of time not only using, but
programming, Macintoshes, Windows machines, Linux boxes and the BeOS,
perhaps it is not so ill-informed as to be completely worthless. This is a
subjective essay, more review than research paper, and so it might seem
unfair or biased compared to the technical reviews you can find in PC
magazines. But ever since the Mac came out, our operating systems have been
based on metaphors, and anything with metaphors in it is fair game as far
as I'm concerned.


MGBs, TANKS, AND BATMOBILES

Around the time that Jobs, Wozniak, Gates, and Allen were dreaming up these
unlikely schemes, I was a teenager living in Ames, Iowa. One of my friends'
dads had an old MGB sports car rusting away in his garage. Sometimes he
would actually manage to get it running and then he would take us for a
spin around the block, with a memorable look of wild youthful exhiliration
on his face; to his worried passengers, he was a madman, stalling and
backfiring around Ames, Iowa and eating the dust of rusty Gremlins and
Pintos, but in his own mind he was Dustin Hoffman tooling across the Bay
Bridge with the wind in his hair.

In retrospect, this was telling me two things about people's relationship
to technology. One was that romance and image go a long way towards shaping
their opinions. If you doubt it (and if you have a lot of spare time on
your hands) just ask anyone who owns a Macintosh and who, on those grounds,
imagines him- or herself to be a member of an oppressed minority group.

The other, somewhat subtler point, was that interface is very important.
Sure, the MGB was a lousy car in almost every way that counted: balky,
unreliable, underpowered. But it was fun to drive. It was responsive. Every
pebble on the road was felt in the bones, every nuance in the pavement
transmitted instantly to the driver's hands. He could listen to the engine
and tell what was wrong with it. The steering responded immediately to
commands from his hands. To us passengers it was a pointless exercise in
going nowhere--about as interesting as peering over someone's shoulder
while he punches numbers into a spreadsheet. But to the driver it was an
experience. For a short time he was extending his body and his senses into
a larger realm, and doing things that he couldn't do unassisted.

The analogy between cars and operating systems is not half bad, and so let
me run with it for a moment, as a way of giving an executive summary of our
situation today.

Imagine a crossroads where four competing auto dealerships are situated.
One of them (Microsoft) is much, much bigger than the others. It started
out years ago selling three-speed bicycles (MS-DOS); these were not
perfect, but they worked, and when they broke you could easily fix them.

There was a competing bicycle dealership next door (Apple) that one day
began selling motorized vehicles--expensive but attractively styled cars
with their innards hermetically sealed, so that how they worked was
something of a mystery.

The big dealership responded by rushing a moped upgrade kit (the original
Windows) onto the market. This was a Rube Goldberg contraption that, when
bolted onto a three-speed bicycle, enabled it to keep up, just barely, with
Apple-cars. The users had to wear goggles and were always picking bugs out
of their teeth while Apple owners sped along in hermetically sealed
comfort, sneering out the windows. But the Micro-mopeds were cheap, and
easy to fix compared with the Apple-cars, and their market share waxed.

Eventually the big dealership came out with a full-fledged car: a colossal
station wagon (Windows 95). It had all the aesthetic appeal of a Soviet
worker housing block, it leaked oil and blew gaskets, and it was an
enormous success. A little later, they also came out with a hulking
off-road vehicle intended for industrial users (Windows NT) which was no
more beautiful than the station wagon, and only a little more reliable.

Since then there has been a lot of noise and shouting, but little has
changed. The smaller dealership continues to sell sleek Euro-styled sedans
and to spend a lot of money on advertising campaigns. They have had GOING
OUT OF BUSINESS! signs taped up in their windows for so long that they have
gotten all yellow and curly. The big one keeps making bigger and bigger
station wagons and ORVs.

On the other side of the road are two competitors that have come along more
recently.

One of them (Be, Inc.) is selling fully operational Batmobiles (the BeOS).
They are more beautiful and stylish even than the Euro-sedans, better
designed, more technologically advanced, and at least as reliable as
anything else on the market--and yet cheaper than the others.

With one exception, that is: Linux, which is right next door, and which is
not a business at all. It's a bunch of RVs, yurts, tepees, and geodesic
domes set up in a field and organized by consensus. The people who live
there are making tanks. These are not old-fashioned, cast-iron Soviet
tanks; these are more like the M1 tanks of the U.S. Army, made of space-age
materials and jammed with sophisticated technology from one end to the
other. But they are better than Army tanks. They've been modified in such a
way that they never, ever break down, are light and maneuverable enough to
use on ordinary streets, and use no more fuel than a subcompact car. These
tanks are being cranked out, on the spot, at a terrific pace, and a vast
number of them are lined up along the edge of the road with keys in the
ignition. Anyone who wants can simply climb into one and drive it away for
free.

Customers come to this crossroads in throngs, day and night. Ninety percent
of them go straight to the biggest dealership and buy station wagons or
off-road vehicles. They do not even look at the other dealerships.

Of the remaining ten percent, most go and buy a sleek Euro-sedan, pausing
only to turn up their noses at the philistines going to buy the station
wagons and ORVs. If they even notice the people on the opposite side of the
road, selling the cheaper, technically superior vehicles, these customers
deride them cranks and half-wits.

The Batmobile outlet sells a few vehicles to the occasional car nut who
wants a second vehicle to go with his station wagon, but seems to accept,
at least for now, that it's a fringe player.

The group giving away the free tanks only stays alive because it is staffed
by volunteers, who are lined up at the edge of the street with bullhorns,
trying to draw customers' attention to this incredible situation. A typical
conversation goes something like this:

Hacker with bullhorn: "Save your money! Accept one of our free tanks! It is
invulnerable, and can drive across rocks and swamps at ninety miles an hour
while getting a hundred miles to the gallon!"

Prospective station wagon buyer: "I know what you say is
true...but...er...I don't know how to maintain a tank!"

Bullhorn: "You don't know how to maintain a station wagon either!"

Buyer: "But this dealership has mechanics on staff. If something goes wrong
with my station wagon, I can take a day off work, bring it here, and pay
them to work on it while I sit in the waiting room for hours, listening to
elevator music."

Bullhorn: "But if you accept one of our free tanks we will send volunteers
to your house to fix it for free while you sleep!"

Buyer: "Stay away from my house, you freak!"

Bullhorn: "But..."

Buyer: "Can't you see that everyone is buying station wagons?"


BIT-FLINGER

The connection between cars, and ways of interacting with computers,
wouldn't have occurred to me at the time I was being taken for rides in
that MGB. I had signed up to take a computer programming class at Ames High
School. After a few introductory lectures, we students were granted
admission into a tiny room containing a teletype, a telephone, and an
old-fashioned modem consisting of a metal box with a pair of rubber cups on
the top (note: many readers, making their way through that last sentence,
probably felt an initial pang of dread that this essay was about to turn
into a tedious, codgerly reminiscence about how tough we had it back in the
old days; rest assured that I am actually positioning my pieces on the
chessboard, as it were, in preparation to make a point about truly hip and
up-to-the minute topics like Open Source Software). The teletype was
exactly the same sort of machine that had been used, for decades, to send
and receive telegrams. It was basically a loud typewriter that could only
produce UPPERCASE LETTERS. Mounted to one side of it was a smaller machine
with a long reel of paper tape on it, and a clear plastic hopper
underneath.

In order to connect this device (which was not a computer at all) to the
Iowa State University mainframe across town, you would pick up the phone,
dial the computer's number, listen for strange noises, and then slam the
handset down into the rubber cups. If your aim was true, one would wrap its
neoprene lips around the earpiece and the other around the mouthpiece,
consummating a kind of informational soixante-neuf.  The teletype would
shudder as it was possessed by the spirit of the distant mainframe, and
begin to hammer out cryptic messages.

Since computer time was a scarce resource, we used a sort of batch
processing technique. Before dialing the phone, we would turn on the tape
puncher (a subsidiary machine bolted to the side of the teletype) and type
in our programs. Each time we depressed a key, the teletype would bash out
a letter on the paper in front of us, so we could read what we'd typed; but
at the same time it would convert the letter into a set of eight binary
digits, or bits, and punch a corresponding pattern of holes across the
width of a paper tape. The tiny disks of paper knocked out of the tape
would flutter down into the clear plastic hopper, which would slowly fill
up what can only be described as actual bits. On the last day of the school
year, the smartest kid in the class (not me) jumped out from behind his
desk and flung several quarts of these bits over the head of our teacher,
like confetti, as a sort of semi-affectionate practical joke. The image of
this man sitting there, gripped in the opening stages of an atavistic
fight-or-flight reaction, with millions of bits (megabytes) sifting down
out of his hair and into his nostrils and mouth, his face gradually turning
purple as he built up to an explosion, is the single most memorable scene
from my formal education.

Anyway, it will have been obvious that my interaction with the computer was
of an extremely formal nature, being sharply divided up into different
phases, viz.: (1) sitting at home with paper and pencil, miles and miles
from any computer, I would think very, very hard about what I wanted the
computer to do, and translate my intentions into a computer language--a
series of alphanumeric symbols on a page. (2) I would carry this across a
sort of informational cordon sanitaire (three miles of snowdrifts) to
school and type those letters into a machine--not a computer--which would
convert the symbols into binary numbers and record them visibly on a tape.
(3) Then, through the rubber-cup modem, I would cause those numbers to be
sent to the university mainframe, which would (4) do arithmetic on them and
send different numbers back to the teletype. (5) The teletype would convert
these numbers back into letters and hammer them out on a page and (6) I,
watching, would construe the letters as meaningful symbols.

The division of responsibilities implied by all of this is admirably clean:
computers do arithmetic on bits of information. Humans construe the bits as
meaningful symbols. But this distinction is now being blurred, or at least
complicated, by the advent of modern operating systems that use, and
frequently abuse, the power of metaphor to make computers accessible to a
larger audience. Along the way--possibly because of those metaphors, which
make an operating system a sort of work of art--people start to get
emotional, and grow attached to pieces of software in the way that my
friend's dad did to his MGB.

People who have only interacted with computers through graphical user
interfaces like the MacOS or Windows--which is to say, almost everyone who
has ever used a computer--may have been startled, or at least bemused, to
hear about the telegraph machine that I used to communicate with a computer
in 1973. But there was, and is, a good reason for using this particular
kind of technology. Human beings have various ways of communicating to each
other, such as music, art, dance, and facial expressions, but some of these
are more amenable than others to being expressed as strings of symbols.
Written language is the easiest of all, because, of course, it consists of
strings of symbols to begin with. If the symbols happen to belong to a
phonetic alphabet (as opposed to, say, ideograms), converting them into
bits is a trivial procedure, and one that was nailed, technologically, in
the early nineteenth century, with the introduction of Morse code and other
forms of telegraphy.

We had a human/computer interface a hundred years before we had computers.
When computers came into being around the time of the Second World War,
humans, quite naturally, communicated with them by simply grafting them on
to the already-existing technologies for translating letters into bits and
vice versa: teletypes and punch card machines.

These embodied two fundamentally different approaches to computing. When
you were using cards, you'd punch a whole stack of them and run them
through the reader all at once, which was called batch processing. You
could also do batch processing with a teletype, as I have already
described, by using the paper tape reader, and we were certainly encouraged
to use this approach when I was in high school. But--though efforts were
made to keep us unaware of this--the teletype could do something that the
card reader could not. On the teletype, once the modem link was
established, you could just type in a line and hit the return key. The
teletype would send that line to the computer, which might or might not
respond with some lines of its own, which the teletype would hammer
out--producing, over time, a transcript of your exchange with the machine.
This way of doing it did not even have a name at the time, but when, much
later, an alternative became available, it was retroactively dubbed the
Command Line Interface.

When I moved on to college, I did my computing in large, stifling rooms
where scores of students would sit in front of slightly updated versions of
the same machines and write computer programs: these used dot-matrix
printing mechanisms, but were (from the computer's point of view) identical
to the old teletypes. By that point, computers were better at
time-sharing--that is, mainframes were still mainframes, but they were
better at communicating with a large number of terminals at once.
Consequently, it was no longer necessary to use batch processing. Card
readers were shoved out into hallways and boiler rooms, and batch
processing became a nerds-only kind of thing, and consequently took on a
certain eldritch flavor among those of us who even knew it existed. We were
all off the Batch, and on the Command Line, interface now--my very first
shift in operating system paradigms, if only I'd known it.

A huge stack of accordion-fold paper sat on the floor underneath each one
of these glorified teletypes, and miles of paper shuddered through their
platens. Almost all of this paper was thrown away or recycled without ever
having been touched by ink--an ecological atrocity so glaring that those
machines soon replaced by video terminals--so-called "glass
teletypes"--which were quieter and didn't waste paper. Again, though, from
the computer's point of view these were indistinguishable from World War
II-era teletype machines. In effect we still used Victorian technology to
communicate with computers until about 1984, when the Macintosh was
introduced with its Graphical User Interface. Even after that, the Command
Line continued to exist as an underlying stratum--a sort of brainstem
reflex--of many modern computer systems all through the heyday of Graphical
User Interfaces, or GUIs as I will call them from now on.


GUIs

Now the first job that any coder needs to do when writing a new piece of
software is to figure out how to take the information that is being worked
with (in a graphics program, an image; in a spreadsheet, a grid of numbers)
and turn it into a linear string of bytes. These strings of bytes are
commonly called files or (somewhat more hiply) streams. They are to
telegrams what modern humans are to Cro-Magnon man, which is to say the
same thing under a different name. All that you see on your computer
screen--your Tomb Raider, your digitized voice mail messages, faxes, and
word processing documents written in thirty-seven different typefaces--is
still, from the computer's point of view, just like telegrams, except much
longer, and demanding of more arithmetic.

The quickest way to get a taste of this is to fire up your web browser,
visit a site, and then select the View/Document Source menu item. You will
get a bunch of computer code that looks something like this:

<HTML>

<HEAD>

<TITLE>Welcome to the Avon Books Homepage</TITLE>
</HEAD>

<MAP NAME="left0199">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="16,56,111,67" HREF="/bard/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="14,77,111,89" HREF="/eos/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="17,98,112,110" HREF="/twilight/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="18,119,112,131"
HREF="/avon_user/category.html?category_id=271">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="19,140,112,152"
HREF="http://www.goners.com/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="18,161,111,173"
HREF="http://www.spikebooks.com/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="2,181,112,195"
HREF="/avon_user/category.html?category_id=277">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="9,203,112,216" HREF="/chathamisland/">
     <AREA SHAPE="rect" COORDS="7,223,112,236"
HREF="/avon_user/search.html">
</MAP>

<BODY TEXT="#478CFF" LINK="#FFFFFF" VLINK="#000000" ALINK="#478CFF"
BGCOLOR="#003399">
<TABLE BORDER="0" WIDTH="600" CELLPADDING="0" CELLSPACING="0">

<TR VALIGN=TOP>

     <TD ROWSPAN="3">
     <A HREF="/cgi-bin/imagemap/maps/left.gif.map"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/nav/left0199.gif" WIDTH="113" HEIGHT="280"
BORDER="0" USEMAP="#left0199"></A></TD><TD ROWSPAN="3"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/homepagejan98/2ndleft.gif" WIDTH="144" HEIGHT="280"
BORDER="0"></TD><TD><A HREF="/avon/about.html"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/homepagejan98/aboutavon.gif" ALT="About Avon Books"
WIDTH="199" HEIGHT="44" BORDER="0"></A></TD><TD ROWSPAN="3"><A
HREF="/avon/fiction/guides.html"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/feb98/right1.gif" ALT="Reading Groups" WIDTH="165"
HEIGHT="121" BORDER="0"></A><BR><A
HREF="/avon/feature/feb99/crook.html"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/feb99/crook_text.gif" ALT="The Crook Factory"
WIDTH="165" HEIGHT="96" BORDER="0"></A><BR><A
HREF="http://apps.hearstnewmedia.com/cgi-bin/gx.cgi/AppLogic+APPSSURVEYS
Questionnaire?domain_id=182&survey_id=541"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/feb99/env_text.gif" ALT="The Envelope Please"
WIDTH="165" HEIGHT="63" BORDER="0"></A></TD>
</TR>

<TR VALIGN=TOP><TD><IMG SRC="/avon/images/home/feb98/main.gif" WIDTH="199"
HEIGHT="182" BORDER="0"></TD></TR><TR VALIGN=TOP><TD><A
HREF="/avon/feature/jan99/sitchin.html"><IMG
SRC="/avon/images/home/jan99/sitchin_text.gif" WIDTH="199" HEIGHT="54"
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</HTML>


This crud is called HTML (HyperText Markup Language) and it is basically a
very simple programming language instructing your web browser how to draw a
page on a screen. Anyone can learn HTML and many people do. The important
thing is that no matter what splendid multimedia web pages they might
represent, HTML files are just telegrams.

When Ronald Reagan was a radio announcer, he used to call baseball games by
reading the terse descriptions that trickled in over the telegraph wire and
were printed out on a paper tape. He would sit there, all by himself in a
padded room with a microphone, and the paper tape would eke out of the
machine and crawl over the palm of his hand printed with cryptic
abbreviations. If the count went to three and two, Reagan would describe
the scene as he saw it in his mind's eye: "The brawny left-hander steps out
of the batter's box to wipe the sweat from his brow. The umpire steps
forward to sweep the dirt from home plate." and so on. When the cryptogram
on the paper tape announced a base hit, he would whack the edge of the
table with a pencil, creating a little sound effect, and describe the arc
of the ball as if he could actually see it. His listeners, many of whom
presumably thought that Reagan was actually at the ballpark watching the
game, would reconstruct the scene in their minds according to his
descriptions.

This is exactly how the World Wide Web works: the HTML files are the pithy
description on the paper tape, and your Web browser is Ronald Reagan. The
same is true of Graphical User Interfaces in general.

So an OS is a stack of metaphors and abstractions that stands between you
and the telegrams, and embodying various tricks the programmer used to
convert the information you're working with--be it images, e-mail messages,
movies, or word processing documents--into the necklaces of bytes that are
the only things computers know how to work with. When we used actual
telegraph equipment (teletypes) or their higher-tech substitutes ("glass
teletypes," or the MS-DOS command line) to work with our computers, we were
very close to the bottom of that stack. When we use most modern operating
systems, though, our interaction with the machine is heavily mediated.
Everything we do is interpreted and translated time and again as it works
its way down through all of the metaphors and abstractions.

The Macintosh OS was a revolution in both the good and bad senses of that
word. Obviously it was true that command line interfaces were not for
everyone, and that it would be a good thing to make computers more
accessible to a less technical audience--if not for altruistic reasons,
then because those sorts of people constituted an incomparably vaster
market. It was clear the the Mac's engineers saw a whole new country
stretching out before them; you could almost hear them muttering, "Wow! We
don't have to be bound by files as linear streams of bytes anymore, vive la
revolution, let's see how far we can take this!" No command line interface
was available on the Macintosh; you talked to it with the mouse, or not at
all. This was a statement of sorts, a credential of revolutionary purity.
It seemed that the designers of the Mac intended to sweep Command Line
Interfaces into the dustbin of history.

My own personal love affair with the Macintosh began in the spring of 1984
in a computer store in Cedar Rapids, Iowa, when a friend of
mine--coincidentally, the son of the MGB owner--showed me a Macintosh
running MacPaint, the revolutionary drawing program. It ended in July of
1995 when I tried to save a big important file on my Macintosh Powerbook
and instead instead of doing so, it annihilated the data so thoroughly that
two different disk crash utility programs were unable to find any trace
that it had ever existed. During the intervening ten years, I had a passion
for the MacOS that seemed righteous and reasonable at the time but in
retrospect strikes me as being exactly the same sort of goofy infatuation
that my friend's dad had with his car.

The introduction of the Mac triggered a sort of holy war in the computer
world. Were GUIs a brilliant design innovation that made computers more
human-centered and therefore accessible to the masses, leading us toward an
unprecedented revolution in human society, or an insulting bit of
audiovisual gimcrackery dreamed up by flaky Bay Area hacker types that
stripped computers of their power and flexibility and turned the noble and
serious work of computing into a childish video game?

This debate actually seems more interesting to me today than it did in the
mid-1980s. But people more or less stopped debating it when Microsoft
endorsed the idea of GUIs by coming out with the first Windows. At this
point, command-line partisans were relegated to the status of silly old
grouches, and a new conflict was touched off, between users of MacOS and
users of Windows.

There was plenty to argue about. The first Macintoshes looked different
from other PCs even when they were turned off: they consisted of one box
containing both CPU (the part of the computer that does arithmetic on bits)
and monitor screen. This was billed, at the time, as a philosophical
statement of sorts: Apple wanted to make the personal computer into an
appliance, like a toaster. But it also reflected the purely technical
demands of running a graphical user interface. In a GUI machine, the chips
that draw things on the screen have to be integrated with the computer's
central processing unit, or CPU, to a far greater extent than is the case
with command-line interfaces, which until recently didn't even know that
they weren't just talking to teletypes.

