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I n f o r m a t i o n, C o m m u n i c a t i o n, S u p p l y
E L E C T R O Z I N E
Information Communication Supply 10/5/93 Vol.1:Issue.4
Email To: ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU
E D I T O R S: Local Alias: Email: ICS Positions:
============== ============ ====== ==============
Deva Winblood MeTaL MaSTeR, ADP_DEVA Technical Director,
Ephemeral Ask Deva, Tales of the
Presence Unknown, Editing
Ted Sanders Zorro STU520256399 Writer, Final Editor,
Design, Final Opinion
Jeremy Bek rApIeR STU521279258 Layout, Writer, Editing,
Role Playing Games,
Jeremy Greene Diabolus STU521139287 Technical Editor,
Clint Thompson None ADP_CLINT Editing, Writer
Steven Peterson Rufus T. Firefly STU388801940 Editing, Writer
Russell Hutchison BurnouT STU524636420 Writer, Subscriptions,
George Sibley MAC_FAC FAC_SIBLEY Editing, Supervisor
| ICS is an Electrozine distributed by students of Western State |
| College in Gunnison, Colorado. We are here to gather information about |
| topics that are important to us all as human beings. If you would like |
| to send in a submission please type it into an ASCII format and mail it |
| to us. We operate on the assumption that if you mail us something you |
| want it to be published. We will do our best to make sure it is |
| distributed and will always inform you when or if it is used. |
| See the end of this issue for submission information. |
REDISTRIBUTION: If any part of this issue is copied or used elsewhere
you must give credit to the author and indicate that the information
came from ICS Electrozine ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU.
DISCLAIMER: The views represented herein do not necessarily represent the
views of the editors of ICS. contributors to ICS assume all
responsibilities for ensuring that articles/submissions are not violating
copyright laws and protections.
| \ / |
| \ T A B L E O F C O N T E N T S / |
| / \ |
| /________________________________________________\ |
| Included in the table of contents you will see some|
| generic symbols to help you in making your |
| decisions on whether an article is something that |
| may use ideas, and/or language that could be |
| offensive to some. S = Sexual Content |
| AL = Adult Language V = Violence O = Opinions |
I. FIRST OPINION: By Deva Winblood. This first opinion will
explain the current situation of ICS Electrozine.
II. THE OLD WAR AND THE COLD WAR: By George Sibley. The
creative individual in the institution. (O)
III. THE FRIEND I NEVER MET - Notes on Electronic Faith: By Bob Wilson.
Computer technology and global networks have provided the
genesis for a new medium of friendship.
IV. WORLDNET TOUR GUIDE- Ask Deva - MUDs: By Deva Winblood.
This instructional information explains how to connect to the
multi-user games known as MUDs. (O)
V. THE MARTIANS ARE COMING pt. 3: By Russel Hutchison. The next
installment in the "short" story begun in ICS issue #3.
VI. MY GOD, WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME pt. 2: By Ted Sanders. The
conclusion to the short story begun in ICS issue #4.
VII. POETRY: By Stewart Carington. A good six poems that some may
find enjoyable to read.
VIII.BRAINWASHING: By Rodrigo de Almeida Siqueira. This is an article
on brainwashing. Rodrigo submitted IMPURE MATHEMATICS which
appeared in ICS Issue #4.
IX. FINAL WORD: By Ted Sanders. This is the final opinion for Issue
#5. A few thanks are given out, and a little reflection is
* F I R S T O P I N I O N *
# By #
* Deva Winblood *
ICS is back after a summer of unpredictability. ICS is now
managing to gather wind in its sails. ICS has undergone significant
staff changes and is now planning for the next issues.
--- --- --- --- --- --- ---
In the future ICS will be sent out in fragments. These
fragments will be sections of an issue. Then when all the fragments
have been sent out for an issue it will be stored in its entirety on
an anonymous FTP site. There is a problem with this plan that
ICS can use the help of its readers to solve.
The UGLYMOUSE archive site where ICS back issues have been
stored in the past is down. Thus, ICS is in need of new FTP sites that
are willing to archive the back issues. If any readers of ICS have
a site and/or know someone else in charge of a site that might be
willing to archive ICS back issues, then write ICS immediately at
ORG_ZINE@WSC.COLORADO.EDU. The staff will be seeking to remedy this
problem while bringing new ideas, stories, poetry, and hopefully
some interviews in the near future.
The staff now consists of people who are getting college
credit for working on ICS and people who are not. The goal of the
staff is to offer something of quality and creativity to the world.