This distinction was of a technical and abstract nature, but it became
clearer when the machine crashed (it is commonly the case with technologies
that you can get the best insight about how they work by watching them
fail). When everything went to hell and the CPU began spewing out random
bits, the result, on a CLI machine, was lines and lines of perfectly formed
but random characters on the screen--known to cognoscenti as "going
Cyrillic." But to the MacOS, the screen was not a teletype, but a place to
put graphics; the image on the screen was a bitmap, a literal rendering of
the contents of a particular portion of the computer's memory. When the
computer crashed and wrote gibberish into the bitmap, the result was
something that looked vaguely like static on a broken television set--a
"snow crash."

And even after the introduction of Windows, the underlying differences
endured; when a Windows machine got into trouble, the old command-line
interface would fall down over the GUI like an asbestos fire curtain
sealing off the proscenium of a burning opera. When a Macintosh got into
trouble it presented you with a cartoon of a bomb, which was funny the
first time you saw it.

And these were by no means superficial differences. The reversion of
Windows to a CLI when it was in distress proved to Mac partisans that
Windows was nothing more than a cheap facade, like a garish afghan flung
over a rotted-out sofa. They were disturbed and annoyed by the sense that
lurking underneath Windows' ostensibly user-friendly interface
was--literally--a subtext.

For their part, Windows fans might have made the sour observation that all
computers, even Macintoshes, were built on that same subtext, and that the
refusal of Mac owners to admit that fact to themselves seemed to signal a
willingness, almost an eagerness, to be duped.

Anyway, a Macintosh had to switch individual bits in the memory chips on
the video card, and it had to do it very fast, and in arbitrarily
complicated patterns. Nowadays this is cheap and easy, but in the
technological regime that prevailed in the early 1980s, the only realistic
way to do it was to build the motherboard (which contained the CPU) and the
video system (which contained the memory that was mapped onto the screen)
as a tightly integrated whole--hence the single, hermetically sealed case
that made the Macintosh so distinctive.

When Windows came out, it was conspicuous for its ugliness, and its current
successors, Windows 95 and Windows NT, are not things that people would pay
money to look at either. Microsoft's complete disregard for aesthetics gave
all of us Mac-lovers plenty of opportunities to look down our noses at
them. That Windows looked an awful lot like a direct ripoff of MacOS gave
us a burning sense of moral outrage to go with it. Among people who really
knew and appreciated computers (hackers, in Steven Levy's non-pejorative
sense of that word) and in a few other niches such as professional
musicians, graphic artists and schoolteachers, the Macintosh, for a while,
was simply the computer. It was seen as not only a superb piece of
engineering, but an embodiment of certain ideals about the use of
technology to benefit mankind, while Windows was seen as a pathetically
clumsy imitation and a sinister world domination plot rolled into one. So
very early, a pattern had been established that endures to this day: people
dislike Microsoft, which is okay; but they dislike it for reasons that are
poorly considered, and in the end, self-defeating.


CLASS STRUGGLE ON THE DESKTOP

Now that the Third Rail has been firmly grasped, it is worth reviewing some
basic facts here: like any other publicly traded, for-profit corporation,
Microsoft has, in effect, borrowed a bunch of money from some people (its
stockholders) in order to be in the bit business. As an officer of that
corporation, Bill Gates has one responsibility only, which is to maximize
return on investment. He has done this incredibly well. Any actions taken
in the world by Microsoft-any software released by them, for example--are
basically epiphenomena, which can't be interpreted or understood except
insofar as they reflect Bill Gates's execution of his one and only
responsibility.

It follows that if Microsoft sells goods that are aesthetically
unappealing, or that don't work very well, it does not mean that they are
(respectively) philistines or half-wits. It is because Microsoft's
excellent management has figured out that they can make more money for
their stockholders by releasing stuff with obvious, known imperfections
than they can by making it beautiful or bug-free. This is annoying, but (in
the end) not half so annoying as watching Apple inscrutably and
relentlessly destroy itself.

Hostility towards Microsoft is not difficult to find on the Net, and it
blends two strains: resentful people who feel Microsoft is too powerful,
and disdainful people who think it's tacky. This is all strongly
reminiscent of the heyday of Communism and Socialism, when the bourgeoisie
were hated from both ends: by the proles, because they had all the money,
and by the intelligentsia, because of their tendency to spend it on lawn
ornaments. Microsoft is the very embodiment of modern high-tech
prosperity--it is, in a word, bourgeois--and so it attracts all of the same
gripes.

The opening "splash screen" for Microsoft Word 6.0 summed it up pretty
neatly: when you started up the program you were treated to a picture of an
expensive enamel pen lying across a couple of sheets of fancy-looking
handmade writing paper. It was obviously a bid to make the software look
classy, and it might have worked for some, but it failed for me, because
the pen was a ballpoint, and I'm a fountain pen man. If Apple had done it,
they would've used a Mont Blanc fountain pen, or maybe a Chinese
calligraphy brush. And I doubt that this was an accident. Recently I spent
a while re-installing Windows NT on one of my home computers, and many
times had to double-click on the "Control Panel" icon. For reasons that are
difficult to fathom, this icon consists of a picture of a clawhammer and a
chisel or screwdriver resting on top of a file folder.

These aesthetic gaffes give one an almost uncontrollable urge to make fun
of Microsoft, but again, it is all beside the point--if Microsoft had done
focus group testing of possible alternative graphics, they probably would
have found that the average mid-level office worker associated fountain
pens with effete upper management toffs and was more comfortable with
ballpoints. Likewise, the regular guys, the balding dads of the world who
probably bear the brunt of setting up and maintaining home computers, can
probably relate better to a picture of a clawhammer--while perhaps
harboring fantasies of taking a real one to their balky computers.

This is the only way I can explain certain peculiar facts about the current
market for operating systems, such as that ninety percent of all customers
continue to buy station wagons off the Microsoft lot while free tanks are
there for the taking, right across the street.

A string of ones and zeroes was not a difficult thing for Bill Gates to
distribute, one he'd thought of the idea. The hard part was selling
it--reassuring customers that they were actually getting something in
return for their money.

Anyone who has ever bought a piece of software in a store has had the
curiously deflating experience of taking the bright shrink-wrapped box
home, tearing it open, finding that it's 95 percent air, throwing away all
the little cards, party favors, and bits of trash, and loading the disk
into the computer. The end result (after you've lost the disk) is nothing
except some images on a computer screen, and some capabilities that weren't
there before. Sometimes you don't even have that--you have a string of
error messages instead. But your money is definitely gone. Now we are
almost accustomed to this, but twenty years ago it was a very dicey
business proposition. Bill Gates made it work anyway. He didn't make it
work by selling the best software or offering the cheapest price. Instead
he somehow got people to believe that they were receiving something in
exchange for their money.

The streets of every city in the world are filled with those hulking,
rattling station wagons. Anyone who doesn't own one feels a little weird,
and wonders, in spite of himself, whether it might not be time to cease
resistance and buy one; anyone who does, feels confident that he has
acquired some meaningful possession, even on those days when the vehicle is
up on a lift in an auto repair shop.

All of this is perfectly congruent with membership in the bourgeoisie,
which is as much a mental, as a material state. And it explains why
Microsoft is regularly attacked, on the Net, from both sides. People who
are inclined to feel poor and oppressed construe everything Microsoft does
as some sinister Orwellian plot. People who like to think of themselves as
intelligent and informed technology users are driven crazy by the
clunkiness of Windows.

Nothing is more annoying to sophisticated people to see someone who is rich
enough to know better being tacky--unless it is to realize, a moment later,
that they probably know they are tacky and they simply don't care and they
are going to go on being tacky, and rich, and happy, forever. Microsoft
therefore bears the same relationship to the Silicon Valley elite as the
Beverly Hillbillies did to their fussy banker, Mr. Drysdale--who is
irritated not so much by the fact that the Clampetts moved to his
neighborhood as by the knowledge that, when Jethro is seventy years old,
he's still going to be talking like a hillbilly and wearing bib overalls,
and he's still going to be a lot richer than Mr. Drysdale.

Even the hardware that Windows ran on, when compared to the machines put
out by Apple, looked like white-trash stuff, and still mostly does. The
reason was that Apple was and is a hardware company, while Microsoft was
and is a software company. Apple therefore had a monopoly on hardware that
could run MacOS, whereas Windows-compatible hardware came out of a free
market. The free market seems to have decided that people will not pay for
cool-looking computers; PC hardware makers who hire designers to make their
stuff look distinctive get their clocks cleaned by Taiwanese clone makers
punching out boxes that look as if they belong on cinderblocks in front of
someone's trailer. But Apple could make their hardware as pretty as they
wanted to and simply pass the higher prices on to their besotted consumers,
like me. Only last week (I am writing this sentence in early Jan. 1999) the
technology sections of all the newspapers were filled with adulatory press
coverage of how Apple had released the iMac in several happenin' new colors
like Blueberry and Tangerine.

Apple has always insisted on having a hardware monopoly, except for a brief
period in the mid-1990s when they allowed clone-makers to compete with
them, before subsequently putting them out of business. Macintosh hardware
was, consequently, expensive. You didn't open it up and fool around with it
because doing so would void the warranty. In fact the first Mac was
specifically designed to be difficult to open--you needed a kit of exotic
tools, which you could buy through little ads that began to appear in the
back pages of magazines a few months after the Mac came out on the market.
These ads always had a certain disreputable air about them, like pitches
for lock-picking tools in the backs of lurid detective magazines.

This monopolistic policy can be explained in at least three different ways.

THE CHARITABLE EXPLANATION is that the hardware monopoly policy reflected a
drive on Apple's part to provide a seamless, unified blending of hardware,
operating system, and software. There is something to this. It is hard
enough to make an OS that works well on one specific piece of hardware,
designed and tested by engineers who work down the hallway from you, in the
same company. Making an OS to work on arbitrary pieces of hardware, cranked
out by rabidly entrepeneurial clonemakers on the other side of the
International Date Line, is very difficult, and accounts for much of the
troubles people have using Windows.

THE FINANCIAL EXPLANATION is that Apple, unlike Microsoft, is and always
has been a hardware company. It simply depends on revenue from selling
hardware, and cannot exist without it.

THE NOT-SO-CHARITABLE EXPLANATION has to do with Apple's corporate culture,
which is rooted in Bay Area Baby Boomdom.

Now, since I'm going to talk for a moment about culture, full disclosure is
probably in order, to protect myself against allegations of conflict of
interest and ethical turpitude: (1) Geographically I am a Seattleite, of a
Saturnine temperament, and inclined to take a sour view of the Dionysian
Bay Area, just as they tend to be annoyed and appalled by us. (2)
Chronologically I am a post-Baby Boomer. I feel that way, at least, because
I never experienced the fun and exciting parts of the whole Boomer
scene--just spent a lot of time dutifully chuckling at Boomers' maddeningly
pointless anecdotes about just how stoned they got on various occasions,
and politely fielding their assertions about how great their music was. But
even from this remove it was possible to glean certain patterns, and one
that recurred as regularly as an urban legend was the one about how someone
would move into a commune populated by sandal-wearing, peace-sign flashing
flower children, and eventually discover that, underneath this facade, the
guys who ran it were actually control freaks; and that, as living in a
commune, where much lip service was paid to ideals of peace, love and
harmony, had deprived them of normal, socially approved outlets for their
control-freakdom, it tended to come out in other, invariably more sinister,
ways.

Applying this to the case of Apple Computer will be left as an exercise for
the reader, and not a very difficult exercise.

It is a bit unsettling, at first, to think of Apple as a control freak,
because it is completely at odds with their corporate image. Weren't these
the guys who aired the famous Super Bowl ads showing suited, blindfolded
executives marching like lemmings off a cliff? Isn't this the company that
even now runs ads picturing the Dalai Lama (except in Hong Kong) and
Einstein and other offbeat rebels?

It is indeed the same company, and the fact that they have been able to
plant this image of themselves as creative and rebellious free-thinkers in
the minds of so many intelligent and media-hardened skeptics really gives
one pause. It is testimony to the insidious power of expensive slick ad
campaigns and, perhaps, to a certain amount of wishful thinking in the
minds of people who fall for them. It also raises the question of why
Microsoft is so bad at PR, when the history of Apple demonstrates that, by
writing large checks to good ad agencies, you can plant a corporate image
in the minds of intelligent people that is completely at odds with reality.
(The answer, for people who don't like Damoclean questions, is that since
Microsoft has won the hearts and minds of the silent majority--the
bourgeoisie--they don't give a damn about having a slick image, any more
then Dick Nixon did. "I want to believe,"--the mantra that Fox Mulder has
pinned to his office wall in The X-Files--applies in different ways to
these two companies; Mac partisans want to believe in the image of Apple
purveyed in those ads, and in the notion that Macs are somehow
fundamentally different from other computers, while Windows people want to
believe that they are getting something for their money, engaging in a
respectable business transaction).

In any event, as of 1987, both MacOS and Windows were out on the market,
running on hardware platforms that were radically different from each
other--not only in the sense that MacOS used Motorola CPU chips while
Windows used Intel, but in the sense--then overlooked, but in the long run,
vastly more significant--that the Apple hardware business was a rigid
monopoly and the Windows side was a churning free-for-all.

But the full ramifications of this did not become clear until very
recently--in fact, they are still unfolding, in remarkably strange ways, as
I'll explain when we get to Linux. The upshot is that millions of people
got accustomed to using GUIs in one form or another. By doing so, they made
Apple/Microsoft a lot of money. The fortunes of many people have become
bound up with the ability of these companies to continue selling products
whose salability is very much open to question.


HONEY-POT, TAR-PIT, WHATEVER

When Gates and Allen invented the idea of selling software, they ran into
criticism from both hackers and sober-sided businesspeople. Hackers
understood that software was just information, and objected to the idea of
selling it. These objections were partly moral. The hackers were coming out
of the scientific and academic world where it is imperative to make the
results of one's work freely available to the public. They were also partly
practical; how can you sell something that can be easily copied?
Businesspeople, who are polar opposites of hackers in so many ways, had
objections of their own. Accustomed to selling toasters and insurance
policies, they naturally had a difficult time understanding how a long
collection of ones and zeroes could constitute a salable product.

Obviously Microsoft prevailed over these objections, and so did Apple. But
the objections still exist. The most hackerish of all the hackers, the
Ur-hacker as it were, was and is Richard Stallman, who became so annoyed
with the evil practice of selling software that, in 1984 (the same year
that the Macintosh went on sale) he went off and founded something called
the Free Software Foundation, which commenced work on something called GNU.
Gnu is an acronym for Gnu's Not Unix, but this is a joke in more ways than
one, because GNU most certainly IS Unix,. Because of trademark concerns
("Unix" is trademarked by AT&T) they simply could not claim that it was
Unix, and so, just to be extra safe, they claimed that it wasn't.
Notwithstanding the incomparable talent and drive possessed by Mr. Stallman
and other GNU adherents, their project to build a free Unix to compete
against Microsoft and Apple's OSes was a little bit like trying to dig a
subway system with a teaspoon. Until, that is, the advent of Linux, which I
will get to later.

But the basic idea of re-creating an operating system from scratch was
perfectly sound and completely doable. It has been done many times. It is
inherent in the very nature of operating systems.

Operating systems are not strictly necessary. There is no reason why a
sufficiently dedicated coder could not start from nothing with every
project and write fresh code to handle such basic, low-level operations as
controlling the read/write heads on the disk drives and lighting up pixels
on the screen. The very first computers had to be programmed in this way.
But since nearly every program needs to carry out those same basic
operations, this approach would lead to vast duplication of effort.

Nothing is more disagreeable to the hacker than duplication of effort. The
first and most important mental habit that people develop when they learn
how to write computer programs is to generalize, generalize, generalize. To
make their code as modular and flexible as possible, breaking large
problems down into small subroutines that can be used over and over again
in different contexts. Consequently, the development of operating systems,
despite being technically unnecessary, was inevitable. Because at its
heart, an operating system is nothing more than a library containing the
most commonly used code, written once (and hopefully written well) and then
made available to every coder who needs it.

So a proprietary, closed, secret operating system is a contradiction in
terms. It goes against the whole point of having an operating system. And
it is impossible to keep them secret anyway. The source code--the original
lines of text written by the programmers--can be kept secret. But an OS as
a whole is a collection of small subroutines that do very specific, very
clearly defined jobs. Exactly what those subroutines do has to be made
public, quite explicitly and exactly, or else the OS is completely useless
to programmers; they can't make use of those subroutines if they don't have
a complete and perfect understanding of what the subroutines do.

The only thing that isn't made public is exactly how the subroutines do
what they do. But once you know what a subroutine does, it's generally
quite easy (if you are a hacker) to write one of your own that does exactly
the same thing. It might take a while, and it is tedious and unrewarding,
but in most cases it's not really hard.

What's hard, in hacking as in fiction, is not writing; it's deciding what
to write. And the vendors of commercial OSes have already decided, and
published their decisions.

This has been generally understood for a long time. MS-DOS was duplicated,
functionally, by a rival product, written from scratch, called ProDOS, that
did all of the same things in pretty much the same way. In other words,
another company was able to write code that did all of the same things as
MS-DOS and sell it at a profit. If you are using the Linux OS, you can get
a free program called WINE which is a windows emulator; that is, you can
open up a window on your desktop that runs windows programs. It means that
a completely functional Windows OS has been recreated inside of Unix, like
a ship in a bottle. And Unix itself, which is vastly more sophisticated
than MS-DOS, has been built up from scratch many times over. Versions of it
are sold by Sun, Hewlett-Packard, AT&T, Silicon Graphics, IBM, and others.

People have, in other words, been re-writing basic OS code for so long that
all of the technology that constituted an "operating system" in the
traditional (pre-GUI) sense of that phrase is now so cheap and common that
it's literally free. Not only could Gates and Allen not sell MS-DOS today,
they could not even give it away, because much more powerful OSes are
already being given away. Even the original Windows (which was the only
windows until 1995) has become worthless, in that there is no point in
owning something that can be emulated inside of Linux--which is, itself,
free.

In this way the OS business is very different from, say, the car business.
Even an old rundown car has some value. You can use it for making runs to
the dump, or strip it for parts. It is the fate of manufactured goods to
slowly and gently depreciate as they get old and have to compete against
more modern products.

But it is the fate of operating systems to become free.

Microsoft is a great software applications company. Applications--such as
Microsoft Word--are an area where innovation brings real, direct, tangible
benefits to users. The innovations might be new technology straight from
the research department, or they might be in the category of bells and
whistles, but in any event they are frequently useful and they seem to make
users happy. And Microsoft is in the process of becoming a great research
company. But Microsoft is not such a great operating systems company. And
this is not necessarily because their operating systems are all that bad
from a purely technological standpoint. Microsoft's OSes do have their
problems, sure, but they are vastly better than they used to be, and they
are adequate for most people.

Why, then, do I say that Microsoft is not such a great operating systems
company? Because the very nature of operating systems is such that it is
senseless for them to be developed and owned by a specific company. It's a
thankless job to begin with. Applications create possibilities for millions
of credulous users, whereas OSes impose limitations on thousands of grumpy
coders, and so OS-makers will forever be on the shit-list of anyone who
counts for anything in the high-tech world. Applications get used by people
whose big problem is understanding all of their features, whereas OSes get
hacked by coders who are annoyed by their limitations. The OS business has
been good to Microsoft only insofar as it has given them the money they
needed to launch a really good applications software business and to hire a
lot of smart researchers. Now it really ought to be jettisoned, like a
spent booster stage from a rocket. The big question is whether Microsoft is
capable of doing this. Or is it addicted to OS sales in the same way as
Apple is to selling hardware?

Keep in mind that Apple's ability to monopolize its own hardware supply was
once cited, by learned observers, as a great advantage over Microsoft. At
the time, it seemed to place them in a much stronger position. In the end,
it nearly killed them, and may kill them yet. The problem, for Apple, was
that most of the world's computer users ended up owning cheaper hardware.
But cheap hardware couldn't run MacOS, and so these people switched to
Windows.

Replace "hardware" with "operating systems," and "Apple" with "Microsoft"
and you can see the same thing about to happen all over again. Microsoft
dominates the OS market, which makes them money and seems like a great idea
for now. But cheaper and better OSes are available, and they are growingly
popular in parts of the world that are not so saturated with computers as
the US. Ten years from now, most of the world's computer users may end up
owning these cheaper OSes. But these OSes do not, for the time being, run
any Microsoft applications, and so these people will use something else.

To put it more directly: every time someone decides to use a non-Microsoft
OS, Microsoft's OS division, obviously, loses a customer. But, as things
stand now, Microsoft's applications division loses a customer too. This is
not such a big deal as long as almost everyone uses Microsoft OSes. But as
soon as Windows' market share begins to slip, the math starts to look
pretty dismal for the people in Redmond.

This argument could be countered by saying that Microsoft could simply
re-compile its applications to run under other OSes. But this strategy goes
against most normal corporate instincts. Again the case of Apple is
instructive. When things started to go south for Apple, they should have
ported their OS to cheap PC hardware. But they didn't. Instead, they tried
to make the most of their brilliant hardware, adding new features and
expanding the product line. But this only had the effect of making their OS
more dependent on these special hardware features, which made it worse for
them in the end.

Likewise, when Microsoft's position in the OS world is threatened, their
corporate instincts will tell them to pile more new features into their
operating systems, and then re-jigger their software applications to
exploit those special features. But this will only have the effect of
making their applications dependent on an OS with declining market share,
and make it worse for them in the end.

The operating system market is a death-trap, a tar-pit, a slough of
despond. There are only two reasons to invest in Apple and Microsoft. (1)
each of these companies is in what we would call a co-dependency
relationship with their customers. The customers Want To Believe, and Apple
and Microsoft know how to give them what they want. (2) each company works
very hard to add new features to their OSes, which works to secure customer
loyalty, at least for a little while.

Accordingly, most of the remainder of this essay will be about those two
topics.

THE TECHNOSPHERE

Unix is the only OS remaining whose GUI (a vast suite of code called the X
Windows System) is separate from the OS in the old sense of the phrase.
This is to say that you can run Unix in pure command-line mode if you want
to, with no windows, icons, mouses, etc. whatsoever, and it will still be
Unix and capable of doing everything Unix is supposed to do. But the other
OSes: MacOS, the Windows family, and BeOS, have their GUIs tangled up with
the old-fashioned OS functions to the extent that they have to run in GUI
mode, or else they are not really running. So it's no longer really
possible to think of GUIs as being distinct from the OS; they're now an
inextricable part of the OSes that they belong to--and they are by far the
largest part, and by far the most expensive and difficult part to create.

There are only two ways to sell a product: price and features. When OSes
are free, OS companies cannot compete on price, and so they compete on
features. This means that they are always trying to outdo each other
writing code that, until recently, was not considered to be part of an OS
at all: stuff like GUIs. This explains a lot about how these companies
behave.

It explains why Microsoft added a browser to their OS, for example. It is
easy to get free browsers, just as to get free OSes. If browsers are free,
and OSes are free, it would seem that there is no way to make money from
browsers or OSes. But if you can integrate a browser into the OS and
thereby imbue both of them with new features, you have a salable product.

Setting aside, for the moment, the fact that this makes government
anti-trust lawyers really mad, this strategy makes sense. At least, it
makes sense if you assume (as Microsoft's management appears to) that the
OS has to be protected at all costs. The real question is whether every new
technological trend that comes down the pike ought to be used as a crutch
to maintain the OS's dominant position. Confronted with the Web phenomenon,
Microsoft had to develop a really good web browser, and they did. But then
they had a choice: they could have made that browser work on many different
OSes, which would give Microsoft a strong position in the Internet world no
matter what happened to their OS market share. Or they could make the
browser one with the OS, gambling that this would make the OS look so
modern and sexy that it would help to preserve their dominance in that
market. The problem is that when Microsoft's OS position begins to erode
(and since it is currently at something like ninety percent, it can't go
anywhere but down) it will drag everything else down with it.

In your high school geology class you probably were taught that all life on
earth exists in a paper-thin shell called the biosphere, which is trapped
between thousands of miles of dead rock underfoot, and cold dead
radioactive empty space above. Companies that sell OSes exist in a sort of
technosphere. Underneath is technology that has already become free. Above
is technology that has yet to be developed, or that is too crazy and
speculative to be productized just yet. Like the Earth's biosphere, the
technosphere is very thin compared to what is above and what is below.

But it moves a lot faster. In various parts of our world, it is possible to
go and visit rich fossil beds where skeleton lies piled upon skeleton,
recent ones on top and more ancient ones below. In theory they go all the
way back to the first single-celled organisms. And if you use your
imagination a bit, you can understand that, if you hang around long enough,
you'll become fossilized there too, and in time some more advanced organism
will become fossilized on top of you.

The fossil record--the La Brea Tar Pit--of software technology is the
Internet. Anything that shows up there is free for the taking (possibly
illegal, but free). Executives at companies like Microsoft must get used to
the experience--unthinkable in other industries--of throwing millions of
dollars into the development of new technologies, such as Web browsers, and
then seeing the same or equivalent software show up on the Internet two
years, or a year, or even just a few months, later.

By continuing to develop new technologies and add features onto their
products they can keep one step ahead of the fossilization process, but on
certain days they must feel like mammoths caught at La Brea, using all
their energies to pull their feet, over and over again, out of the sucking
hot tar that wants to cover and envelop them.

Survival in this biosphere demands sharp tusks and heavy, stomping feet at
one end of the organization, and Microsoft famously has those. But
trampling the other mammoths into the tar can only keep you alive for so
long. The danger is that in their obsession with staying out of the fossil
beds, these companies will forget about what lies above the biosphere: the
realm of new technology. In other words, they must hang onto their
primitive weapons and crude competitive instincts, but also evolve powerful
brains. This appears to be what Microsoft is doing with its research
division, which has been hiring smart people right and left (Here I should
mention that although I know, and socialize with, several people in that
company's research division, we never talk about business issues and I have
little to no idea what the hell they are up to. I have learned much more
about Microsoft by using the Linux operating system than I ever would have
done by using Windows).

Never mind how Microsoft used to make money; today, it is making its money
on a kind of temporal arbitrage. "Arbitrage," in the usual sense, means to
make money by taking advantage of differences in the price of something
between different markets. It is spatial, in other words, and hinges on the
arbitrageur knowing what is going on simultaneously in different places.
Microsoft is making money by taking advantage of differences in the price
of technology in different times. Temporal arbitrage, if I may coin a
phrase, hinges on the arbitrageur knowing what technologies people will pay
money for next year, and how soon afterwards those same technologies will
become free. What spatial and temporal arbitrage have in common is that
both hinge on the arbitrageur's being extremely well-informed; one about
price gradients across space at a given time, and the other about price
gradients over time in a given place.

So Apple/Microsoft shower new features upon their users almost daily, in
the hopes that a steady stream of genuine technical innovations, combined
with the "I want to believe" phenomenon, will prevent their customers from
looking across the road towards the cheaper and better OSes that are
available to them. The question is whether this makes sense in the long
run. If Microsoft is addicted to OSes as Apple is to hardware, then they
will bet the whole farm on their OSes, and tie all of their new
applications and technologies to them. Their continued survival will then
depend on these two things: adding more features to their OSes so that
customers will not switch to the cheaper alternatives, and maintaining the
image that, in some mysterious way, gives those customers the feeling that
they are getting something for their money.

The latter is a truly strange and interesting cultural phenomenon.

THE INTERFACE CULTURE

A few years ago I walked into a grocery store somewhere and was presented
with the following tableau vivant: near the entrance a young couple were
standing in front of a large cosmetics display. The man was stolidly
holding a shopping basket between his hands while his mate raked
blister-packs of makeup off the display and piled them in. Since then I've
always thought of that man as the personification of an interesting human
tendency: not only are we not offended to be dazzled by manufactured
images, but we like it. We practically insist on it. We are eager to be
complicit in our own dazzlement: to pay money for a theme park ride, vote
for a guy who's obviously lying to us, or stand there holding the basket as
it's filled up with cosmetics.

I was in Disney World recently, specifically the part of it called the
Magic Kingdom, walking up Main Street USA. This is a perfect gingerbready
Victorian small town that culminates in a Disney castle. It was very
crowded; we shuffled rather than walked. Directly in front of me was a man
with a camcorder. It was one of the new breed of camcorders where instead
of peering through a viewfinder you gaze at a flat-panel color screen about
the size of a playing card, which televises live coverage of whatever the
camcorder is seeing. He was holding the appliance close to his face, so
that it obstructed his view. Rather than go see a real small town for free,
he had paid money to see a pretend one, and rather than see it with the
naked eye he was watching it on television.

And rather than stay home and read a book, I was watching him.

Americans' preference for mediated experiences is obvious enough, and I'm
not going to keep pounding it into the ground. I'm not even going to make
snotty comments about it--after all, I was at Disney World as a paying
customer. But it clearly relates to the colossal success of GUIs and so I
have to talk about it some. Disney does mediated experiences better than
anyone. If they understood what OSes are, and why people use them, they
could crush Microsoft in a year or two.

In the part of Disney World called the Animal Kingdom there is a new
attraction, slated to open in March 1999, called the Maharajah Jungle Trek.
It was open for sneak previews when I was there. This is a complete
stone-by-stone reproduction of a hypothetical ruin in the jungles of India.
According to its backstory, it was built by a local rajah in the 16th
Century as a game reserve. He would go there with his princely guests to
hunt Bengal tigers. As time went on it fell into disrepair and the tigers
and monkeys took it over; eventually, around the time of India's
independence, it became a government wildlife reserve, now open to
visitors.

The place looks more like what I have just described than any actual
building you might find in India. All the stones in the broken walls are
weathered as if monsoon rains had been trickling down them for centuries,
the paint on the gorgeous murals is flaked and faded just so, and Bengal
tigers loll amid stumps of broken columns. Where modern repairs have been
made to the ancient structure, they've been done, not as Disney's engineers
would do them, but as thrifty Indian janitors would--with hunks of bamboo
and rust-spotted hunks of rebar. The rust is painted on, or course, and
protected from real rust by a plastic clear-coat, but you can't tell unless
you get down on your knees.

In one place you walk along a stone wall with a series of old pitted
friezes carved into it. One end of the wall has broken off and settled into
the earth, perhaps because of some long-forgotten earthquake, and so a
broad jagged crack runs across a panel or two, but the story is still
readable: first, primordial chaos leads to a flourishing of many animal
species. Next, we see the Tree of Life surrounded by diverse animals. This
is an obvious allusion (or, in showbiz lingo, a tie-in) to the gigantic
Tree of Life that dominates the center of Disney's Animal Kingdom just as
the Castle dominates the Magic Kingdom or the Sphere does Epcot. But it's
rendered in historically correct style and could probably fool anyone who
didn't have a Ph.D. in Indian art history.

The next panel shows a mustachioed H. sapiens chopping down the Tree of
Life with a scimitar, and the animals fleeing every which way. The one
after that shows the misguided human getting walloped by a tidal wave, part
of a latter-day Deluge presumably brought on by his stupidity.

The final panel, then, portrays the Sapling of Life beginning to grow back,
but now Man has ditched the edged weapon and joined the other animals in
standing around to adore and praise it.

It is, in other words, a prophecy of the Bottleneck: the scenario, commonly
espoused among modern-day environmentalists, that the world faces an
upcoming period of grave ecological tribulations that will last for a few
decades or centuries and end when we find a new harmonious modus vivendi
with Nature.

Taken as a whole the frieze is a pretty brilliant piece of work. Obviously
it's not an ancient Indian ruin, and some person or people now living
deserve credit for it. But there are no signatures on the Maharajah's game
reserve at Disney World. There are no signatures on anything, because it
would ruin the whole effect to have long strings of production credits
dangling from every custom-worn brick, as they do from Hollywood movies.

Among Hollywood writers, Disney has the reputation of being a real wicked
stepmother. It's not hard to see why. Disney is in the business of putting
out a product of seamless illusion--a magic mirror that reflects the world
back better than it really is. But a writer is literally talking to his or
her readers, not just creating an ambience or presenting them with
something to look at; and just as the command-line interface opens a much
more direct and explicit channel from user to machine than the GUI, so it
is with words, writer, and reader.

The word, in the end, is the only system of encoding thoughts--the only
medium--that is not fungible, that refuses to dissolve in the devouring
torrent of electronic media (the richer tourists at Disney World wear
t-shirts printed with the names of famous designers, because designs
themselves can be bootlegged easily and with impunity. The only way to make
clothing that cannot be legally bootlegged is to print copyrighted and
trademarked words on it; once you have taken that step, the clothing itself
doesn't really matter, and so a t-shirt is as good as anything else.
T-shirts with expensive words on them are now the insignia of the upper
class. T-shirts with cheap words, or no words at all, are for the
commoners).

But this special quality of words and of written communication would have
the same effect on Disney's product as spray-painted graffiti on a magic
mirror. So Disney does most of its communication without resorting to
words, and for the most part, the words aren't missed. Some of Disney's
older properties, such as Peter Pan, Winnie the Pooh, and Alice in
Wonderland, came out of books. But the authors' names are rarely if ever
mentioned, and you can't buy the original books at the Disney store. If you
could, they would all seem old and queer, like very bad knockoffs of the
purer, more authentic Disney versions. Compared to more recent productions
like Beauty and the Beast and Mulan, the Disney movies based on these books
(particularly Alice in Wonderland and Peter Pan) seem deeply bizarre, and
not wholly appropriate for children. That stands to reason, because Lewis
Carroll and J.M. Barrie were very strange men, and such is the nature of
the written word that their personal strangeness shines straight through
all the layers of Disneyfication like x-rays through a wall. Probably for
this very reason, Disney seems to have stopped buying books altogether, and
now finds its themes and characters in folk tales, which have the lapidary,
time-worn quality of the ancient bricks in the Maharajah's ruins.

If I can risk a broad generalization, most of the people who go to Disney
World have zero interest in absorbing new ideas from books. Which sounds
snide, but listen: they have no qualms about being presented with ideas in
other forms. Disney World is stuffed with environmental messages now, and
the guides at Animal Kingdom can talk your ear off about biology.

If you followed those tourists home, you might find art, but it would be
the sort of unsigned folk art that's for sale in Disney World's African-
and Asian-themed stores. In general they only seem comfortable with media
that have been ratified by great age, massive popular acceptance, or both.

In this world, artists are like the anonymous, illiterate stone carvers who
built the great cathedrals of Europe and then faded away into unmarked
graves in the churchyard. The cathedral as a whole is awesome and stirring
in spite, and possibly because, of the fact that we have no idea who built
it. When we walk through it we are communing not with individual stone
carvers but with an entire culture.

Disney World works the same way. If you are an intellectual type, a reader
or writer of books, the nicest thing you can say about this is that the
execution is superb. But it's easy to find the whole environment a little
creepy, because something is missing: the translation of all its content
into clear explicit written words, the attribution of the ideas to specific
people. You can't argue with it. It seems as if a hell of a lot might be
being glossed over, as if Disney World might be putting one over on us, and
possibly getting away with all kinds of buried assumptions and muddled
thinking.

But this is precisely the same as what is lost in the transition from the
command-line interface to the GUI.

Disney and Apple/Microsoft are in the same business: short-circuiting
laborious, explicit verbal communication with expensively designed
interfaces. Disney is a sort of user interface unto itself--and more than
just graphical. Let's call it a Sensorial Interface. It can be applied to
anything in the world, real or imagined, albeit at staggering expense.

Why are we rejecting explicit word-based interfaces, and embracing
graphical or sensorial ones--a trend that accounts for the success of both
Microsoft and Disney?

Part of it is simply that the world is very complicated now--much more
complicated than the hunter-gatherer world that our brains evolved to cope
with--and we simply can't handle all of the details. We have to delegate.
We have no choice but to trust some nameless artist at Disney or programmer
at Apple or Microsoft to make a few choices for us, close off some options,
and give us a conveniently packaged executive summary.

But more importantly, it comes out of the fact that, during this century,
intellectualism failed, and everyone knows it. In places like Russia and
Germany, the common people agreed to loosen their grip on traditional
folkways, mores, and religion, and let the intellectuals run with the ball,
and they screwed everything up and turned the century into an abbatoir.
Those wordy intellectuals used to be merely tedious; now they seem kind of
dangerous as well.

We Americans are the only ones who didn't get creamed at some point during
all of this. We are free and prosperous because we have inherited political
and values systems fabricated by a particular set of eighteenth-century
intellectuals who happened to get it right. But we have lost touch with
those intellectuals, and with anything like intellectualism, even to the
point of not reading books any more, though we are literate. We seem much
more comfortable with propagating those values to future generations
nonverbally, through a process of being steeped in media. Apparently this
actually works to some degree, for police in many lands are now complaining
that local arrestees are insisting on having their Miranda rights read to
them, just like perps in American TV cop shows. When it's explained to them
that they are in a different country, where those rights do not exist, they
become outraged. Starsky and Hutch reruns, dubbed into diverse languages,
may turn out, in the long run, to be a greater force for human rights than
the Declaration of Independence.

A huge, rich, nuclear-tipped culture that propagates its core values
through media steepage seems like a bad idea. There is an obvious risk of
running astray here. Words are the only immutable medium we have, which is
why they are the vehicle of choice for extremely important concepts like
the Ten Commandments, the Koran, and the Bill of Rights. Unless the
messages conveyed by our media are somehow pegged to a fixed, written set
of precepts, they can wander all over the place and possibly dump loads of
crap into people's minds.

Orlando used to have a military installation called McCoy Air Force Base,
with long runways from which B-52s could take off and reach Cuba, or just
about anywhere else, with loads of nukes. But now McCoy has been scrapped
and repurposed. It has been absorbed into Orlando's civilian airport. The
long runways are being used to land 747-loads of tourists from Brazil,
Italy, Russia and Japan, so that they can come to Disney World and steep in
our media for a while.

To traditional cultures, especially word-based ones such as Islam, this is
infinitely more threatening than the B-52s ever were. It is obvious, to
everyone outside of the United States, that our arch-buzzwords,
multiculturalism and diversity, are false fronts that are being used (in
many cases unwittingly) to conceal a global trend to eradicate cultural
differences. The basic tenet of multiculturalism (or "honoring diversity"
or whatever you want to call it) is that people need to stop judging each
other-to stop asserting (and, eventually, to stop believing) that this is
right and that is wrong, this true and that false, one thing ugly and
another thing beautiful, that God exists and has this or that set of
qualities.

The lesson most people are taking home from the Twentieth Century is that,
in order for a large number of different cultures to coexist peacefully on
the globe (or even in a neighborhood) it is necessary for people to suspend
judgment in this way. Hence (I would argue) our suspicion of, and hostility
towards, all authority figures in modern culture. As David Foster Wallace
has explained in his essay "E Unibus Pluram," this is the fundamental
message of television; it is the message that people take home, anyway,
after they have steeped in our media long enough. It's not expressed in
these highfalutin terms, of course. It comes through as the presumption
that all authority figures--teachers, generals, cops, ministers,
politicians--are hypocritical buffoons, and that hip jaded coolness is the
only way to be.

The problem is that once you have done away with the ability to make
judgments as to right and wrong, true and false, etc., there's no real
culture left. All that remains is clog dancing and macrame. The ability to
make judgments, to believe things, is the entire it point of having a
culture. I think this is why guys with machine guns sometimes pop up in
places like Luxor, and begin pumping bullets into Westerners. They
perfectly understand the lesson of McCoy Air Force Base. When their sons
come home wearing Chicago Bulls caps with the bills turned sideways, the
dads go out of their minds.

The global anti-culture that has been conveyed into every cranny of the
world by television is a culture unto itself, and by the standards of great
and ancient cultures like Islam and France, it seems grossly inferior, at
least at first. The only good thing you can say about it is that it makes
world wars and Holocausts less likely--and that is actually a pretty good
thing!

The only real problem is that anyone who has no culture, other than this
global monoculture, is completely screwed. Anyone who grows up watching TV,
never sees any religion or philosophy, is raised in an atmosphere of moral
relativism, learns about civics from watching bimbo eruptions on network TV
news, and attends a university where postmodernists vie to outdo each other
in demolishing traditional notions of truth and quality, is going to come
out into the world as one pretty feckless human being. And--again--perhaps
the goal of all this is to make us feckless so we won't nuke each other.

On the other hand, if you are raised within some specific culture, you end
up with a basic set of tools that you can use to think about and understand
the world. You might use those tools to reject the culture you were raised
in, but at least you've got some tools.

In this country, the people who run things--who populate major law firms
and corporate boards--understand all of this at some level. They pay lip
service to multiculturalism and diversity and non-judgmentalness, but they
don't raise their own children that way. I have highly educated,
technically sophisticated friends who have moved to small towns in Iowa to
live and raise their children, and there are Hasidic Jewish enclaves in New
York where large numbers of kids are being brought up according to
traditional beliefs. Any suburban community might be thought of as a place
where people who hold certain (mostly implicit) beliefs go to live among
others who think the same way.

And not only do these people feel some responsibility to their own
children, but to the country as a whole. Some of the upper class are vile
and cynical, of course, but many spend at least part of their time fretting
about what direction the country is going in, and what responsibilities
they have. And so issues that are important to book-reading intellectuals,
such as global environmental collapse, eventually percolate through the
porous buffer of mass culture and show up as ancient Hindu ruins in
Orlando.

You may be asking: what the hell does all this have to do with operating
systems? As I've explained, there is no way to explain the domination of
the OS market by Apple/Microsoft without looking to cultural explanations,
and so I can't get anywhere, in this essay, without first letting you know
where I'm coming from vis-a-vis contemporary culture.