This goal will be the guiding principle behind ICS with other
considerations such as class credit being of consideration only
where time is concerned.
The style of ICS will probably have some noticable changes
in "flavor" whenever the staff changes in make-up. Continue to send ICS
your letters and ideas. ICS will change with the lively new ideas that
are stumbled upon.
- 10/5/1993 - Deva B. Winblood
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
\ THE OLD WAR AND THE COLD WAR /
/ George Sibley \
- - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - - -
In the last issue of this 'zine, I posed an invitation for
our reader-writers to offer constructive suggestions on how the
evolution of "cyberspace tradition" in coming years might work to
improve the usually rocky relationship between creative
individuals and the institutions of human culture--schools,
governments, corporations, and other entities of this sort.
It is easy enough to see how dependent the creative
individuals and the institutions are on each other. On the one
side, institutions need creative problem solvers in order to
retain the flexibility and adaptability necessary to survive in a
changeable world; and on the other side, few individuals can
muster the cultural resources (money, manpower, materials)
necessary to thoroughly develop new ideas. But this very
dependency seems to grate on the psychologies involved on both
sides: creative individuals tend to be iconoclastic, impatient
and freedom-oriented; whereas the individuals that dominate
organizations tend to be conservative, consensual and control-
oriented. As a result, the collaboration necessary for the
success of either entity is usually ad hoc, temporary, and tense,
with both entities settling back into an illusion of independence
from each other as soon as the collaborative task is finished.
Well, okay, you might say: that's just human nature. But
when these collaborative tasks are finished, their consequences
for the rest of us are just beginning, and enough evidence has
accumulated to suggest that the products of those collaborations
carry the uneasy "karma" of the processes that brought them into
being. This is part of the message of an interesting new book by
Joseph Schwartz: THE CREATIVE MOMENT (HarperCollins, 1992),
subtitled "How science made itself alien to modern culture."
In this book Schwartz is exploring the gap between what
British scientist and writer C.P. Snow described in 1959 as "the
two cultures"--the physical sciences on the one hand and the
humanities on the other. Or more accurately, perhaps, Schwartz
is trying to cajole, shame and beat alleged humanists into
accepting a critical role in mediating between the (literally)
explosive development of the physical sciences and the
incomprehension of that development in the general public. His
first book, EINSTEIN FOR BEGINNERS, began out of his own
puzzlement at the standard contemporary response to Einstein: a
kind of mass adulation on the one hand, and a culturally
acceptable lack of comprehension of Einstein's work on the other.
"How," Schwartz asked, "had Einstein, whose work was
characterized by simplicity, clarity, and directness, become such
a symbol of incomprehensibility to the outside world?"
THE CREATIVE MOMENT is essentially Schwartz's generalization
from the specific example of Einstein to a larger overview of how
the present-day relationship between science and society
developed. He drops back to the Galilean revolution of the 17th
century and traces the major "creative moments" in science up to
present, exposing the dangerous pattern whereby, even as all
modern societies became increasingly dependent on and surrounded
by the applications of science, the general understanding of
science and its life-dominating applications decreased.
Directly and indirectly, Schwartz's problem comes back to
the "old war" between the creative individual and the
institutions of culture, from Galileo versus the Church to NASA's
uneasy alliance of science and politics that led eventually to
the Challenger disaster. But one of the more fascinating
chapters in Schwartz's book is his narration and analysis of what
was arguably THE greatest, most tension-ridden, and most
significant collaboration between the most impressive assembly of
creative individuals a culture has ever managed to bring together
for a common purpose, and the most massive mobilization of
cultural resources in history for achieving that purpose: the
"Manhattan Project which took nuclear physics from some vaguely
formulated theories to the production of the nuclear bomb in a
period of less than four years.
The impetus for the Manhattan Project was reports from Nazi
Germany that nuclear super-weapons were in some stage of
development; President Roosevelt and his advisors felt the
Allies had no choice but to go all-out to match and, if possible,
beat the Germans in that development. As a result, between 1942
and 1945 government and industry--a tight and mutually profitable
alliance of institutions--worked together to create, in
Schwartz's words, "a nuclear weapons industry equal in size to
the entire U.S. automobile industry of the time."
But all that institutional mobilization of cultural
resources--manpower, materials and money--would have meant
nothing "without the dedication of some three hundred physicists
from Europe and the United States whose practical research skills
enabled them to find out whether the device was even possible and
if so to find a way to build it." The creative individuals. And
the "old war" between creative individuals and cultural
institutions was never more evident.