Contemporary culture is a two-tiered system, like the Morlocks and the Eloi
in H.G. Wells's The Time Machine, except that it's been turned upside down.
In The Time Machine the Eloi were an effete upper class, supported by lots
of subterranean Morlocks who kept the technological wheels turning. But in
our world it's the other way round. The Morlocks are in the minority, and
they are running the show, because they understand how everything works.
The much more numerous Eloi learn everything they know from being steeped
from birth in electronic media directed and controlled by book-reading
Morlocks. So many ignorant people could be dangerous if they got pointed in
the wrong direction, and so we've evolved a popular culture that is (a)
almost unbelievably infectious and (b) neuters every person who gets
infected by it, by rendering them unwilling to make judgments and incapable
of taking stands.

Morlocks, who have the energy and intelligence to comprehend details, go
out and master complex subjects and produce Disney-like Sensorial
Interfaces so that Eloi can get the gist without having to strain their
minds or endure boredom. Those Morlocks will go to India and tediously
explore a hundred ruins, then come home and built sanitary bug-free
versions: highlight films, as it were. This costs a lot, because Morlocks
insist on good coffee and first-class airline tickets, but that's no
problem because Eloi like to be dazzled and will gladly pay for it all.

Now I realize that most of this probably sounds snide and bitter to the
point of absurdity: your basic snotty intellectual throwing a tantrum about
those unlettered philistines. As if I were a self-styled Moses, coming down
from the mountain all alone, carrying the stone tablets bearing the Ten
Commandments carved in immutable stone--the original command-line
interface--and blowing his stack at the weak, unenlightened Hebrews
worshipping images. Not only that, but it sounds like I'm pumping some sort
of conspiracy theory.

But that is not where I'm going with this. The situation I describe, here,
could be bad, but doesn't have to be bad and isn't necessarily bad now:


   * It simply is the case that we are way too busy, nowadays, to
     comprehend everything in detail. And it's better to comprehend it
     dimly, through an interface, than not at all. Better for ten million
     Eloi to go on the Kilimanjaro Safari at Disney World than for a
     thousand cardiovascular surgeons and mutual fund managers to go on
     "real" ones in Kenya.
   * The boundary between these two classes is more porous than I've made
     it sound. I'm always running into regular dudes--construction workers,
     auto mechanics, taxi drivers, galoots in general--who were largely
     aliterate until something made it necessary for them to become readers
     and start actually thinking about things. Perhaps they had to come to
     grips with alcoholism, perhaps they got sent to jail, or came down
     with a disease, or suffered a crisis in religious faith, or simply got
     bored. Such people can get up to speed on particular subjects quite
     rapidly. Sometimes their lack of a broad education makes them over-apt
     to go off on intellectual wild goose chases, but, hey, at least a wild
     goose chase gives you some exercise.
   * The spectre of a polity controlled by the fads and whims of voters who
     actually believe that there are significant differences between Bud
     Lite and Miller Lite, and who think that professional wrestling is for
     real, is naturally alarming to people who don't. But then countries
     controlled via the command-line interface, as it were, by double-domed
     intellectuals, be they religious or secular, are generally miserable
     places to live.
   * Sophisticated people deride Disneyesque entertainments as pat and
     saccharine, but, hey, if the result of that is to instill basically
     warm and sympathetic reflexes, at a preverbal level, into hundreds of
     millions of unlettered media-steepers, then how bad can it be? We
     killed a lobster in our kitchen last night and my daughter cried for
     an hour. The Japanese, who used to be just about the fiercest people
     on earth, have become infatuated with cuddly adorable cartoon
     characters.
   * My own family--the people I know best--is divided about evenly between
     people who will probably read this essay and people who almost
     certainly won't, and I can't say for sure that one group is
     necessarily warmer, happier, or better-adjusted than the other.

MORLOCKS AND ELOI AT THE KEYBOARD

Back in the days of the command-line interface, users were all Morlocks who
had to convert their thoughts into alphanumeric symbols and type them in, a
grindingly tedious process that stripped away all ambiguity, laid bare all
hidden assumptions, and cruelly punished laziness and imprecision. Then the
interface-makers went to work on their GUIs, and introduced a new semiotic
layer between people and machines. People who use such systems have
abdicated the responsibility, and surrendered the power, of sending bits
directly to the chip that's doing the arithmetic, and handed that
responsibility and power over to the OS. This is tempting because giving
clear instructions, to anyone or anything, is difficult. We cannot do it
without thinking, and depending on the complexity of the situation, we may
have to think hard about abstract things, and consider any number of
ramifications, in order to do a good job of it. For most of us, this is
hard work. We want things to be easier. How badly we want it can be
measured by the size of Bill Gates's fortune.

The OS has (therefore) become a sort of intellectual labor-saving device
that tries to translate humans' vaguely expressed intentions into bits. In
effect we are asking our computers to shoulder responsibilities that have
always been considered the province of human beings--we want them to
understand our desires, to anticipate our needs, to foresee consequences,
to make connections, to handle routine chores without being asked, to
remind us of what we ought to be reminded of while filtering out noise.

At the upper (which is to say, closer to the user) levels, this is done
through a set of conventions--menus, buttons, and so on. These work in the
sense that analogies work: they help Eloi understand abstract or unfamiliar
concepts by likening them to something known. But the loftier word
"metaphor" is used.

The overarching concept of the MacOS was the "desktop metaphor" and it
subsumed any number of lesser (and frequently conflicting, or at least
mixed) metaphors. Under a GUI, a file (frequently called "document") is
metaphrased as a window on the screen (which is called a "desktop"). The
window is almost always too small to contain the document and so you "move
around," or, more pretentiously, "navigate" in the document by "clicking
and dragging" the "thumb" on the "scroll bar." When you "type" (using a
keyboard) or "draw" (using a "mouse") into the "window" or use pull-down
"menus" and "dialog boxes" to manipulate its contents, the results of your
labors get stored (at least in theory) in a "file," and later you can pull
the same information back up into another "window." When you don't want it
anymore, you "drag" it into the "trash."

There is massively promiscuous metaphor-mixing going on here, and I could
deconstruct it 'til the cows come home, but I won't. Consider only one
word: "document." When we document something in the real world, we make
fixed, permanent, immutable records of it. But computer documents are
volatile, ephemeral constellations of data. Sometimes (as when you've just
opened or saved them) the document as portrayed in the window is identical
to what is stored, under the same name, in a file on the disk, but other
times (as when you have made changes without saving them) it is completely
different. In any case, every time you hit "Save" you annihilate the
previous version of the "document" and replace it with whatever happens to
be in the window at the moment. So even the word "save" is being used in a
sense that is grotesquely misleading---"destroy one version, save another"
would be more accurate.

Anyone who uses a word processor for very long inevitably has the
experience of putting hours of work into a long document and then losing it
because the computer crashes or the power goes out. Until the moment that
it disappears from the screen, the document seems every bit as solid and
real as if it had been typed out in ink on paper. But in the next moment,
without warning, it is completely and irretrievably gone, as if it had
never existed. The user is left with a feeling of disorientation (to say
nothing of annoyance) stemming from a kind of metaphor shear--you realize
that you've been living and thinking inside of a metaphor that is
essentially bogus.

So GUIs use metaphors to make computing easier, but they are bad metaphors.
Learning to use them is essentially a word game, a process of learning new
definitions of words like "window" and "document" and "save" that are
different from, and in many cases almost diametrically opposed to, the old.
Somewhat improbably, this has worked very well, at least from a commercial
standpoint, which is to say that Apple/Microsoft have made a lot of money
off of it. All of the other modern operating systems have learned that in
order to be accepted by users they must conceal their underlying gutwork
beneath the same sort of spackle. This has some advantages: if you know how
to use one GUI operating system, you can probably work out how to use any
other in a few minutes. Everything works a little differently, like
European plumbing--but with some fiddling around, you can type a memo or
surf the web.

Most people who shop for OSes (if they bother to shop at all) are comparing
not the underlying functions but the superficial look and feel. The average
buyer of an OS is not really paying for, and is not especially interested
in, the low-level code that allocates memory or writes bytes onto the disk.
What we're really buying is a system of metaphors. And--much more
important--what we're buying into is the underlying assumption that
metaphors are a good way to deal with the world.

Recently a lot of new hardware has become available that gives computers
numerous interesting ways of affecting the real world: making paper spew
out of printers, causing words to appear on screens thousands of miles
away, shooting beams of radiation through cancer patients, creating
realistic moving pictures of the Titanic. Windows is now used as an OS for
cash registers and bank tellers' terminals. My satellite TV system uses a
sort of GUI to change channels and show program guides. Modern cellular
telephones have a crude GUI built into a tiny LCD screen. Even Legos now
have a GUI: you can buy a Lego set called Mindstorms that enables you to
build little Lego robots and program them through a GUI on your computer.

So we are now asking the GUI to do a lot more than serve as a glorified
typewriter. Now we want to become a generalized tool for dealing with
reality. This has become a bonanza for companies that make a living out of
bringing new technology to the mass market.

Obviously you cannot sell a complicated technological system to people
without some sort of interface that enables them to use it. The internal
combustion engine was a technological marvel in its day, but useless as a
consumer good until a clutch, transmission, steering wheel and throttle
were connected to it. That odd collection of gizmos, which survives to this
day in every car on the road, made up what we would today call a user
interface. But if cars had been invented after Macintoshes, carmakers would
not have bothered to gin up all of these arcane devices. We would have a
computer screen instead of a dashboard, and a mouse (or at best a joystick)
instead of a steering wheel, and we'd shift gears by pulling down a menu:

     PARK
     ---
     REVERSE
     ---
     NEUTRAL
     ----
     3
     2
     1
     ---
     Help...

A few lines of computer code can thus be made to substitute for any
imaginable mechanical interface. The problem is that in many cases the
substitute is a poor one. Driving a car through a GUI would be a miserable
experience. Even if the GUI were perfectly bug-free, it would be incredibly
dangerous, because menus and buttons simply can't be as responsive as
direct mechanical controls. My friend's dad, the gentleman who was
restoring the MGB, never would have bothered with it if it had been
equipped with a GUI. It wouldn't have been any fun.

The steering wheel and gearshift lever were invented during an era when the
most complicated technology in most homes was a butter churn. Those early
carmakers were simply lucky, in that they could dream up whatever interface
was best suited to the task of driving an automobile, and people would
learn it. Likewise with the dial telephone and the AM radio. By the time of
the Second World War, most people knew several interfaces: they could not
only churn butter but also drive a car, dial a telephone, turn on a radio,
summon flame from a cigarette lighter, and change a light bulb.

But now every little thing--wristwatches, VCRs, stoves--is jammed with
features, and every feature is useless without an interface. If you are
like me, and like most other consumers, you have never used ninety percent
of the available features on your microwave oven, VCR, or cellphone. You
don't even know that these features exist. The small benefit they might
bring you is outweighed by the sheer hassle of having to learn about them.
This has got to be a big problem for makers of consumer goods, because they
can't compete without offering features.

It's no longer acceptable for engineers to invent a wholly novel user
interface for every new product, as they did in the case of the automobile,
partly because it's too expensive and partly because ordinary people can
only learn so much. If the VCR had been invented a hundred years ago, it
would have come with a thumbwheel to adjust the tracking and a gearshift to
change between forward and reverse and a big cast-iron handle to load or to
eject the cassettes. It would have had a big analog clock on the front of
it, and you would have set the time by moving the hands around on the dial.
But because the VCR was invented when it was--during a sort of awkward
transitional period between the era of mechanical interfaces and GUIs--it
just had a bunch of pushbuttons on the front, and in order to set the time
you had to push the buttons in just the right way. This must have seemed
reasonable enough to the engineers responsible for it, but to many users it
was simply impossible. Thus the famous blinking 12:00 that appears on so
many VCRs. Computer people call this "the blinking twelve problem". When
they talk about it, though, they usually aren't talking about VCRs.

Modern VCRs usually have some kind of on-screen programming, which means
that you can set the time and control other features through a sort of
primitive GUI. GUIs have virtual pushbuttons too, of course, but they also
have other types of virtual controls, like radio buttons, checkboxes, text
entry boxes, dials, and scrollbars. Interfaces made out of these components
seem to be a lot easier, for many people, than pushing those little buttons
on the front of the machine, and so the blinking 12:00 itself is slowly
disappearing from America's living rooms. The blinking twelve problem has
moved on to plague other technologies.

So the GUI has gone beyond being an interface to personal computers, and
become a sort of meta-interface that is pressed into service for every new
piece of consumer technology. It is rarely an ideal fit, but having an
ideal, or even a good interface is no longer the priority; the important
thing now is having some kind of interface that customers will actually
use, so that manufacturers can claim, with a straight face, that they are
offering new features.

We want GUIs largely because they are convenient and because they are
easy-- or at least the GUI makes it seem that way Of course, nothing is
really easy and simple, and putting a nice interface on top of it does not
change that fact. A car controlled through a GUI would be easier to drive
than one controlled through pedals and steering wheel, but it would be
incredibly dangerous.

By using GUIs all the time we have insensibly bought into a premise that
few people would have accepted if it were presented to them bluntly:
namely, that hard things can be made easy, and complicated things simple,
by putting the right interface on them. In order to understand how bizarre
this is, imagine that book reviews were written according to the same
values system that we apply to user interfaces: "The writing in this book
is marvelously simple-minded and glib; the author glosses over complicated
subjects and employs facile generalizations in almost every sentence.
Readers rarely have to think, and are spared all of the difficulty and
tedium typically involved in reading old-fashioned books." As long as we
stick to simple operations like setting the clocks on our VCRs, this is not
so bad. But as we try to do more ambitious things with our technologies, we
inevitably run into the problem of:


METAPHOR SHEAR

I began using Microsoft Word as soon as the first version was released
around 1985. After some initial hassles I found it to be a better tool than
MacWrite, which was its only competition at the time. I wrote a lot of
stuff in early versions of Word, storing it all on floppies, and
transferred the contents of all my floppies to my first hard drive, which I
acquired around 1987. As new versions of Word came out I faithfully
upgraded, reasoning that as a writer it made sense for me to spend a
certain amount of money on tools.

Sometime in the mid-1980's I attempted to open one of my old, circa-1985
Word documents using the version of Word then current: 6.0 It didn't work.
Word 6.0 did not recognize a document created by an earlier version of
itself. By opening it as a text file, I was able to recover the sequences
of letters that made up the text of the document. My words were still
there. But the formatting had been run through a log chipper--the words I'd
written were interrupted by spates of empty rectangular boxes and
gibberish.

Now, in the context of a business (the chief market for Word) this sort of
thing is only an annoyance--one of the routine hassles that go along with
using computers. It's easy to buy little file converter programs that will
take care of this problem. But if you are a writer whose career is words,
whose professional identity is a corpus of written documents, this kind of
thing is extremely disquieting. There are very few fixed assumptions in my
line of work, but one of them is that once you have written a word, it is
written, and cannot be unwritten. The ink stains the paper, the chisel cuts
the stone, the stylus marks the clay, and something has irrevocably
happened (my brother-in-law is a theologian who reads 3250-year-old
cuneiform tablets--he can recognize the handwriting of particular scribes,
and identify them by name). But word-processing software--particularly the
sort that employs special, complex file formats--has the eldritch power to
unwrite things. A small change in file formats, or a few twiddled bits, and
months' or years' literary output can cease to exist.

Now this was technically a fault in the application (Word 6.0 for the
Macintosh) not the operating system (MacOS 7 point something) and so the
initial target of my annoyance was the people who were responsible for
Word. But. On the other hand, I could have chosen the "save as text" option
in Word and saved all of my documents as simple telegrams, and this problem
would not have arisen. Instead I had allowed myself to be seduced by all of
those flashy formatting options that hadn't even existed until GUIs had
come along to make them practicable. I had gotten into the habit of using
them to make my documents look pretty (perhaps prettier than they deserved
to look; all of the old documents on those floppies turned out to be more
or less crap). Now I was paying the price for that self-indulgence.
Technology had moved on and found ways to make my documents look even
prettier, and the consequence of it was that all old ugly documents had
ceased to exist.

It was--if you'll pardon me for a moment's strange little fantasy--as if
I'd gone to stay at some resort, some exquisitely designed and art-directed
hotel, placing myself in the hands of past masters of the Sensorial
Interface, and had sat down in my room and written a story in ballpoint pen
on a yellow legal pad, and when I returned from dinner, discovered that the
maid had taken my work away and left behind in its place a quill pen and a
stack of fine parchment--explaining that the room looked ever so much finer
this way, and it was all part of a routine upgrade. But written on these
sheets of paper, in flawless penmanship, were long sequences of words
chosen at random from the dictionary. Appalling, sure, but I couldn't
really lodge a complaint with the management, because by staying at this
resort I had given my consent to it. I had surrendered my Morlock
credentials and become an Eloi.


LINUX

During the late 1980's and early 1990's I spent a lot of time programming
Macintoshes, and eventually decided for fork over several hundred dollars
for an Apple product called the Macintosh Programmer's Workshop, or MPW.
MPW had competitors, but it was unquestionably the premier software
development system for the Mac. It was what Apple's own engineers used to
write Macintosh code. Given that MacOS was far more technologically
advanced, at the time, than its competition, and that Linux did not even
exist yet, and given that this was the actual program used by Apple's
world-class team of creative engineers, I had high expectations. It arrived
on a stack of floppy disks about a foot high, and so there was plenty of
time for my excitement to build during the endless installation process.
The first time I launched MPW, I was probably expecting some kind of
touch-feely multimedia showcase. Instead it was austere, almost to the
point of being intimidating. It was a scrolling window into which you could
type simple, unformatted text. The system would then interpret these lines
of text as commands, and try to execute them.

It was, in other words, a glass teletype running a command line interface.
It came with all sorts of cryptic but powerful commands, which could be
invoked by typing their names, and which I learned to use only gradually.
It was not until a few years later, when I began messing around with Unix,
that I understood that the command line interface embodied in MPW was a
re-creation of Unix.

In other words, the first thing that Apple's hackers had done when they'd
got the MacOS up and running--probably even before they'd gotten it up and
running--was to re-create the Unix interface, so that they would be able to
get some useful work done. At the time, I simply couldn't get my mind
around this, but: as far as Apple's hackers were concerned, the Mac's
vaunted Graphical User Interface was an impediment, something to be
circumvented before the little toaster even came out onto the market.

Even before my Powerbook crashed and obliterated my big file in July 1995,
there had been danger signs. An old college buddy of mine, who starts and
runs high-tech companies in Boston, had developed a commercial product
using Macintoshes as the front end. Basically the Macs were
high-performance graphics terminals, chosen for their sweet user interface,
giving users access to a large database of graphical information stored on
a network of much more powerful, but less user-friendly, computers. This
fellow was the second person who turned me on to Macintoshes, by the way,
and through the mid-1980's we had shared the thrill of being high-tech
cognoscenti, using superior Apple technology in a world of DOS-using
knuckleheads. Early versions of my friend's system had worked well, he told
me, but when several machines joined the network, mysterious crashes began
to occur; sometimes the whole network would just freeze. It was one of
those bugs that could not be reproduced easily. Finally they figured out
that these network crashes were triggered whenever a user, scanning the
menus for a particular item, held down the mouse button for more than a
couple of seconds.

Fundamentally, the MacOS could only do one thing at a time. Drawing a menu
on the screen is one thing. So when a menu was pulled down, the Macintosh
was not capable of doing anything else until that indecisive user released
the button.

This is not such a bad thing in a single-user, single-process machine
(although it's a fairly bad thing), but it's no good in a machine that is
on a network, because being on a network implies some kind of continual
low-level interaction with other machines. By failing to respond to the
network, the Mac caused a network-wide crash.

In order to work with other computers, and with networks, and with various
different types of hardware, an OS must be incomparably more complicated
and powerful than either MS-DOS or the original MacOS. The only way of
connecting to the Internet that's worth taking seriously is PPP, the
Point-to-Point Protocol, which (never mind the details) makes your
computer--temporarily--a full-fledged member of the Global Internet, with
its own unique address, and various privileges, powers, and
responsibilities appertaining thereunto. Technically it means your machine
is running the TCP/IP protocol, which, to make a long story short, revolves
around sending packets of data back and forth, in no particular order, and
at unpredictable times, according to a clever and elegant set of rules. But
sending a packet of data is one thing, and so an OS that can only do one
thing at a time cannot simultaneously be part of the Internet and do
anything else. When TCP/IP was invented, running it was an honor reserved
for Serious Computers--mainframes and high-powered minicomputers used in
technical and commercial settings--and so the protocol is engineered around
the assumption that every computer using it is a serious machine, capable
of doing many things at once. Not to put too fine a point on it, a Unix
machine. Neither MacOS nor MS-DOS was originally built with that in mind,
and so when the Internet got hot, radical changes had to be made.

When my Powerbook broke my heart, and when Word stopped recognizing my old
files, I jumped to Unix. The obvious alternative to MacOS would have been
Windows. I didn't really have anything against Microsoft, or Windows. But
it was pretty obvious, now, that old PC operating systems were
overreaching, and showing the strain, and, perhaps, were best avoided until
they had learned to walk and chew gum at the same time.

The changeover took place on a particular day in the summer of 1995. I had
been San Francisco for a couple of weeks, using my PowerBook to work on a
document. The document was too big to fit onto a single floppy, and so I
hadn't made a backup since leaving home. The PowerBook crashed and wiped
out the entire file.

It happened just as I was on my way out the door to visit a company called
Electric Communities, which in those days was in Los Altos. I took my
PowerBook with me. My friends at Electric Communities were Mac users who
had all sorts of utility software for unerasing files and recovering from
disk crashes, and I was certain I could get most of the file back.

As it turned out, two different Mac crash recovery utilities were unable to
find any trace that my file had ever existed. It was completely and
systematically wiped out. We went through that hard disk block by block and
found disjointed fragments of countless old, discarded, forgotten files,
but none of what I wanted. The metaphor shear was especially brutal that
day. It was sort of like watching the girl you've been in love with for ten
years get killed in a car wreck, and then attending her autopsy, and
learning that underneath the clothes and makeup she was just flesh and
blood.

I must have been reeling around the offices of Electric Communities in some
kind of primal Jungian fugue, because at this moment three weirdly
synchronistic things happened.

(1) Randy Farmer, a co-founder of the company, came in for a quick visit
along with his family--he was recovering from back surgery at the time. He
had some hot gossip: "Windows 95 mastered today." What this meant was that
Microsoft's new operating system had, on this day, been placed on a special
compact disk known as a golden master, which would be used to stamp out a
jintillion copies in preparation for its thunderous release a few weeks
later. This news was received peevishly by the staff of Electric
Communities, including one whose office door was plastered with the usual
assortment of cartoons and novelties, e.g.

(2) a copy of a Dilbert cartoon in which Dilbert, the long-suffering
corporate software engineer, encounters a portly, bearded, hairy man of a
certain age--a bit like Santa Claus, but darker, with a certain edge about
him. Dilbert recognizes this man, based upon his appearance and affect, as
a Unix hacker, and reacts with a certain mixture of nervousness, awe, and
hostility. Dilbert jabs weakly at the disturbing interloper for a couple of
frames; the Unix hacker listens with a kind of infuriating, beatific calm,
then, in the last frame, reaches into his pocket. "Here's a nickel, kid,"
he says, "go buy yourself a real computer."

(3) the owner of the door, and the cartoon, was one Doug Barnes. Barnes was
known to harbor certain heretical opinions on the subject of operating
systems. Unlike most Bay Area techies who revered the Macintosh,
considering it to be a true hacker's machine, Barnes was fond of pointing
out that the Mac, with its hermetically sealed architecture, was actually
hostile to hackers, who are prone to tinkering and dogmatic about openness.
By contrast, the IBM-compatible line of machines, which can easily be taken
apart and plugged back together, was much more hackable.

So when I got home I began messing around with Linux, which is one of many,
many different concrete implementations of the abstract, Platonic ideal
called Unix. I was not looking forward to changing over to a new OS,
because my credit cards were still smoking from all the money I'd spent on
Mac hardware over the years. But Linux's great virtue was, and is, that it
would run on exactly the same sort of hardware as the Microsoft OSes--which
is to say, the cheapest hardware in existence. As if to demonstrate why
this was a great idea, I was, within a week or two of returning home, able
to get my hand on a then-decent computer (a 33-MHz 486 box) for free,
because I knew a guy who worked in an office where they were simply being
thrown away. Once I got it home, I yanked the hood off, stuck my hands in,
and began switching cards around. If something didn't work, I went to a
used-computer outlet and pawed through a bin full of components and bought
a new card for a few bucks.

The availability of all this cheap but effective hardware was an unintended
consequence of decisions that had been made more than a decade earlier by
IBM and Microsoft. When Windows came out, and brought the GUI to a much
larger market, the hardware regime changed: the cost of color video cards
and high-resolution monitors began to drop, and is dropping still. This
free-for-all approach to hardware meant that Windows was unavoidably clunky
compared to MacOS. But the GUI brought computing to such a vast audience
that volume went way up and prices collapsed. Meanwhile Apple, which so
badly wanted a clean, integrated OS with video neatly integrated into
processing hardware, had fallen far behind in market share, at least partly
because their beautiful hardware cost so much.

But the price that we Mac owners had to pay for superior aesthetics and
engineering was not merely a financial one. There was a cultural price too,
stemming from the fact that we couldn't open up the hood and mess around
with it. Doug Barnes was right. Apple, in spite of its reputation as the
machine of choice of scruffy, creative hacker types, had actually created a
machine that discouraged hacking, while Microsoft, viewed as a
technological laggard and copycat, had created a vast, disorderly parts
bazaar--a primordial soup that eventually self-assembled into Linux.


THE HOLE HAWG OF OPERATING SYSTEMS

Unix has always lurked provocatively in the background of the operating
system wars, like the Russian Army. Most people know it only by reputation,
and its reputation, as the Dilbert cartoon suggests, is mixed. But everyone
seems to agree that if it could only get its act together and stop
surrendering vast tracts of rich agricultural land and hundreds of
thousands of prisoners of war to the onrushing invaders, it could stomp
them (and all other opposition) flat.

It is difficult to explain how Unix has earned this respect without going
into mind-smashing technical detail. Perhaps the gist of it can be
explained by telling a story about drills.

The Hole Hawg is a drill made by the Milwaukee Tool Company. If you look in
a typical hardware store you may find smaller Milwaukee drills but not the
Hole Hawg, which is too powerful and too expensive for homeowners. The Hole
Hawg does not have the pistol-like design of a cheap homeowner's drill. It
is a cube of solid metal with a handle sticking out of one face and a chuck
mounted in another. The cube contains a disconcertingly potent electric
motor. You can hold the handle and operate the trigger with your index
finger, but unless you are exceptionally strong you cannot control the
weight of the Hole Hawg with one hand; it is a two-hander all the way. In
order to fight off the counter-torque of the Hole Hawg you use a separate
handle (provided), which you screw into one side of the iron cube or the
other depending on whether you are using your left or right hand to operate
the trigger. This handle is not a sleek, ergonomically designed item as it
would be in a homeowner's drill. It is simply a foot-long chunk of regular
galvanized pipe, threaded on one end, with a black rubber handle on the
other. If you lose it, you just go to the local plumbing supply store and
buy another chunk of pipe.

During the Eighties I did some construction work. One day, another worker
leaned a ladder against the outside of the building that we were putting
up, climbed up to the second-story level, and used the Hole Hawg to drill a
hole through the exterior wall. At some point, the drill bit caught in the
wall. The Hole Hawg, following its one and only imperative, kept going. It
spun the worker's body around like a rag doll, causing him to knock his own
ladder down. Fortunately he kept his grip on the Hole Hawg, which remained
lodged in the wall, and he simply dangled from it and shouted for help
until someone came along and reinstated the ladder.

I myself used a Hole Hawg to drill many holes through studs, which it did
as a blender chops cabbage. I also used it to cut a few six-inch-diameter
holes through an old lath-and-plaster ceiling. I chucked in a new hole saw,
went up to the second story, reached down between the newly installed floor
joists, and began to cut through the first-floor ceiling below. Where my
homeowner's drill had labored and whined to spin the huge bit around, and
had stalled at the slightest obstruction, the Hole Hawg rotated with the
stupid consistency of a spinning planet. When the hole saw seized up, the
Hole Hawg spun itself and me around, and crushed one of my hands between
the steel pipe handle and a joist, producing a few lacerations, each
surrounded by a wide corona of deeply bruised flesh. It also bent the hole
saw itself, though not so badly that I couldn't use it. After a few such
run-ins, when I got ready to use the Hole Hawg my heart actually began to
pound with atavistic terror.

But I never blamed the Hole Hawg; I blamed myself. The Hole Hawg is
dangerous because it does exactly what you tell it to. It is not bound by
the physical limitations that are inherent in a cheap drill, and neither is
it limited by safety interlocks that might be built into a homeowner's
product by a liability-conscious manufacturer. The danger lies not in the
machine itself but in the user's failure to envision the full consequences
of the instructions he gives to it.

A smaller tool is dangerous too, but for a completely different reason: it
tries to do what you tell it to, and fails in some way that is
unpredictable and almost always undesirable. But the Hole Hawg is like the
genie of the ancient fairy tales, who carries out his master's instructions
literally and precisely and with unlimited power, often with disastrous,
unforeseen consequences.

Pre-Hole Hawg, I used to examine the drill selection in hardware stores
with what I thought was a judicious eye, scorning the smaller low-end
models and hefting the big expensive ones appreciatively, wishing I could
afford one of them babies. Now I view them all with such contempt that I do
not even consider them to be real drills--merely scaled-up toys designed to
exploit the self-delusional tendencies of soft-handed homeowners who want
to believe that they have purchased an actual tool. Their plastic casings,
carefully designed and focus-group-tested to convey a feeling of solidity
and power, seem disgustingly flimsy and cheap to me, and I am ashamed that
I was ever bamboozled into buying such knicknacks.

It is not hard to imagine what the world would look like to someone who had
been raised by contractors and who had never used any drill other than a
Hole Hawg. Such a person, presented with the best and most expensive
hardware-store drill, would not even recognize it as such. He might instead
misidentify it as a child's toy, or some kind of motorized screwdriver. If
a salesperson or a deluded homeowner referred to it as a drill, he would
laugh and tell them that they were mistaken--they simply had their
terminology wrong. His interlocutor would go away irritated, and probably
feeling rather defensive about his basement full of cheap, dangerous,
flashy, colorful tools.

Unix is the Hole Hawg of operating systems, and Unix hackers, like Doug
Barnes and the guy in the Dilbert cartoon and many of the other people who
populate Silicon Valley, are like contractor's sons who grew up using only
Hole Hawgs. They might use Apple/Microsoft OSes to write letters, play
video games, or balance their checkbooks, but they cannot really bring
themselves to take these operating systems seriously.


THE ORAL TRADITION

Unix is hard to learn. The process of learning it is one of multiple small
epiphanies. Typically you are just on the verge of inventing some necessary
tool or utility when you realize that someone else has already invented it,
and built it in, and this explains some odd file or directory or command
that you have noticed but never really understood before.

For example there is a command (a small program, part of the OS) called
whoami, which enables you to ask the computer who it thinks you are. On a
Unix machine, you are always logged in under some name--possibly even your
own! What files you may work with, and what software you may use, depends
on your identity. When I started out using Linux, I was on a non-networked
machine in my basement, with only one user account, and so when I became
aware of the whoami command it struck me as ludicrous. But once you are
logged in as one person, you can temporarily switch over to a pseudonym in
order to access different files. If your machine is on the Internet, you
can log onto other computers, provided you have a user name and a password.
At that point the distant machine becomes no different in practice from the
one right in front of you. These changes in identity and location can
easily become nested inside each other, many layers deep, even if you
aren't doing anything nefarious. Once you have forgotten who and where you
are, the whoami command is indispensible. I use it all the time.

The file systems of Unix machines all have the same general structure. On
your flimsy operating systems, you can create directories (folders) and
give them names like Frodo or My Stuff and put them pretty much anywhere
you like. But under Unix the highest level--the root--of the filesystem is
always designated with the single character "/" and it always contains the
same set of top-level directories:

/usr
/etc
/var
/bin
/proc
/boot
/home
/root
/sbin
/dev
/lib
/tmp


and each of these directories typically has its own distinct structure of
subdirectories. Note the obsessive use of abbreviations and avoidance of
capital letters; this is a system invented by people to whom repetitive
stress disorder is what black lung is to miners. Long names get worn down
to three-letter nubbins, like stones smoothed by a river.

This is not the place to try to explain why each of the above directories
exists, and what is contained in it. At first it all seems obscure; worse,
it seems deliberately obscure. When I started using Linux I was accustomed
to being able to create directories wherever I wanted and to give them
whatever names struck my fancy. Under Unix you are free to do that, of
course (you are free to do anything) but as you gain experience with the
system you come to understand that the directories listed above were
created for the best of reasons and that your life will be much easier if
you follow along (within /home, by the way, you have pretty much unlimited
freedom).

After this kind of thing has happened several hundred or thousand times,
the hacker understands why Unix is the way it is, and agrees that it
wouldn't be the same any other way. It is this sort of acculturation that
gives Unix hackers their confidence in the system, and the attitude of
calm, unshakable, annoying superiority captured in the Dilbert cartoon.
Windows 95 and MacOS are products, contrived by engineers in the service of
specific companies. Unix, by contrast, is not so much a product as it is a
painstakingly compiled oral history of the hacker subculture. It is our
Gilgamesh epic.

What made old epics like Gilgamesh so powerful and so long-lived was that
they were living bodies of narrative that many people knew by heart, and
told over and over again--making their own personal embellishments whenever
it struck their fancy. The bad embellishments were shouted down, the good
ones picked up by others, polished, improved, and, over time, incorporated
into the story. Likewise, Unix is known, loved, and understood by so many
hackers that it can be re-created from scratch whenever someone needs it.
This is very difficult to understand for people who are accustomed to
thinking of OSes as things that absolutely have to be bought.

Many hackers have launched more or less successful re-implementations of
the Unix ideal. Each one brings in new embellishments. Some of them die out
quickly, some are merged with similar, parallel innovations created by
different hackers attacking the same problem, others still are embraced,
and adopted into the epic. Thus Unix has slowly accreted around a simple
kernel and acquired a kind of complexity and asymmetry about it that is
organic, like the roots of a tree, or the branchings of a coronary artery.
Understanding it is more like anatomy than physics.

For at least a year, prior to my adoption of Linux, I had been hearing
about it. Credible, well-informed people kept telling me that a bunch of
hackers had got together an implentation of Unix that could be downloaded,
free of charge, from the Internet. For a long time I could not bring myself
to take the notion seriously. It was like hearing rumors that a group of
model rocket enthusiasts had created a completely functional Saturn V by
exchanging blueprints on the Net and mailing valves and flanges to each
other.

But it's true. Credit for Linux generally goes to its human namesake, one
Linus Torvalds, a Finn who got the whole thing rolling in 1991 when he used
some of the GNU tools to write the beginnings of a Unix kernel that could
run on PC-compatible hardware. And indeed Torvalds deserves all the credit
he has ever gotten, and a whole lot more. But he could not have made it
happen by himself, any more than Richard Stallman could have. To write code
at all, Torvalds had to have cheap but powerful development tools, and
these he got from Stallman's GNU project.

And he had to have cheap hardware on which to write that code. Cheap
hardware is a much harder thing to arrange than cheap software; a single
person (Stallman) can write software and put it up on the Net for free, but
in order to make hardware it's necessary to have a whole industrial
infrastructure, which is not cheap by any stretch of the imagination.
Really the only way to make hardware cheap is to punch out an incredible
number of copies of it, so that the unit cost eventually drops. For reasons
already explained, Apple had no desire to see the cost of hardware drop.
The only reason Torvalds had cheap hardware was Microsoft.

Microsoft refused to go into the hardware business, insisted on making its
software run on hardware that anyone could build, and thereby created the
market conditions that allowed hardware prices to plummet. In trying to
understand the Linux phenomenon, then, we have to look not to a single
innovator but to a sort of bizarre Trinity: Linus Torvalds, Richard
Stallman, and Bill Gates. Take away any of these three and Linux would not
exist.


OS SHOCK

Young Americans who leave their great big homogeneous country and visit
some other part of the world typically go through several stages of culture
shock: first, dumb wide-eyed astonishment. Then a tentative engagement with
the new country's manners, cuisine, public transit systems and toilets,
leading to a brief period of fatuous confidence that they are instant
experts on the new country. As the visit wears on, homesickness begins to
set in, and the traveler begins to appreciate, for the first time, how much
he or she took for granted at home. At the same time it begins to seem
obvious that many of one's own cultures and traditions are essentially
arbitrary, and could have been different; driving on the right side of the
road, for example. When the traveler returns home and takes stock of the
experience, he or she may have learned a good deal more about America than
about the country they went to visit.

For the same reasons, Linux is worth trying. It is a strange country
indeed, but you don't have to live there; a brief sojourn suffices to give
some flavor of the place and--more importantly--to lay bare everything that
is taken for granted, and all that could have been done differently, under
Windows or MacOS.

You can't try it unless you install it. With any other OS, installing it
would be a straightforward transaction: in exchange for money, some company
would give you a CD-ROM, and you would be on your way. But a lot is
subsumed in that kind of transaction, and has to be gone through and picked
apart.

We like plain dealings and straightforward transactions in America. If you
go to Egypt and, say, take a taxi somewhere, you become a part of the taxi
driver's life; he refuses to take your money because it would demean your
friendship, he follows you around town, and weeps hot tears when you get in
some other guy's taxi. You end up meeting his kids at some point, and have
to devote all sort of ingenuity to finding some way to compensate him
without insulting his honor. It is exhausting. Sometimes you just want a
simple Manhattan-style taxi ride.

But in order to have an American-style setup, where you can just go out and
hail a taxi and be on your way, there must exist a whole hidden apparatus
of medallions, inspectors, commissions, and so forth--which is fine as long
as taxis are cheap and you can always get one. When the system fails to
work in some way, it is mysterious and infuriating and turns otherwise
reasonable people into conspiracy theorists. But when the Egyptian system
breaks down, it breaks down transparently. You can't get a taxi, but your
driver's nephew will show up, on foot, to explain the problem and
apologize.

Microsoft and Apple do things the Manhattan way, with vast complexity
hidden behind a wall of interface. Linux does things the Egypt way, with
vast complexity strewn about all over the landscape. If you've just flown
in from Manhattan, your first impulse will be to throw up your hands and
say "For crying out loud! Will you people get a grip on yourselves!?" But
this does not make friends in Linux-land any better than it would in Egypt.

You can suck Linux right out of the air, as it were, by downloading the
right files and putting them in the right places, but there probably are
not more than a few hundred people in the world who could create a
functioning Linux system in that way. What you really need is a
distribution of Linux, which means a prepackaged set of files. But
distributions are a separate thing from Linux per se.

Linux per se is not a specific set of ones and zeroes, but a
self-organizing Net subculture. The end result of its collective
lucubrations is a vast body of source code, almost all written in C (the
dominant computer programming language). "Source code" just means a
computer program as typed in and edited by some hacker. If it's in C, the
file name will probably have .c or .cpp on the end of it, depending on
which dialect was used; if it's in some other language it will have some
other suffix. Frequently these sorts of files can be found in a directory
with the name /src which is the hacker's Hebraic abbreviation of "source."

Source files are useless to your computer, and of little interest to most
users, but they are of gigantic cultural and political significance,
because Microsoft and Apple keep them secret while Linux makes them public.
They are the family jewels. They are the sort of thing that in Hollywood
thrillers is used as a McGuffin: the plutonium bomb core, the top-secret
blueprints, the suitcase of bearer bonds, the reel of microfilm. If the
source files for Windows or MacOS were made public on the Net, then those
OSes would become free, like Linux--only not as good, because no one would
be around to fix bugs and answer questions. Linux is "open source" software
meaning, simply, that anyone can get copies of its source code files.

Your computer doesn't want source code any more than you do; it wants
object code. Object code files typically have the suffix .o and are
unreadable all but a few, highly strange humans, because they consist of
ones and zeroes. Accordingly, this sort of file commonly shows up in a
directory with the name /bin, for "binary."

Source files are simply ASCII text files. ASCII denotes a particular way of
encoding letters into bit patterns. In an ASCII file, each character has
eight bits all to itself. This creates a potential "alphabet" of 256
distinct characters, in that eight binary digits can form that many unique
patterns. In practice, of course, we tend to limit ourselves to the
familiar letters and digits. The bit-patterns used to represent those
letters and digits are the same ones that were physically punched into the
paper tape by my high school teletype, which in turn were the same one used
by the telegraph industry for decades previously. ASCII text files, in
other words, are telegrams, and as such they have no typographical frills.
But for the same reason they are eternal, because the code never changes,
and universal, because every text editing and word processing software ever
written knows about this code.

Therefore just about any software can be used to create, edit, and read
source code files. Object code files, then, are created from these source
files by a piece of software called a compiler, and forged into a working
application by another piece of software called a linker.

The triad of editor, compiler, and linker, taken together, form the core of
a software development system. Now, it is possible to spend a lot of money
on shrink-wrapped development systems with lovely graphical user interfaces
and various ergonomic enhancements. In some cases it might even be a good
and reasonable way to spend money. But on this side of the road, as it
were, the very best software is usually the free stuff. Editor, compiler
and linker are to hackers what ponies, stirrups, and archery sets were to
the Mongols. Hackers live in the saddle, and hack on their own tools even
while they are using them to create new applications. It is quite
inconceivable that superior hacking tools could have been created from a
blank sheet of paper by product engineers. Even if they are the brightest
engineers in the world they are simply outnumbered.