The scientists were concentrated at the hasty laboratory set
up on a remote mesa north of Santa Fe--Los Alamos; there they
lived and worked like a small anarchic republic in the middle of
the massively authoritarian military-industrial machine that had
effectively taken over the running of the country: a small
republic, contained but not quite controlled--so long as the
issue wasn't pushed too far by the scientists.
Schwartz gives an overview of the tension that existed
between the scientists and the military-imdustrial establishment,
as personified in Brigadier General Leslie Groves--who, Edward
Teller said, "could have won almost any unpopularity contest in
which the scientific community at Los Alamos voted." Other
scientists were less euphemistic: "The biggest sonovabitch I've
ever met in my life," said one. "I hated his guts and so did
But a better picture of the nature of the situation at Los
Alamos between the "creative individuals" and the "institution"
probably comes from some of the accounts of the scientists
themselves--such as Richard Feynman's account of his Los Alamos
days in SURELY YOU'RE JOKING, MR. FEYNMAN. Feynman undoubtedly
worked hard at his tasks, but he also put a lot of time and
energy into efforts to confound military censors, find flaws in
the security plans, and otherwise tweak at the institutions. In
a sense, Feynman got the chance to live out every hacker's dream:
he could tweak the system almost at will, and the system had to
put up with it in a kind of a fuming silence because the system
knew it needed Feynman more than Feynman thought he needed the
But Schwartz's analysis of the period shows that, in this
rather adolescent squandering of intellectual power, Feynman and
the other scientists might have given away their chance to really
influence world history in a positive way. The scientists knew
when they began the project what kind of fire they were playing
with; and many of them, according to Schwartz, were only willing
to work on the project at all because of the danger that the
Nazis might also develop nuclear capability. Many of them were
clear about the fact that they were NOT doing it "for the United
States" or even for the Allies, but to save the world from Nazi
What the scientists did not know was that, within a year or
so of the project's beginning, the military knew that the Nazis
would never manage to develop a working nuclear capability. But
the military and the government--to the extent that that was a
viable distinction in the war years--wanted to continue with the
bomb project because they were increasingly worried about "the
red menace" to an American world hegemony in the postwar period.
In 1944, the purpose of the Manhattan Project quietly changed:
it was not to counter a nonexistent Nazi threat but--in words
attributed to Groves--"to subdue the Soviets."
Very few of the scientists knew of this, however, for the
simple fact that the controlling institutions figured that
sometimes it is better for the right hand to not know too much
about what the left was doing. Of the few who found out that
they were no longer working to save the world but to advance
American postwar foreign policy, some asked to be released, and
returned to the "real world." But the scientists themselves had
so little internal community that the word of this change did not
really get around. Thus, perhaps, it ever is with creative
The bomb was developed, and the bomb was used--pretty
clearly, according to Schwartz's well-documented analysis, not to
stop the war but to wave a warning flag to the Soviets. After
Hiroshima and Nagasaki, the scientists began to wake up--both to
what they had done, and to what had been done to them by the
institutions they had served without trying to understand. Many
of them called for immediate international control of all nuclear
research and products, but it was of course too late. They had,
in essence, opened the door to the barn and to the horsestalls;
it was too late to call for locking the barn.
Schwartz is harsh in his judgment of the military-industrial
complex that had exploited the scientists with partial truths and
The physicists' main accomplishment was to deliver a bomb to
the U.S. authorities that strengthened the hand of the anti-
Soviet hawks in the U.S. establishment who, in their attempt
to intimidate the Soviet Union, initiated a nuclear arms
race that fifty years later has spread across the globe and
shows only the most minimal signs of abating. The
physicists, motivated by the best of intentions, entered
into an employee-employer relationship with the corporate
and military power structure of the United States, a rela-
tionship over which they had no control. There they were
manipulated into creating a technology that gave their
employers the power of life and death over the entire
That said, however, Schwartz does not let the scientists off
the hook--a pack of gullibles, perhaps, no worse than suckers,
just bad poker players. He suggests, as many of the scientists
themselves have since admitted, that the "physicists on the
Manhattan Project have a lot to answer for" even though "there
were very few turning points." But the whole problem with
"creative individuals" resides in his next sentence:
If objectively they had the power to stop the project, they
had neither the consciousness to conceive of this possibi-
lity nor the forms of social organization that could have
made such an action practical.