In the GNU/Linux world there are two major text editing programs: the
minimalist vi (known in some implementations as elvis) and the maximalist
emacs. I use emacs, which might be thought of as a thermonuclear word
processor. It was created by Richard Stallman; enough said. It is written
in Lisp, which is the only computer language that is beautiful. It is
colossal, and yet it only edits straight ASCII text files, which is to say,
no fonts, no boldface, no underlining. In other words, the engineer-hours
that, in the case of Microsoft Word, were devoted to features like mail
merge, and the ability to embed feature-length motion pictures in corporate
memoranda, were, in the case of emacs, focused with maniacal intensity on
the deceptively simple-seeming problem of editing text. If you are a
professional writer--i.e., if someone else is getting paid to worry about
how your words are formatted and printed--emacs outshines all other editing
software in approximately the same way that the noonday sun does the stars.
It is not just bigger and brighter; it simply makes everything else vanish.
For page layout and printing you can use TeX: a vast corpus of typesetting
lore written in C and also available on the Net for free.

I could say a lot about emacs and TeX, but right now I am trying to tell a
story about how to actually install Linux on your machine. The hard-core
survivalist approach would be to download an editor like emacs, and the GNU
Tools--the compiler and linker--which are polished and excellent to the
same degree as emacs. Equipped with these, one would be able to start
downloading ASCII source code files (/src) and compiling them into binary
object code files (/bin) that would run on the machine. But in order to
even arrive at this point--to get emacs running, for example--you have to
have Linux actually up and running on your machine. And even a minimal
Linux operating system requires thousands of binary files all acting in
concert, and arranged and linked together just so.

Several entities have therefore taken it upon themselves to create
"distributions" of Linux. If I may extend the Egypt analogy slightly, these
entities are a bit like tour guides who meet you at the airport, who speak
your language, and who help guide you through the initial culture shock. If
you are an Egyptian, of course, you see it the other way; tour guides exist
to keep brutish outlanders from traipsing through your mosques and asking
you the same questions over and over and over again.

Some of these tour guides are commercial organizations, such as Red Hat
Software, which makes a Linux distribution called Red Hat that has a
relatively commercial sheen to it. In most cases you put a Red Hat CD-ROM
into your PC and reboot and it handles the rest. Just as a tour guide in
Egypt will expect some sort of compensation for his services, commercial
distributions need to be paid for. In most cases they cost almost nothing
and are well worth it.

I use a distribution called Debian (the word is a contraction of "Deborah"
and "Ian") which is non-commercial. It is organized (or perhaps I should
say "it has organized itself") along the same lines as Linux in general,
which is to say that it consists of volunteers who collaborate over the
Net, each responsible for looking after a different chunk of the system.
These people have broken Linux down into a number of packages, which are
compressed files that can be downloaded to an already functioning Debian
Linux system, then opened up and unpacked using a free installer
application. Of course, as such, Debian has no commercial arm--no
distribution mechanism. You can download all Debian packages over the Net,
but most people will want to have them on a CD-ROM. Several different
companies have taken it upon themselves to decoct all of the current Debian
packages onto CD-ROMs and then sell them. I buy mine from Linux Systems
Labs. The cost for a three-disc set, containing Debian in its entirety, is
less than three dollars. But (and this is an important distinction) not a
single penny of that three dollars is going to any of the coders who
created Linux, nor to the Debian packagers. It goes to Linux Systems Labs
and it pays, not for the software, or the packages, but for the cost of
stamping out the CD-ROMs.

Every Linux distribution embodies some more or less clever hack for
circumventing the normal boot process and causing your computer, when it is
turned on, to organize itself, not as a PC running Windows, but as a "host"
running Unix. This is slightly alarming the first time you see it, but
completely harmless. When a PC boots up, it goes through a little self-test
routine, taking an inventory of available disks and memory, and then begins
looking around for a disk to boot up from. In any normal Windows computer
that disk will be a hard drive. But if you have your system configured
right, it will look first for a floppy or CD-ROM disk, and boot from that
if one is available.

Linux exploits this chink in the defenses. Your computer notices a bootable
disk in the floppy or CD-ROM drive, loads in some object code from that
disk, and blindly begins to execute it. But this is not Microsoft or Apple
code, this is Linux code, and so at this point your computer begins to
behave very differently from what you are accustomed to. Cryptic messages
began to scroll up the screen. If you had booted a commercial OS, you
would, at this point, be seeing a "Welcome to MacOS" cartoon, or a screen
filled with clouds in a blue sky, and a Windows logo. But under Linux you
get a long telegram printed in stark white letters on a black screen. There
is no "welcome!" message. Most of the telegram has the semi-inscrutable
menace of graffiti tags.

Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev syslogd 1.3-3#17: restart. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: klogd 1.3-3, log source = /proc/kmsg started. Dec 14 15:04:15
theRev kernel: Loaded 3535 symbols from /System.map. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: Symbols match kernel version 2.0.30. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
No module symbols loaded. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Intel
MultiProcessor Specification v1.4 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Virtual
Wire compatibility mode. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: OEM ID: INTEL
Product ID: 440FX APIC at: 0xFEE00000 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
Processor #0 Pentium(tm) Pro APIC version 17 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
Processor #1 Pentium(tm) Pro APIC version 17 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
I/O APIC #2 Version 17 at 0xFEC00000. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
Processors: 2 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Console: 16 point font, 400
scans Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Console: colour VGA+ 80x25, 1 virtual
console (max 63) Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: pcibios_init : BIOS32
Service Directory structure at 0x000fdb70 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
pcibios_init : BIOS32 Service Directory entry at 0xfdb80 Dec 14 15:04:15
theRev kernel: pcibios_init : PCI BIOS revision 2.10 entry at 0xfdba1 Dec
14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Probing PCI hardware. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: Warning : Unknown PCI device (10b7:9001). Please read
include/linux/pci.h Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Calibrating delay loop..
ok - 179.40 BogoMIPS Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Memory: 64268k/66556k
available (700k kernel code, 384k reserved, 1204k data) Dec 14 15:04:15
theRev kernel: Swansea University Computer Society NET3.035 for Linux 2.0
Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: NET3: Unix domain sockets 0.13 for Linux
NET3.035. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Swansea University Computer
Society TCP/IP for NET3.034 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: IP Protocols:
ICMP, UDP, TCP Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Checking 386/387 coupling...
Ok, fpu using exception 16 error reporting. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
Checking 'hlt' instruction... Ok. Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Linux
version 2.0.30 (root@theRev) (gcc version 2.7.2.1) #15 Fri Mar 27 16:37:24
PST 1998 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: Booting processor 1 stack 00002000:
Calibrating delay loop.. ok - 179.40 BogoMIPS Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: Total of 2 processors activated (358.81 BogoMIPS). Dec 14 15:04:15
theRev kernel: Serial driver version 4.13 with no serial options enabled
Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: tty00 at 0x03f8 (irq = 4) is a 16550A Dec 14
15:04:15 theRev kernel: tty01 at 0x02f8 (irq = 3) is a 16550A Dec 14
15:04:15 theRev kernel: lp1 at 0x0378, (polling) Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: PS/2 auxiliary pointing device detected -- driver installed. Dec 14
15:04:15 theRev kernel: Real Time Clock Driver v1.07 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: loop: registered device at major 7 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel:
ide: i82371 PIIX (Triton) on PCI bus 0 function 57 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev
kernel: ide0: BM-DMA at 0xffa0-0xffa7 Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: ide1:
BM-DMA at 0xffa8-0xffaf Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: hda: Conner
Peripherals 1275MB - CFS1275A, 1219MB w/64kB Cache, LBA, CHS=619/64/63 Dec
14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: hdb: Maxtor 84320A5, 4119MB w/256kB Cache, LBA,
CHS=8928/15/63, DMA Dec 14 15:04:15 theRev kernel: hdc: , ATAPI CDROM drive
Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: ide0 at 0x1f0-0x1f7,0x3f6 on irq 14 Dec 15
11:58:06 theRev kernel: ide1 at 0x170-0x177,0x376 on irq 15 Dec 15 11:58:06
theRev kernel: Floppy drive(s): fd0 is 1.44M Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel:
Started kswapd v 1.4.2.2 Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: FDC 0 is a National
Semiconductor PC87306 Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: md driver 0.35
MAX_MD_DEV=4, MAX_REAL=8 Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: PPP: version 2.2.0
(dynamic channel allocation) Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: TCP compression
code copyright 1989 Regents of the University of California Dec 15 11:58:06
theRev kernel: PPP Dynamic channel allocation code copyright 1995 Caldera,
Inc. Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: PPP line discipline registered. Dec 15
11:58:06 theRev kernel: SLIP: version 0.8.4-NET3.019-NEWTTY (dynamic
channels, max=256). Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: eth0: 3Com 3c900
Boomerang 10Mbps/Combo at 0xef00, 00:60:08:a4:3c:db, IRQ 10 Dec 15 11:58:06
theRev kernel: 8K word-wide RAM 3:5 Rx:Tx split, 10base2 interface. Dec 15
11:58:06 theRev kernel: Enabling bus-master transmits and whole-frame
receives. Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: 3c59x.c:v0.49 1/2/98 Donald Becker
http://cesdis.gsfc.nasa.gov/linux/drivers/vortex.html Dec 15 11:58:06
theRev kernel: Partition check: Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: hda: hda1
hda2 hda3 Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: hdb: hdb1 hdb2 Dec 15 11:58:06
theRev kernel: VFS: Mounted root (ext2 filesystem) readonly. Dec 15
11:58:06 theRev kernel: Adding Swap: 16124k swap-space (priority -1) Dec 15
11:58:06 theRev kernel: EXT2-fs warning: maximal mount count reached,
running e2fsck is recommended Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: hdc: media
changed Dec 15 11:58:06 theRev kernel: ISO9660 Extensions: RRIP_1991A Dec
15 11:58:07 theRev syslogd 1.3-3#17: restart. Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev
diald[87]: Unable to open options file /etc/diald/diald.options: No such
file or directory Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev diald[87]: No device specified.
You must have at least one device! Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev diald[87]: You
must define a connector script (option 'connect'). Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev
diald[87]: You must define the remote ip address. Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev
diald[87]: You must define the local ip address. Dec 15 11:58:09 theRev
diald[87]: Terminating due to damaged reconfigure.

The only parts of this that are readable, for normal people, are the error
messages and warnings. And yet it's noteworthy that Linux doesn't stop, or
crash, when it encounters an error; it spits out a pithy complaint, gives
up on whatever processes were damaged, and keeps on rolling. This was
decidedly not true of the early versions of Apple and Microsoft OSes, for
the simple reason that an OS that is not capable of walking and chewing gum
at the same time cannot possibly recover from errors. Looking for, and
dealing with, errors requires a separate process running in parallel with
the one that has erred. A kind of superego, if you will, that keeps an eye
on all of the others, and jumps in when one goes astray. Now that MacOS and
Windows can do more than one thing at a time they are much better at
dealing with errors than they used to be, but they are not even close to
Linux or other Unices in this respect; and their greater complexity has
made them vulnerable to new types of errors.

FALLIBILITY, ATONEMENT, REDEMPTION, TRUST, AND OTHER ARCANE TECHNICAL
CONCEPTS

Linux is not capable of having any centrally organized policies dictating
how to write error messages and documentation, and so each programmer
writes his own. Usually they are in English even though tons of Linux
programmers are Europeans. Frequently they are funny. Always they are
honest. If something bad has happened because the software simply isn't
finished yet, or because the user screwed something up, this will be stated
forthrightly. The command line interface makes it easy for programs to
dribble out little comments, warnings, and messages here and there. Even if
the application is imploding like a damaged submarine, it can still usually
eke out a little S.O.S. message. Sometimes when you finish working with a
program and shut it down, you find that it has left behind a series of mild
warnings and low-grade error messages in the command-line interface window
from which you launched it. As if the software were chatting to you about
how it was doing the whole time you were working with it.

Documentation, under Linux, comes in the form of man (short for manual)
pages. You can access these either through a GUI (xman) or from the command
line (man). Here is a sample from the man page for a program called rsh:

"Stop signals stop the local rsh process only; this is arguably wrong, but
currently hard to fix for reasons too complicated to explain here."

The man pages contain a lot of such material, which reads like the terse
mutterings of pilots wrestling with the controls of damaged airplanes. The
general feel is of a thousand monumental but obscure struggles seen in the
stop-action light of a strobe. Each programmer is dealing with his own
obstacles and bugs; he is too busy fixing them, and improving the software,
to explain things at great length or to maintain elaborate pretensions.

In practice you hardly ever encounter a serious bug while running Linux.
When you do, it is almost always with commercial software (several vendors
sell software that runs under Linux). The operating system and its
fundamental utility programs are too important to contain serious bugs. I
have been running Linux every day since late 1995 and have seen many
application programs go down in flames, but I have never seen the operating
system crash. Never. Not once. There are quite a few Linux systems that
have been running continuously and working hard for months or years without
needing to be rebooted.

Commercial OSes have to adopt the same official stance towards errors as
Communist countries had towards poverty. For doctrinal reasons it was not
possible to admit that poverty was a serious problem in Communist
countries, because the whole point of Communism was to eradicate poverty.
Likewise, commercial OS companies like Apple and Microsoft can't go around
admitting that their software has bugs and that it crashes all the time,
any more than Disney can issue press releases stating that Mickey Mouse is
an actor in a suit.

This is a problem, because errors do exist and bugs do happen. Every few
months Bill Gates tries to demo a new Microsoft product in front of a large
audience only to have it blow up in his face. Commercial OS vendors, as a
direct consequence of being commercial, are forced to adopt the grossly
disingenuous position that bugs are rare aberrations, usually someone
else's fault, and therefore not really worth talking about in any detail.
This posture, which everyone knows to be absurd, is not limited to press
releases and ad campaigns. It informs the whole way these companies do
business and relate to their customers. If the documentation were properly
written, it would mention bugs, errors, and crashes on every single page.
If the on-line help systems that come with these OSes reflected the
experiences and concerns of their users, they would largely be devoted to
instructions on how to cope with crashes and errors.

But this does not happen. Joint stock corporations are wonderful inventions
that have given us many excellent goods and services. They are good at many
things. Admitting failure is not one of them. Hell, they can't even admit
minor shortcomings.

Of course, this behavior is not as pathological in a corporation as it
would be in a human being. Most people, nowadays, understand that corporate
press releases are issued for the benefit of the corporation's shareholders
and not for the enlightenment of the public. Sometimes the results of this
institutional dishonesty can be dreadful, as with tobacco and asbestos. In
the case of commercial OS vendors it is nothing of the kind, of course; it
is merely annoying.

Some might argue that consumer annoyance, over time, builds up into a kind
of hardened plaque that can conceal serious decay, and that honesty might
therefore be the best policy in the long run; the jury is still out on this
in the operating system market. The business is expanding fast enough that
it's still much better to have billions of chronically annoyed customers
than millions of happy ones.

Most system administrators I know who work with Windows NT all the time
agree that when it hits a snag, it has to be re-booted, and when it gets
seriously messed up, the only way to fix it is to re-install the operating
system from scratch. Or at least this is the only way that they know of to
fix it, which amounts to the same thing. It is quite possible that the
engineers at Microsoft have all sorts of insider knowledge on how to fix
the system when it goes awry, but if they do, they do not seem to be
getting the message out to any of the actual system administrators I know.

Because Linux is not commercial--because it is, in fact, free, as well as
rather difficult to obtain, install, and operate--it does not have to
maintain any pretensions as to its reliability. Consequently, it is much
more reliable. When something goes wrong with Linux, the error is noticed
and loudly discussed right away. Anyone with the requisite technical
knowledge can go straight to the source code and point out the source of
the error, which is then rapidly fixed by whichever hacker has carved out
responsibility for that particular program.

As far as I know, Debian is the only Linux distribution that has its own
constitution (http://www.debian.org/devel/constitution), but what really
sold me on it was its phenomenal bug database (http://www.debian.org/Bugs),
which is a sort of interactive Doomsday Book of error, fallibility, and
redemption. It is simplicity itself. When had a problem with Debian in
early January of 1997, I sent in a message describing the problem to
submit@bugs.debian.org. My problem was promptly assigned a bug report
number (#6518) and a severity level (the available choices being critical,
grave, important, normal, fixed, and wishlist) and forwarded to mailing
lists where Debian people hang out. Within twenty-four hours I had received
five e-mails telling me how to fix the problem: two from North America, two
from Europe, and one from Australia. All of these e-mails gave me the same
suggestion, which worked, and made my problem go away. But at the same
time, a transcript of this exchange was posted to Debian's bug database, so
that if other users had the same problem later, they would be able to
search through and find the solution without having to enter a new,
redundant bug report.

Contrast this with the experience that I had when I tried to install
Windows NT 4.0 on the very same machine about ten months later, in late
1997. The installation program simply stopped in the middle with no error
messages. I went to the Microsoft Support website and tried to perform a
search for existing help documents that would address my problem. The
search engine was completely nonfunctional; it did nothing at all. It did
not even give me a message telling me that it was not working.

Eventually I decided that my motherboard must be at fault; it was of a
slightly unusual make and model, and NT did not support as many different
motherboards as Linux. I am always looking for excuses, no matter how
feeble, to buy new hardware, so I bought a new motherboard that was Windows
NT logo-compatible, meaning that the Windows NT logo was printed right on
the box. I installed this into my computer and got Linux running right
away, then attempted to install Windows NT again. Again, the installation
died without any error message or explanation. By this time a couple of
weeks had gone by and I thought that perhaps the search engine on the
Microsoft Support website might be up and running. I gave that a try but it
still didn't work.

So I created a new Microsoft support account, then logged on to submit the
incident. I supplied my product ID number when asked, and then began to
follow the instructions on a series of help screens. In other words, I was
submitting a bug report just as with the Debian bug tracking system. It's
just that the interface was slicker--I was typing my complaint into little
text-editing boxes on Web forms, doing it all through the GUI, whereas with
Debian you send in an e-mail telegram. I knew that when I was finished
submitting the bug report, it would become proprietary Microsoft
information, and other users wouldn't be able to see it. Many Linux users
would refuse to participate in such a scheme on ethical grounds, but I was
willing to give it a shot as an experiment. In the end, though I was never
able to submit my bug report, because the series of linked web pages that I
was filling out eventually led me to a completely blank page: a dead end.

So I went back and clicked on the buttons for "phone support" and
eventually was given a Microsoft telephone number. When I dialed this
number I got a series of piercing beeps and a recorded message from the
phone company saying "We're sorry, your call cannot be completed as
dialed."

I tried the search page again--it was still completely nonfunctional. Then
I tried PPI (Pay Per Incident) again. This led me through another series of
Web pages until I dead-ended at one reading: "Notice-there is no Web page
matching your request."

I tried it again, and eventually got to a Pay Per Incident screen reading:
"OUT OF INCIDENTS. There are no unused incidents left in your account. If
you would like to purchase a support incident, click OK-you will then be
able to prepay for an incident...." The cost per incident was $95.

The experiment was beginning to seem rather expensive, so I gave up on the
PPI approach and decided to have a go at the FAQs posted on Microsoft's
website. None of the available FAQs had anything to do with my problem
except for one entitled "I am having some problems installing NT" which
appeared to have been written by flacks, not engineers.

So I gave up and still, to this day, have never gotten Windows NT installed
on that particular machine. For me, the path of least resistance was simply
to use Debian Linux.

In the world of open source software, bug reports are useful information.
Making them public is a service to other users, and improves the OS. Making
them public systematically is so important that highly intelligent people
voluntarily put time and money into running bug databases. In the
commercial OS world, however, reporting a bug is a privilege that you have
to pay lots of money for. But if you pay for it, it follows that the bug
report must be kept confidential--otherwise anyone could get the benefit of
your ninety-five bucks! And yet nothing prevents NT users from setting up
their own public bug database.

This is, in other words, another feature of the OS market that simply makes
no sense unless you view it in the context of culture. What Microsoft is
selling through Pay Per Incident isn't technical support so much as the
continued illusion that its customers are engaging in some kind of rational
business transaction. It is a sort of routine maintenance fee for the
upkeep of the fantasy. If people really wanted a solid OS they would use
Linux, and if they really wanted tech support they would find a way to get
it; Microsoft's customers want something else.

As of this writing (Jan. 1999), something like 32,000 bugs have been
reported to the Debian Linux bug database. Almost all of them have been
fixed a long time ago. There are twelve "critical" bugs still outstanding,
of which the oldest was posted 79 days ago. There are 20 outstanding
"grave" bugs of which the oldest is 1166 days old. There are 48 "important"
bugs and hundreds of "normal" and less important ones.

Likewise, BeOS (which I'll get to in a minute) has its own bug database
(http://www.be.com/developers/bugs/index.html) with its own classification
system, including such categories as "Not a Bug," "Acknowledged Feature,"
and "Will Not Fix." Some of the "bugs" here are nothing more than Be
hackers blowing off steam, and are classified as "Input Acknowledged." For
example, I found one that was posted on December 30th, 1998. It's in the
middle of a long list of bugs, wedged between one entitled "Mouse working
in very strange fashion" and another called "Change of BView frame does not
affect, if BView not attached to a BWindow."