To make a radical lateral leap, historian Richard White came
to the same conclusion about the mythos of the "rugged American
individual" in his wonderful new history of the American West,
IT'S YOUR MISFORTUNE AND NONE OF MY OWN. It was in the best
interests of both the federal government (which White claims
"invented itself" in the West) and the private networks of
finance and commerce in America to nurture that mythos of the
rugged American individualist, because that created the cultural
"vacuum," devoid of meaningful local community structure, into
which private and public power structures could expand.
There is something sobering for creative individuals in
these lessons (and of course we each want to think that, yes,
there is at least a little bit of that creativity in me): the
individual's private contempt for those institutions that control
the resources might be more the source of the individual's
trouble than the institutions themselves. The example of
Feynman--as he portrays himself in his book--is interesting in
this regard. Feynman is so pleased with his abilities to play
around with the institutions' censors and security arrangements.
Suppose, however, that Feynman had invested the same kind of time
and energy in taking the military-industrial machine seriously,
as an entity out to exploit his knowledge for the increase of its
own power--over him as well as the rest of the world. Suppose he
might then have opened some discourse among his fellows about how
they might both do their work but retain some say in how their
work would be used. Suppose they had hatched there the entirely
revolutionary idea of the "creative community. . . ."
But reading Feynman, I at any rate get the feeling that
there is simply no capacity in Feynman for THAT kind of thought-
-or action. All of his psychic development seems to have gone
into the development of the awesome powers that made him a first-
rate "creative individual"; there was just nothing left over, no
brain-space or whatever, for the development of a social being.
And the inverse is of course true for those nonindividuals who
work for control through ever-larger bureaucratic institutions:
the creative impulse (along with any other impulse) is the first
thing that has to go when control is the primary goal.
So let's hear some more thoughts on this from out there.
Maybe not all of you are so fundamentally pessimistic about this
as I'm afraid I am.
| The Friend I Never Met - Notes On Electronic Faith |
| By Bob Wilson |
I'm one of those people who has always had a hard time making
friends. Oh yeah, I'm out and about, social and friendly enough,
and I know (am acquainted with) quite a few people. But there are
very few that I trust enough to touch my soul, allowing them to
see the person behind the mask. Yet, what has most surprised me
of late is the number of friends, real friends, I have made on the
Internet. I'm absolutely amazed by how quickly I came to trust
someone I had never physically seen, touched, or spoken to. Given
the ever-increasing traffic on the global networks, I don't think
I'm alone in this discovery.
When I subscribed to my first electronic discussion group, I had
no idea what would be involved - what my or anyone elses level of
participation would be. I remember thinking, "Well, I'll just sit
quietly over here on the fringe and read what these folks are
writing about." My hesitancy to become involved was due to a lack
of trust; I didn't trust the global blackbox called Internet, and
I didn't initially trust the content of the messages flashing
across my screen. The idea that I would have a personal exchange
never occurred to me. I expected clinical opinion -- lists of
lists -- dry discourse -- data. That is not what I got.
What I found instead was absolutely wonderful! Here was the whole
human experiment being played out on my desk. I sank into pools
of language, expression, wit, and thought. The logical arguments
offered were stark and beautiful, like Euclid's Postulates, while
the illogical drew circles in the clouds and called them cowboys.
Every morning my terminal spewed out blips of new ideas and
numbing doubts, snobbish aloofness and secured acceptance,
unremitting rage and unplumbed patience. I was allowed to read
the thoughts, written just the night before, of someone who lives
in Austria or Brazil or Finland. I had no idea what these folks
looked like, what they sounded like, what economic level they
enjoyed, what skin color they were. But none of that mattered;
what mattered was that they wanted to share their ideas with me.
Once involved in some of the discussions, I was drawn to those
subscribers who had a better gift for the English language than I.
Language skills are a lot like music skills or math skills, some
people are better endowed with the gift than others. I wanted to
be like them. I coveted their command of language, their ability
to deftly paint pictures in the mind's eye using nothing but an
ASCII text file. I also coveted their ability to approach a
problem or idea from more than just one direction at a time. They
consistently attacked or supported ideas from completely
unanticipated directions. Although most of the time they came up
with junk, there were also times that they hit on something really
new and exciting. I learned that nothing was more delicious than
a fresh, juicy idea marinated, broiled, and served in a sauce of
humor - and that the quality of the dish reflected the skill of
Although it served for introductions, electronic friendships
weren't built through a listserver discussion group. It required
a one-to-one contact. I had to shove aside that universal fear of
rejection, knock on private electronic doors, introduce myself,
and be invited in for tea. The usual reaction to my gentle
tapping was typically, "Yes, what do you want?".
I remember feeling awkward and intrusive. I wanted to go to great
lengths to explain that I really didn't want any money from them
and that I wasn't trying to sell life insurance on the Internet.
I finally just said "Hello - I liked what you wrote the other
day. Where did that idea come from?". For some people, that's
all the encouragement they needed. They poured out like water
from an artesian well.
Making and keeping electronic friends requires all of the same
elements as personal friendships, but in somewhat amplified form.
A primary element is honesty. Your words, opinions, and ideas
HAVE to be honest to a fault - you can't lie and expect to keep
your friend. With nothing else to support it, an electronic
friendship is built on words and a fragile thread of trust that
binds them. The smallest lie, discovered, snaps it.
The second element is permission. If I send my friend a note
about my faith or family or whatever, I also convey my permission
for him/her to comment upon it, whatever they think about it. An
electronic friendship cannot withstand the strain of a detonated
emotional word-trap laid at the door. If you don't want comment
on a topic, don't throw it out there. As in cards, if it hits the
table face up, it's played.
Keep it private. An electronic friendship is a pact, a covenant
of privacy between two human souls. It is strange to get email
discussing marriages, relationships, money, job security, etc.,
from persons you have never physically met. To get such mail at
all is an extreme statment of faith. If you betray the privacy of
your friends, the voice in the back of your mind begins to wonder
aloud if your friends may likewise betray you. And then there is
that nagging remembrance that Email files are, at least
I prefer the term "grace" to define the final element necessary
for electronic friendships. It means to demonstrate patience,
acceptance, compassion, understanding, and empathy. Your friend
is just as human as you are, with all the fears and failings you
have. You won't have answers to all their questions and you won't
necessarily be in a position to help them. You can disagree with
them without dishonoring them. You may be able to help them in
ways that no one else can, but it will require a certain quality
of grace to do so.
Here's to a long and fruitful life - and a few good friends.
/ Column: Ask Deva \
MUDHead | | Multi-User-Dungeon
VR SO RL | W o r l d N e t T o u r G u i d e | BSX Clients
BRB BBL | Number Four | MUG DikuMUD
Lagging |---------------------------------------| MUSH LPMUD
TinySoap | Multi-User Games: Followup to ICS | MUCK MUSE
TinySex | Issue #1, MUDS: A Computer Social | MOO UNTERMUD
IRC | Virus. | MUDWho UriMUD
Haven \_______________________________________/ MAGE TinyMUD
The current ICS staff members suggested creating a column called
ASK DEVA. They were thinking that our readers might have some specific
questions concerning the net and such that they would like answered.
From this point on WORLDNET TOUR GUIDE will be the ASK DEVA
column. In this column I will do my best to answer questions that our
readers have concerning the net. If the situation should arise that
none of our readers have questions to ask, then this column will be the
same WORLDNET TOUR GUIDE column that many of you have expressed interest in.
It is the wishes of the ICS staff that the technical aspects
of this electrozine be kept to a minimum. Thus, this will most likely
be the only column of a technical or instructional nature. "There are
always exceptions." - Someone (Myself on several occasions)
After publishing the article MUDS : A COMPUTER SOCIAL VIRUS for
ICS Issue #1, ICS received many letters expressing the views of some
of the readers concerning this topic. Many of the letters received
indicated that a number of ICS readers were disappointed that I did not
explain how to access any MUDS so that they could go see for themselves.
This WORLDNET TOUR GUIDE will focus on MUDS, how to access them,
how to quickly learn the syntax, and a few warnings.
--- --- --- --- --- --- --- ---
The first thing a person needs to know in order to connect to
a MUD is the ADDRESS and the PORT. There is a very good source for
obtaining MUD site information. The source I use is called _The Totally
Unofficial List of Internet Muds_. This list is copyrighted and
published by Scott Goehring. To obtain a copy of this list you can
either subscribe to the mailing list which sends out a new list every
month, or you can FTP it (FTP -> WorldNet Tour Guide #1 ICS Vol 1. Issue 2).
SUBSCRIBING to the MAIL LIST:
Everywhere except .UK addresses send mail to MUDLIST@Glia.biostr.washington.edu.
.UK addresses send mail to PJC@COMPUTER-SCIENCE.MANCHESTER.AC.UK.
FTPing the BACK ISSUES of the MUDLIST:
FTP to caisr2.caisr.cwru.edu and look in the directory /pub/mud.