This one is entitled

R4: BeOS missing megalomaniacal figurehead to harness and focus developer
rage

and it goes like this:

----------------------------

Be Status: Input Acknowledged
BeOS Version: R3.2
Component: unknown

Full Description:

The BeOS needs a megalomaniacal egomaniac sitting on its throne to give it
a human character which everyone loves to hate. Without this, the BeOS will
languish in the impersonifiable realm of OSs that people can never quite
get a handle on. You can judge the success of an OS not by the quality of
its features, but by how infamous and disliked the leaders behind them are.

I believe this is a side-effect of developer comraderie under miserable
conditions. After all, misery loves company. I believe that making the BeOS
less conceptually accessible and far less reliable will require developers
to band together, thus developing the kind of community where strangers
talk to one- another, kind of like at a grocery store before a huge
snowstorm.

Following this same program, it will likely be necessary to move the BeOS
headquarters to a far-less-comfortable climate. General environmental
discomfort will breed this attitude within and there truly is no greater
recipe for success. I would suggest Seattle, but I think it's already
taken. You might try Washington, DC, but definitely not somewhere like San
Diego or Tucson.

----------------------------

Unfortunately, the Be bug reporting system strips off the names of the
people who report the bugs (to protect them from retribution!?) and so I
don't know who wrote this.

So it would appear that I'm in the middle of crowing about the technical
and moral superiority of Debian Linux. But as almost always happens in the
OS world, it's more complicated than that. I have Windows NT running on
another machine, and the other day (Jan. 1999), when I had a problem with
it, I decided to have another go at Microsoft Support. This time the search
engine actually worked (though in order to reach it I had to identify
myself as "advanced"). And instead of coughing up some useless FAQ, it
located about two hundred documents (I was using very vague search
criteria) that were obviously bug reports--though they were called
something else. Microsoft, in other words, has got a system up and running
that is functionally equivalent to Debian's bug database. It looks and
feels different, of course, but it contains technical nitty-gritty and
makes no bones about the existence of errors.

As I've explained, selling OSes for money is a basically untenable
position, and the only way Apple and Microsoft can get away with it is by
pursuing technological advancements as aggressively as they can, and by
getting people to believe in, and to pay for, a particular image: in the
case of Apple, that of the creative free thinker, and in the case of
Microsoft, that of the respectable techno-bourgeois. Just like Disney,
they're making money from selling an interface, a magic mirror. It has to
be polished and seamless or else the whole illusion is ruined and the
business plan vanishes like a mirage.

Accordingly, it was the case until recently that the people who wrote
manuals and created customer support websites for commercial OSes seemed to
have been barred, by their employers' legal or PR departments, from
admitting, even obliquely, that the software might contain bugs or that the
interface might be suffering from the blinking twelve problem. They
couldn't address users' actual difficulties. The manuals and websites were
therefore useless, and caused even technically self-assured users to wonder
whether they were going subtly insane.

When Apple engages in this sort of corporate behavior, one wants to believe
that they are really trying their best. We all want to give Apple the
benefit of the doubt, because mean old Bill Gates kicked the crap out of
them, and because they have good PR. But when Microsoft does it, one almost
cannot help becoming a paranoid conspiracist. Obviously they are hiding
something from us! And yet they are so powerful! They are trying to drive
us crazy!

This approach to dealing with one's customers was straight out of the
Central European totalitarianism of the mid-Twentieth Century. The
adjectives "Kafkaesque" and "Orwellian" come to mind. It couldn't last, any
more than the Berlin Wall could, and so now Microsoft has a publicly
available bug database. It's called something else, and it takes a while to
find it, but it's there.

They have, in other words, adapted to the two-tiered Eloi/Morlock structure
of technological society. If you're an Eloi you install Windows, follow the
instructions, hope for the best, and dumbly suffer when it breaks. If
you're a Morlock you go to the website, tell it that you are "advanced,"
find the bug database, and get the truth straight from some anonymous
Microsoft engineer.

But once Microsoft has taken this step, it raises the question, once again,
of whether there is any point to being in the OS business at all. Customers
might be willing to pay $95 to report a problem to Microsoft if, in return,
they get some advice that no other user is getting. This has the useful
side effect of keeping the users alienated from one another, which helps
maintain the illusion that bugs are rare aberrations. But once the results
of those bug reports become openly available on the Microsoft website,
everything changes. No one is going to cough up $95 to report a problem
when chances are good that some other sucker will do it first, and that
instructions on how to fix the bug will then show up, for free, on a public
website. And as the size of the bug database grows, it eventually becomes
an open admission, on Microsoft's part, that their OSes have just as many
bugs as their competitors'. There is no shame in that; as I mentioned,
Debian's bug database has logged 32,000 reports so far. But it puts
Microsoft on an equal footing with the others and makes it a lot harder for
their customers--who want to believe--to believe.


MEMENTO MORI

Once the Linux machine has finished spitting out its jargonic opening
telegram, it prompts me to log in with a user name and a password. At this
point the machine is still running the command line interface, with white
letters on a black screen. There are no windows, menus, or buttons. It does
not respond to the mouse; it doesn't even know that the mouse is there. It
is still possible to run a lot of software at this point. Emacs, for
example, exists in both a CLI and a GUI version (actually there are two GUI
versions, reflecting some sort of doctrinal schism between Richard Stallman
and some hackers who got fed up with him). The same is true of many other
Unix programs. Many don't have a GUI at all, and many that do are capable
of running from the command line.

Of course, since my computer only has one monitor screen, I can only see
one command line, and so you might think that I could only interact with
one program at a time. But if I hold down the Alt key and then hit the F2
function button at the top of my keyboard, I am presented with a fresh,
blank, black screen with a login prompt at the top of it. I can log in here
and start some other program, then hit Alt-F1 and go back to the first
screen, which is still doing whatever it was when I left it. Or I can do
Alt-F3 and log in to a third screen, or a fourth, or a fifth. On one of
these screens I might be logged in as myself, on another as root (the
system administrator), on yet another I might be logged on to some other
computer over the Internet.

Each of these screens is called, in Unix-speak, a tty, which is an
abbreviation for teletype. So when I use my Linux system in this way I am
going right back to that small room at Ames High School where I first wrote
code twenty-five years ago, except that a tty is quieter and faster than a
teletype, and capable of running vastly superior software, such as emacs or
the GNU development tools.

It is easy (easy by Unix, not Apple/Microsoft standards) to configure a
Linux machine so that it will go directly into a GUI when you boot it up.
This way, you never see a tty screen at all. I still have mine boot into
the white-on-black teletype screen however, as a computational memento
mori. It used to be fashionable for a writer to keep a human skull on his
desk as a reminder that he was mortal, that all about him was vanity. The
tty screen reminds me that the same thing is true of slick user interfaces.

The X Windows System, which is the GUI of Unix, has to be capable of
running on hundreds of different video cards with different chipsets,
amounts of onboard memory, and motherboard buses. Likewise, there are
hundreds of different types of monitors on the new and used market, each
with different specifications, and so there are probably upwards of a
million different possible combinations of card and monitor. The only thing
they all have in common is that they all work in VGA mode, which is the old
command-line screen that you see for a few seconds when you launch Windows.
So Linux always starts in VGA, with a teletype interface, because at first
it has no idea what sort of hardware is attached to your computer. In order
to get beyond the glass teletype and into the GUI, you have to tell Linux
exactly what kinds of hardware you have. If you get it wrong, you'll get a
blank screen at best, and at worst you might actually destroy your monitor
by feeding it signals it can't handle.

When I started using Linux this had to be done by hand. I once spent the
better part of a month trying to get an oddball monitor to work for me, and
filled the better part of a composition book with increasingly desperate
scrawled notes. Nowadays, most Linux distributions ship with a program that
automatically scans the video card and self-configures the system, so
getting X Windows up and running is nearly as easy as installing an
Apple/Microsoft GUI. The crucial information goes into a file (an ASCII
text file, naturally) called XF86Config, which is worth looking at even if
your distribution creates it for you automatically. For most people it
looks like meaningless cryptic incantations, which is the whole point of
looking at it. An Apple/Microsoft system needs to have the same information
in order to launch its GUI, but it's apt to be deeply hidden somewhere, and
it's probably in a file that can't even be opened and read by a text
editor. All of the important files that make Linux systems work are right
out in the open. They are always ASCII text files, so you don't need
special tools to read them. You can look at them any time you want, which
is good, and you can mess them up and render your system totally
dysfunctional, which is not so good.

At any rate, assuming that my XF86Config file is just so, I enter the
command "startx" to launch the X Windows System. The screen blanks out for
a minute, the monitor makes strange twitching noises, then reconstitutes
itself as a blank gray desktop with a mouse cursor in the middle. At the
same time it is launching a window manager. X Windows is pretty low-level
software; it provides the infrastructure for a GUI, and it's a heavy
industrial infrastructure. But it doesn't do windows. That's handled by
another category of application that sits atop X Windows, called a window
manager. Several of these are available, all free of course. The classic is
twm (Tom's Window Manager) but there is a smaller and supposedly more
efficient variant of it called fvwm, which is what I use. I have my eye on
a completely different window manager called Enlightenment, which may be
the hippest single technology product I have ever seen, in that (a) it is
for Linux, (b) it is freeware, (c) it is being developed by a very small
number of obsessed hackers, and (d) it looks amazingly cool; it is the sort
of window manager that might show up in the backdrop of an Aliens movie.

Anyway, the window manager acts as an intermediary between X Windows and
whatever software you want to use. It draws the window frames, menus, and
so on, while the applications themselves draw the actual content in the
windows. The applications might be of any sort: text editors, Web browsers,
graphics packages, or utility programs, such as a clock or calculator. In
other words, from this point on, you feel as if you have been shunted into
a parallel universe that is quite similar to the familiar Apple or
Microsoft one, but slightly and pervasively different. The premier graphics
program under Apple/Microsoft is Adobe Photoshop, but under Linux it's
something called The GIMP. Instead of the Microsoft Office Suite, you can
buy something called ApplixWare. Many commercial software packages, such as
Mathematica, Netscape Communicator, and Adobe Acrobat, are available in
Linux versions, and depending on how you set up your window manager you can
make them look and behave just as they would under MacOS or Windows.

But there is one type of window you'll see on Linux GUI that is rare or
nonexistent under other OSes. These windows are called "xterm" and contain
nothing but lines of text--this time, black text on a white background,
though you can make them be different colors if you choose. Each xterm
window is a separate command line interface--a tty in a window. So even
when you are in full GUI mode, you can still talk to your Linux machine
through a command-line interface.

There are many good pieces of Unix software that do not have GUIs at all.
This might be because they were developed before X Windows was available,
or because the people who wrote them did not want to suffer through all the
hassle of creating a GUI, or because they simply do not need one. In any
event, those programs can be invoked by typing their names into the command
line of an xterm window. The whoami command, mentioned earlier, is a good
example. There is another called wc ("word count") which simply returns the
number of lines, words, and characters in a text file.

The ability to run these little utility programs on the command line is a
great virtue of Unix, and one that is unlikely to be duplicated by pure GUI
operating systems. The wc command, for example, is the sort of thing that
is easy to write with a command line interface. It probably does not
consist of more than a few lines of code, and a clever programmer could
probably write it in a single line. In compiled form it takes up just a few
bytes of disk space. But the code required to give the same program a
graphical user interface would probably run into hundreds or even thousands
of lines, depending on how fancy the programmer wanted to make it. Compiled
into a runnable piece of software, it would have a large overhead of GUI
code. It would be slow to launch and it would use up a lot of memory. This
would simply not be worth the effort, and so "wc" would never be written as
an independent program at all. Instead users would have to wait for a word
count feature to appear in a commercial software package.

GUIs tend to impose a large overhead on every single piece of software,
even the smallest, and this overhead completely changes the programming
environment. Small utility programs are no longer worth writing. Their
functions, instead, tend to get swallowed up into omnibus software
packages. As GUIs get more complex, and impose more and more overhead, this
tendency becomes more pervasive, and the software packages grow ever more
colossal; after a point they begin to merge with each other, as Microsoft
Word and Excel and PowerPoint have merged into Microsoft Office: a
stupendous software Wal-Mart sitting on the edge of a town filled with tiny
shops that are all boarded up.

It is an unfair analogy, because when a tiny shop gets boarded up it means
that some small shopkeeper has lost his business. Of course nothing of the
kind happens when "wc" becomes subsumed into one of Microsoft Word's
countless menu items. The only real drawback is a loss of flexibility for
the user, but it is a loss that most customers obviously do not notice or
care about. The most serious drawback to the Wal-Mart approach is that most
users only want or need a tiny fraction of what is contained in these giant
software packages. The remainder is clutter, dead weight. And yet the user
in the next cubicle over will have completely different opinions as to what
is useful and what isn't.

The other important thing to mention, here, is that Microsoft has included
a genuinely cool feature in the Office package: a Basic programming
package. Basic is the first computer language that I learned, back when I
was using the paper tape and the teletype. By using the version of Basic
that comes with Office you can write your own little utility programs that
know how to interact with all of the little doohickeys, gewgaws, bells, and
whistles in Office. Basic is easier to use than the languages typically
employed in Unix command-line programming, and Office has reached many,
many more people than the GNU tools. And so it is quite possible that this
feature of Office will, in the end, spawn more hacking than GNU.

But now I'm talking about application software, not operating systems. And
as I've said, Microsoft's application software tends to be very good stuff.
I don't use it very much, because I am nowhere near their target market. If
Microsoft ever makes a software package that I use and like, then it really
will be time to dump their stock, because I am a market segment of one.

GEEK FATIGUE

Over the years that I've been working with Linux I have filled three and a
half notebooks logging my experiences. I only begin writing things down
when I'm doing something complicated, like setting up X Windows or fooling
around with my Internet connection, and so these notebooks contain only the
record of my struggles and frustrations. When things are going well for me,
I'll work along happily for many months without jotting down a single note.
So these notebooks make for pretty bleak reading. Changing anything under
Linux is a matter of opening up various of those little ASCII text files
and changing a word here and a character there, in ways that are extremely
significant to how the system operates.

Many of the files that control how Linux operates are nothing more than
command lines that became so long and complicated that not even Linux
hackers could type them correctly. When working with something as powerful
as Linux, you can easily devote a full half-hour to engineering a single
command line. For example, the "find" command, which searches your file
system for files that match certain criteria, is fantastically powerful and
general. Its "man" is eleven pages long, and these are pithy pages; you
could easily expand them into a whole book. And if that is not complicated
enough in and of itself, you can always pipe the output of one Unix command
to the input of another, equally complicated one. The "pon" command, which
is used to fire up a PPP connection to the Internet, requires so much
detailed information that it is basically impossible to launch it entirely
from the command line. Instead you abstract big chunks of its input into
three or four different files. You need a dialing script, which is
effectively a little program telling it how to dial the phone and respond
to various events; an options file, which lists up to about sixty different
options on how the PPP connection is to be set up; and a secrets file,
giving information about your password.

Presumably there are godlike Unix hackers somewhere in the world who don't
need to use these little scripts and options files as crutches, and who can
simply pound out fantastically complex command lines without making
typographical errors and without having to spend hours flipping through
documentation. But I'm not one of them. Like almost all Linux users, I
depend on having all of those details hidden away in thousands of little
ASCII text files, which are in turn wedged into the recesses of the Unix
filesystem. When I want to change something about the way my system works,
I edit those files. I know that if I don't keep track of every little
change I've made, I won't be able to get your system back in working order
after I've gotten it all messed up. Keeping hand-written logs is tedious,
not to mention kind of anachronistic. But it's necessary.

I probably could have saved myself a lot of headaches by doing business
with a company called Cygnus Support, which exists to provide assistance to
users of free software. But I didn't, because I wanted to see if I could do
it myself. The answer turned out to be yes, but just barely. And there are
many tweaks and optimizations that I could probably make in my system that
I have never gotten around to attempting, partly because I get tired of
being a Morlock some days, and partly because I am afraid of fouling up a
system that generally works well.

Though Linux works for me and many other users, its sheer power and
generality is its Achilles' heel. If you know what you are doing, you can
buy a cheap PC from any computer store, throw away the Windows discs that
come with it, turn it into a Linux system of mind-boggling complexity and
power. You can hook it up to twelve other Linux boxes and make it into part
of a parallel computer. You can configure it so that a hundred different
people can be logged onto it at once over the Internet, via as many modem
lines, Ethernet cards, TCP/IP sockets, and packet radio links. You can hang
half a dozen different monitors off of it and play DOOM with someone in
Australia while tracking communications satellites in orbit and controlling
your house's lights and thermostats and streaming live video from your
web-cam and surfing the Net and designing circuit boards on the other
screens. But the sheer power and complexity of the system--the qualities
that make it so vastly technically superior to other OSes--sometimes make
it seem too formidable for routine day-to-day use.

Sometimes, in other words, I just want to go to Disneyland.

The ideal OS for me would be one that had a well-designed GUI that was easy
to set up and use, but that included terminal windows where I could revert
to the command line interface, and run GNU software, when it made sense. A
few years ago, Be Inc. invented exactly that OS. It is called the BeOS.


ETRE

Many people in the computer business have had a difficult time grappling
with Be, Incorporated, for the simple reason that nothing about it seems to
make any sense whatsoever. It was launched in late 1990, which makes it
roughly contemporary with Linux. From the beginning it has been devoted to
creating a new operating system that is, by design, incompatible with all
the others (though, as we shall see, it is compatible with Unix in some
very important ways). If a definition of "celebrity" is someone who is
famous for being famous, then Be is an anti-celebrity. It is famous for not
being famous; it is famous for being doomed. But it has been doomed for an
awfully long time.

Be's mission might make more sense to hackers than to other people. In
order to explain why I need to explain the concept of cruft, which, to
people who write code, is nearly as abhorrent as unnecessary repetition.

If you've been to San Francisco you may have seen older buildings that have
undergone "seismic upgrades," which frequently means that grotesque
superstructures of modern steelwork are erected around buildings made in,
say, a Classical style. When new threats arrive--if we have an Ice Age, for
example--additional layers of even more high-tech stuff may be constructed,
in turn, around these, until the original building is like a holy relic in
a cathedral--a shard of yellowed bone enshrined in half a ton of fancy
protective junk.

Analogous measures can be taken to keep creaky old operating systems
working. It happens all the time. Ditching an worn-out old OS ought to be
simplified by the fact that, unlike old buildings, OSes have no aesthetic
or cultural merit that makes them intrinsically worth saving. But it
doesn't work that way in practice. If you work with a computer, you have
probably customized your "desktop," the environment in which you sit down
to work every day, and spent a lot of money on software that works in that
environment, and devoted much time to familiarizing yourself with how it
all works. This takes a lot of time, and time is money. As already
mentioned, the desire to have one's interactions with complex technologies
simplified through the interface, and to surround yourself with virtual
tchotchkes and lawn ornaments, is natural and pervasive--presumably a
reaction against the complexity and formidable abstraction of the computer
world. Computers give us more choices than we really want. We prefer to
make those choices once, or accept the defaults handed to us by software
companies, and let sleeping dogs lie. But when an OS gets changed, all the
dogs jump up and start barking.

The average computer user is a technological antiquarian who doesn't really
like things to change. He or she is like an urban professional who has just
bought a charming fixer-upper and is now moving the furniture and
knicknacks around, and reorganizing the kitchen cupboards, so that
everything's just right. If it is necessary for a bunch of engineers to
scurry around in the basement shoring up the foundation so that it can
support the new cast-iron claw-foot bathtub, and snaking new wires and
pipes through the walls to supply modern appliances, why, so be
it--engineers are cheap, at least when millions of OS users split the cost
of their services.

Likewise, computer users want to have the latest Pentium in their machines,
and to be able to surf the web, without messing up all the stuff that makes
them feel as if they know what the hell is going on. Sometimes this is
actually possible. Adding more RAM to your system is a good example of an
upgrade that is not likely to screw anything up.

Alas, very few upgrades are this clean and simple. Lawrence Lessig, the
whilom Special Master in the Justice Department's antitrust suit against
Microsoft, complained that he had installed Internet Explorer on his
computer, and in so doing, lost all of his bookmarks--his personal list of
signposts that he used to navigate through the maze of the Internet. It was
as if he'd bought a new set of tires for his car, and then, when pulling
away from the garage, discovered that, owing to some inscrutable
side-effect, every signpost and road map in the world had been destroyed.
If he's like most of us, he had put a lot of work into compiling that list
of bookmarks. This is only a small taste of the sort of trouble that
upgrades can cause. Crappy old OSes have value in the basically negative
sense that changing to new ones makes us wish we'd never been born.

All of the fixing and patching that engineers must do in order to give us
the benefits of new technology without forcing us to think about it, or to
change our ways, produces a lot of code that, over time, turns into a giant
clot of bubble gum, spackle, baling wire and duct tape surrounding every
operating system. In the jargon of hackers, it is called "cruft." An
operating system that has many, many layers of it is described as "crufty."
Hackers hate to do things twice, but when they see something crufty, their
first impulse is to rip it out, throw it away, and start anew.

If Mark Twain were brought back to San Francisco today and dropped into one
of these old seismically upgraded buildings, it would look just the same to
him, with all the doors and windows in the same places--but if he stepped
outside, he wouldn't recognize it. And--if he'd been brought back with his
wits intact--he might question whether the building had been worth going to
so much trouble to save. At some point, one must ask the question: is this
really worth it, or should we maybe just tear it down and put up a good
one? Should we throw another human wave of structural engineers at
stabilizing the Leaning Tower of Pisa, or should we just let the damn thing
fall over and build a tower that doesn't suck?

Like an upgrade to an old building, cruft always seems like a good idea
when the first layers of it go on--just routine maintenance, sound prudent
management. This is especially true if (as it were) you never look into the
cellar, or behind the drywall. But if you are a hacker who spends all his
time looking at it from that point of view, cruft is fundamentally
disgusting, and you can't avoid wanting to go after it with a crowbar. Or,
better yet, simply walk out of the building--let the Leaning Tower of Pisa
fall over--and go make a new one THAT DOESN'T LEAN.

For a long time it was obvious to Apple, Microsoft, and their customers
that the first generation of GUI operating systems was doomed, and that
they would eventually need to be ditched and replaced with completely fresh
ones. During the late Eighties and early Nineties, Apple launched a few
abortive efforts to make fundamentally new post-Mac OSes such as Pink and
Taligent. When those efforts failed they launched a new project called
Copland which also failed. In 1997 they flirted with the idea of acquiring
Be, but instead they acquired Next, which has an OS called NextStep that
is, in effect, a variant of Unix. As these efforts went on, and on, and on,
and failed and failed and failed, Apple's engineers, who were among the
best in the business, kept layering on the cruft. They were gamely trying
to turn the little toaster into a multi-tasking, Internet-savvy machine,
and did an amazingly good job of it for a while--sort of like a movie hero
running across a jungle river by hopping across crocodiles' backs. But in
the real world you eventually run out of crocodiles, or step on a really
smart one.

Speaking of which, Microsoft tackled the same problem in a considerably
more orderly way by creating a new OS called Windows NT, which is
explicitly intended to be a direct competitor of Unix. NT stands for "New
Technology" which might be read as an explicit rejection of cruft. And
indeed, NT is reputed to be a lot less crufty than what MacOS eventually
turned into; at one point the documentation needed to write code on the Mac
filled something like 24 binders. Windows 95 was, and Windows 98 is, crufty
because they have to be backward-compatible with older Microsoft OSes.
Linux deals with the cruft problem in the same way that Eskimos supposedly
dealt with senior citizens: if you insist on using old versions of Linux
software, you will sooner or later find yourself drifting through the
Bering Straits on a dwindling ice floe. They can get away with this because
most of the software is free, so it costs nothing to download up-to-date
versions, and because most Linux users are Morlocks.

The great idea behind BeOS was to start from a clean sheet of paper and
design an OS the right way. And that is exactly what they did. This was
obviously a good idea from an aesthetic standpoint, but does not a sound
business plan make. Some people I know in the GNU/Linux world are annoyed
with Be for going off on this quixotic adventure when their formidable
skills could have been put to work helping to promulgate Linux.

Indeed, none of it makes sense until you remember that the founder of the
company, Jean-Louis Gassee, is from France--a country that for many years
maintained its own separate and independent version of the English monarchy
at a court in St. Germaines, complete with courtiers, coronation
ceremonies, a state religion and a foreign policy. Now, the same annoying
yet admirable stiff-neckedness that gave us the Jacobites, the force de
frappe, Airbus, and ARRET signs in Quebec, has brought us a really cool
operating system. I fart in your general direction, Anglo-Saxon pig-dogs!

To create an entirely new OS from scratch, just because none of the
existing ones was exactly right, struck me as an act of such colossal nerve
that I felt compelled to support it. I bought a BeBox as soon as I could.
The BeBox was a dual-processor machine, powered by Motorola chips, made
specifically to run the BeOS; it could not run any other operating system.
That's why I bought it. I felt it was a way to burn my bridges. Its most
distinctive feature is two columns of LEDs on the front panel that zip up
and down like tachometers to convey a sense of how hard each processor is
working. I thought it looked cool, and besides, I reckoned that when the
company went out of business in a few months, my BeBox would be a valuable
collector's item.

Now it is about two years later and I am typing this on my BeBox. The LEDs
(Das Blinkenlights, as they are called in the Be community) flash merrily
next to my right elbow as I hit the keys. Be, Inc. is still in business,
though they stopped making BeBoxes almost immediately after I bought mine.
They made the sad, but probably quite wise decision that hardware was a
sucker's game, and ported the BeOS to Macintoshes and Mac clones. Since
these used the same sort of Motorola chips that powered the BeBox, this
wasn't especially hard.

Very soon afterwards, Apple strangled the Mac-clone makers and restored its
hardware monopoly. So, for a while, the only new machines that could run
BeOS were made by Apple.

By this point Be, like Spiderman with his Spider-sense, had developed a
keen sense of when they were about to get crushed like a bug. Even if they
hadn't, the notion of being dependent on Apple--so frail and yet so
vicious--for their continued existence should have put a fright into
anyone. Now engaged in their own crocodile-hopping adventure, they ported
the BeOS to Intel chips--the same chips used in Windows machines. And not a
moment too soon, for when Apple came out with its new top-of-the-line
hardware, based on the Motorola G3 chip, they withheld the technical data
that Be's engineers would need to make the BeOS run on those machines. This
would have killed Be, just like a slug between the eyes, if they hadn't
made the jump to Intel.

So now BeOS runs on an assortment of hardware that is almost incredibly
motley: BeBoxes, aging Macs and Mac orphan-clones, and Intel machines that
are intended to be used for Windows. Of course the latter type are
ubiquitous and shockingly cheap nowadays, so it would appear that Be's
hardware troubles are finally over. Some German hackers have even come up
with a Das Blinkenlights replacement: it's a circuit board kit that you can
plug into PC-compatible machines running BeOS. It gives you the zooming LED
tachometers that were such a popular feature of the BeBox.

My BeBox is already showing its age, as all computers do after a couple of
years, and sooner or later I'll probably have to replace it with an Intel
machine. Even after that, though, I will still be able to use it. Because,
inevitably, someone has now ported Linux to the BeBox.

At any rate, BeOS has an extremely well-thought-out GUI built on a
technological framework that is solid. It is based from the ground up on
modern object-oriented software principles. BeOS software consists of
quasi-independent software entities called objects, which communicate by
sending messages to each other. The OS itself is made up of such objects,
and serves as a kind of post office or Internet that routes messages to and
fro, from object to object. The OS is multi-threaded, which means that like
all other modern OSes it can walk and chew gum at the same time; but it
gives programmers a lot of power over spawning and terminating threads, or
independent sub-processes. It is also a multi-processing OS, which means
that it is inherently good at running on computers that have more than one
CPU (Linux and Windows NT can also do this proficiently).

For this user, a big selling point of BeOS is the built-in Terminal
application, which enables you to open up windows that are equivalent to
the xterm windows in Linux. In other words, the command line interface is
available if you want it. And because BeOS hews to a certain standard
called POSIX, it is capable of running most of the GNU software. That is to
say that the vast array of command-line software developed by the GNU crowd
will work in BeOS terminal windows without complaint. This includes the GNU
development tools-the compiler and linker. And it includes all of the handy
little utility programs. I'm writing this using a modern sort of
user-friendly text editor called Pe, written by a Dutchman named Maarten
Hekkelman, but when I want to find out how long it is, I jump to a terminal
window and run "wc."

As is suggested by the sample bug report I quoted earlier, people who work
for Be, and developers who write code for BeOS, seem to be enjoying
themselves more than their counterparts in other OSes. They also seem to be
a more diverse lot in general. A couple of years ago I went to an
auditorium at a local university to see some representatives of Be put on a
dog-and-pony show. I went because I assumed that the place would be empty
and echoing, and I felt that they deserved an audience of at least one. In
fact, I ended up standing in an aisle, for hundreds of students had packed
the place. It was like a rock concert. One of the two Be engineers on the
stage was a black man, which unfortunately is a very odd thing in the
high-tech world. The other made a ringing denunciation of cruft, and
extolled BeOS for its cruft-free qualities, and actually came out and said
that in ten or fifteen years, when BeOS had become all crufty like MacOS
and Windows 95, it would be time to simply throw it away and create a new
OS from scratch. I doubt that this is an official Be, Inc. policy, but it
sure made a big impression on everyone in the room! During the late
Eighties, the MacOS was, for a time, the OS of cool people-artists and
creative-minded hackers-and BeOS seems to have the potential to attract the
same crowd now. Be mailing lists are crowded with hackers with names like
Vladimir and Olaf and Pierre, sending flames to each other in fractured
techno-English.

The only real question about BeOS is whether or not it is doomed.

Of late, Be has responded to the tiresome accusation that they are doomed
with the assertion that BeOS is "a media operating system" made for media
content creators, and hence is not really in competition with Windows at
all. This is a little bit disingenuous. To go back to the car dealership
analogy, it is like the Batmobile dealer claiming that he is not really in
competition with the others because his car can go three times as fast as
theirs and is also capable of flying.

Be has an office in Paris, and, as mentioned, the conversation on Be
mailing lists has a strongly European flavor. At the same time they have
made strenuous efforts to find a niche in Japan, and Hitachi has recently
begun bundling BeOS with their PCs. So if I had to make wild guess I'd say
that they are playing Go while Microsoft is playing chess. They are staying
clear, for now, of Microsoft's overwhelmingly strong position in North
America. They are trying to get themselves established around the edges of
the board, as it were, in Europe and Japan, where people may be more open
to alternative OSes, or at least more hostile to Microsoft, than they are
in the United States.

What holds Be back in this country is that the smart people are afraid to
look like suckers. You run the risk of looking naive when you say "I've
tried the BeOS and here's what I think of it." It seems much more
sophisticated to say "Be's chances of carving out a new niche in the highly
competitive OS market are close to nil."

It is, in techno-speak, a problem of mindshare. And in the OS business,
mindshare is more than just a PR issue; it has direct effects on the
technology itself. All of the peripheral gizmos that can be hung off of a
personal computer--the printers, scanners, PalmPilot interfaces, and Lego
Mindstorms--require pieces of software called drivers. Likewise, video
cards and (to a lesser extent) monitors need drivers. Even the different
types of motherboards on the market relate to the OS in different ways, and
separate code is required for each one. All of this hardware-specific code
must not only written but also tested, debugged, upgraded, maintained, and
supported. Because the hardware market has become so vast and complicated,
what really determines an OS's fate is not how good the OS is technically,
or how much it costs, but rather the availability of hardware-specific
code. Linux hackers have to write that code themselves, and they have done
an amazingly good job of keeping up to speed. Be, Inc. has to write all
their own drivers, though as BeOS has begun gathering momentum, third-party
developers have begun to contribute drivers, which are available on Be's
web site.

But Microsoft owns the high ground at the moment, because it doesn't have
to write its own drivers. Any hardware maker bringing a new video card or
peripheral device to market today knows that it will be unsalable unless it
comes with the hardware-specific code that will make it work under Windows,
and so each hardware maker has accepted the burden of creating and
maintaining its own library of drivers.


MINDSHARE

The U.S. Government's assertion that Microsoft has a monopoly in the OS
market might be the most patently absurd claim ever advanced by the legal
mind. Linux, a technically superior operating system, is being given away
for free, and BeOS is available at a nominal price. This is simply a fact,
which has to be accepted whether or not you like Microsoft.

Microsoft is really big and rich, and if some of the government's witnesses
are to be believed, they are not nice guys. But the accusation of a
monopoly simply does not make any sense.

What is really going on is that Microsoft has seized, for the time being, a
certain type of high ground: they dominate in the competition for
mindshare, and so any hardware or software maker who wants to be taken
seriously feels compelled to make a product that is compatible with their
operating systems. Since Windows-compatible drivers get written by the
hardware makers, Microsoft doesn't have to write them; in effect, the
hardware makers are adding new components to Windows, making it a more
capable OS, without charging Microsoft for the service. It is a very good
position to be in. The only way to fight such an opponent is to have an
army of highly competetent coders who write equivalent drivers for free,
which Linux does.

But possession of this psychological high ground is different from a
monopoly in any normal sense of that word, because here the dominance has
nothing to do with technical performance or price. The old robber-baron
monopolies were monopolies because they physically controlled means of
production and/or distribution. But in the software business, the means of
production is hackers typing code, and the means of distribution is the
Internet, and no one is claiming that Microsoft controls those.

Here, instead, the dominance is inside the minds of people who buy
software. Microsoft has power because people believe it does. This power is
very real. It makes lots of money. Judging from recent legal proceedings in
both Washingtons, it would appear that this power and this money have
inspired some very peculiar executives to come out and work for Microsoft,
and that Bill Gates should have administered saliva tests to some of them
before issuing them Microsoft ID cards.

But this is not the sort of power that fits any normal definition of the
word "monopoly," and it's not amenable to a legal fix. The courts may order
Microsoft to do things differently. They might even split the company up.
But they can't really do anything about a mindshare monopoly, short of
taking every man, woman, and child in the developed world and subjecting
them to a lengthy brainwashing procedure.

Mindshare dominance is, in other words, a really odd sort of beast,
something that the framers of our antitrust laws couldn't possibly have
imagined. It looks like one of these modern, wacky chaos-theory phenomena,
a complexity thing, in which a whole lot of independent but connected
entities (the world's computer users), making decisions on their own,
according to a few simple rules of thumb, generate a large phenomenon
(total domination of the market by one company) that cannot be made sense
of through any kind of rational analysis. Such phenomena are fraught with
concealed tipping-points and all a-tangle with bizarre feedback loops, and
cannot be understood; people who try, end up (a) going crazy, (b) giving
up, (c) forming crackpot theories, or (d) becoming high-paid chaos theory
consultants.

Now, there might be one or two people at Microsoft who are dense enough to
believe that mindshare dominance is some kind of stable and enduring
position. Maybe that even accounts for some of the weirdos they've hired in
the pure-business end of the operation, the zealots who keep getting hauled
into court by enraged judges. But most of them must have the wit to
understand that phenomena like these are maddeningly unstable, and that
there's no telling what weird, seemingly inconsequential event might cause
the system to shift into a radically different configuration.

To put it another way, Microsoft can be confident that Thomas Penfield
Jackson will not hand down an order that the brains of everyone in the
developed world are to be summarily re-programmed. But there's no way to
predict when people will decide, en masse, to re-program their own brains.
This might explain some of Microsoft's behavior, such as their policy of
keeping eerily large reserves of cash sitting around, and the extreme
anxiety that they display whenever something like Java comes along.

I have never seen the inside of the building at Microsoft where the top
executives hang out, but I have this fantasy that in the hallways, at
regular intervals, big red alarm boxes are bolted to the wall. Each
contains a large red button protected by a windowpane. A metal hammer
dangles on a chain next to it. Above is a big sign reading: IN THE EVENT OF
A CRASH IN MARKET SHARE, BREAK GLASS.

What happens when someone shatters the glass and hits the button, I don't
know, but it sure would be interesting to find out. One imagines banks
collapsing all over the world as Microsoft withdraws its cash reserves, and
shrink-wrapped pallet-loads of hundred-dollar bills dropping from the
skies. No doubt, Microsoft has a plan. But what I would really like to know
is whether, at some level, their programmers might heave a big sigh of
relief if the burden of writing the One Universal Interface to Everything
were suddenly lifted from their shoulders.


THE RIGHT PINKY OF GOD

In his book The Life of the Cosmos, which everyone should read, Lee Smolin
gives the best description I've ever read of how our universe emerged from
an uncannily precise balancing of different fundamental constants. The mass
of the proton, the strength of gravity, the range of the weak nuclear
force, and a few dozen other fundamental constants completely determine
what sort of universe will emerge from a Big Bang. If these values had been
even slightly different, the universe would have been a vast ocean of tepid
gas or a hot knot of plasma or some other basically uninteresting thing--a
dud, in other words. The only way to get a universe that's not a dud--that
has stars, heavy elements, planets, and life--is to get the basic numbers
just right. If there were some machine, somewhere, that could spit out
universes with randomly chosen values for their fundamental constants, then
for every universe like ours it would produce 10^229 duds.

Though I haven't sat down and run the numbers on it, to me this seems
comparable to the probability of making a Unix computer do something useful
by logging into a tty and typing in command lines when you have forgotten
all of the little options and keywords. Every time your right pinky slams
that ENTER key, you are making another try. In some cases the operating
system does nothing. In other cases it wipes out all of your files. In most
cases it just gives you an error message. In other words, you get many
duds. But sometimes, if you have it all just right, the computer grinds
away for a while and then produces something like emacs. It actually
generates complexity, which is Smolin's criterion for interestingness.

Not only that, but it's beginning to look as if, once you get below a
certain size--way below the level of quarks, down into the realm of string
theory--the universe can't be described very well by physics as it has been
practiced since the days of Newton. If you look at a small enough scale,
you see processes that look almost computational in nature.

I think that the message is very clear here: somewhere outside of and
beyond our universe is an operating system, coded up over incalculable
spans of time by some kind of hacker-demiurge. The cosmic operating system
uses a command-line interface. It runs on something like a teletype, with
lots of noise and heat; punched-out bits flutter down into its hopper like
drifting stars. The demiurge sits at his teletype, pounding out one command
line after another, specifying the values of fundamental constants of
physics:

universe -G 6.672e-11 -e 1.602e-19 -h 6.626e-34 -protonmass 1.673e-27....

and when he's finished typing out the command line, his right pinky
hesitates above the ENTER key for an aeon or two, wondering what's going to
happen; then down it comes--and the WHACK you hear is another Big Bang.

Now THAT is a cool operating system, and if such a thing were actually made
available on the Internet (for free, of course) every hacker in the world
would download it right away and then stay up all night long messing with
it, spitting out universes right and left. Most of them would be pretty
dull universes but some of them would be simply amazing. Because what those
hackers would be aiming for would be much more ambitious than a universe
that had a few stars and galaxies in it. Any run-of-the-mill hacker would
be able to do that. No, the way to gain a towering reputation on the
Internet would be to get so good at tweaking your command line that your
universes would spontaneously develop life. And once the way to do that
became common knowledge, those hackers would move on, trying to make their
universes develop the right kind of life, trying to find the one change in
the Nth decimal place of some physical constant that would give us an Earth
in which, say, Hitler had been accepted into art school after all, and had
ended up his days as a street artist with cranky political opinions.

Even if that fantasy came true, though, most users (including myself, on
certain days) wouldn't want to bother learning to use all of those arcane
commands, and struggling with all of the failures; a few dud universes can
really clutter up your basement. After we'd spent a while pounding out
command lines and hitting that ENTER key and spawning dull, failed
universes, we would start to long for an OS that would go all the way to
the opposite extreme: an OS that had the power to do everything--to live
our life for us. In this OS, all of the possible decisions we could ever
want to make would have been anticipated by clever programmers, and
condensed into a series of dialog boxes. By clicking on radio buttons we
could choose from among mutually exclusive choices
(HETEROSEXUAL/HOMOSEXUAL). Columns of check boxes would enable us to select
the things that we wanted in our life (GET MARRIED/WRITE GREAT AMERICAN
NOVEL) and for more complicated options we could fill in little text boxes
(NUMBER OF DAUGHTERS: NUMBER OF SONS:).

Even this user interface would begin to look awfully complicated after a
while, with so many choices, and so many hidden interactions between
choices. It could become damn near unmanageable--the blinking twelve
problem all over again. The people who brought us this operating system
would have to provide templates and wizards, giving us a few default lives
that we could use as starting places for designing our own. Chances are
that these default lives would actually look pretty damn good to most
people, good enough, anyway, that they'd be reluctant to tear them open and
mess around with them for fear of making them worse. So after a few
releases the software would begin to look even simpler: you would boot it
up and it would present you with a dialog box with a single large button in
the middle labeled: LIVE. Once you had clicked that button, your life would
begin. If anything got out of whack, or failed to meet your expectations,
you could complain about it to Microsoft's Customer Support Department. If
you got a flack on the line, he or she would tell you that your life was
actually fine, that there was not a thing wrong with it, and in any event
it would be a lot better after the next upgrade was rolled out. But if you
persisted, and identified yourself as Advanced, you might get through to an
actual engineer.

What would the engineer say, after you had explained your problem, and
enumerated all of the dissatisfactions in your life? He would probably tell
you that life is a very hard and complicated thing; that no interface can
change that; that anyone who believes otherwise is a sucker; and that if
you don't like having choices made for you, you should start making your
own.

Copyright 1999 by Neal Stephenson

1999 The Hearst Corporation