WHAT THE MUDLIST PROVIDES:
GameName Text Address Numeric Address Port Status EndNotes
The GAMENAME column just tells the reader of the MUDLIST the title that
the MUD designers have chosen for that MUD. These names are often misleading
when one attempts to relate the title to the contents of the game.
The TEXT ADDRESS is the address that you will need to connect to as
represented in a WORDY text format.
The NUMERIC ADDRESS is the actual INTERNET ADDRESS of the machine you will need
to connect to. The numeric address will sometimes work when the TEXT ADDRESS
is not recognized by your machine.
The PORT specifies which PORT/SOCKET you will need to connect to inorder
to connect to the MUD. A PORT is a communications CHANNEL, all devices
for Input and Output on a computer will communicate through one port or
another. To use a MUD you must connect to the PORT that the MUD has
seized for use in communication.
The STATUS column indicates how succesful attempts to connect to this MUD
have been. Refer to the bottom of the MUDLIST for more information.
The ENDNOTES refer to special considerations that need to be looked at for
a specific MUD. The meanings attributed to these ENDNOTES can be found
at the end of the MUDLIST.
CONNECTING TO A MUD:
Most machines connected to Internet use the command TELNET to
connect to another computer across the Internet. If your machine does
not allow you to use Internet, then try using the command RLOGIN.
Try these various formats of commands until you find one that
works for you.
> TELNET address/PORT=port# EXAMPLE: $ TELNET 188.8.131.52/PORT=5000
> RLOGIN address/PORT=port#
> TELNET address port#
> RLOGIN address port#
If none of these formats work properly then contact your
systems administrator or your local computer guru and ask them how to
connect to a remote machine on a specific port.
Errors can occur while attempting to connect to a MUD. The
common errors can usually be interpretted to mean the following things.
CONNECTION REFUSED: The port you specified is not accepting connections.
This usually means that the MUD Designers are working on the MUD
and it is temporarily not running. However, this is also the
first sign that a MUD is gone for good. So, check the next
available mudlist to see if the MUD you are looking for is still
up and running.
CONNECTION TIMED OUT: The connection between your computer and the
host computer that the MUD is running on is currently experiencing
difficulties. Internet does fail for brief periods of time on
occasion. Keep checking every once in awhile. Eventually, the
MUD will probably come back up.
NO ROUTE TO HOST: This one is the one that can often mean bad
things for the MUD you are searching for. This means internet
is down (temporarily?) between yourself and the host. It could
also mean that the computer which holds the MUD is no longer
connected to internet (Hopefully, it is just temporarily
turned off for maintenance reasons).
VAX/VMS SPECIAL PREPARATIONS:
If the your machine is a machine using the VMS operating system,
you may have to take a few extra steps to get some of the MUDS to
function. You need to enter SETUP mode and change NO NEW LINE to
NEW LINE in order for the text of the MUD to appear on your screen
in the proper fashion.
MUDS that need this preparation are MUSH, MUSE, MUCK, MAGE, and any derivative
of these code types (SEE MUDLIST for confirmation of code type).
Once you are connected to a MUD try typing HELP. This will
usually give you a list of other categories for which help is available.
The HELP command will aid you a great deal in learning how to manuever
in the MUD of your choice.
The other method of learning that you should pursue is that
of asking OTHER players. To communicate you usually will find the
command in the following format.
> SAY what you want to say
To find out who else is currently playing the MUD try the following.
If a command does not work then try it in UPPER and LOWER case modes.
To QUIT a mud you usually can type QUIT.
WARNINGS TO WOULD BE MUD EXPLORERS:
As I said in the article in ICS Issue #1, MUDS are extremely
addictive and should be approached with caution. A MUD user will often
progress to 10 -> 18 hours a day of MUD playing. These MUDHeads will
neglect schoolwork, fiances, girlfriends, significant others, work,
etc. and soon find themselves in dire situations that would not have
happened had they never stumbled onto a MUD.
So, if you plan to explore a MUD, please for your sake, and for
the sake of those you love, practice moderation!!
/ The Martians Are Coming \
\ (part 3) /
\ By Russell Hutchison /
Before the story continues I would like to offer a recap of parts
1&2. A fleet of warships from the colonies on Mars are battling the
Earth Defense Fleet in an effort to win independence from Earth, hoping
to catch the EDF off guard and overwhelm them. But, last issue, the EDF
showed that they had a few tricks left to play and fired massive railguns
that were mounted in the space station 'Garden.' Meanwhile Rick,
Frank's wingman, had broken away from Frank in persuit of an Earth BAT
(continued from issue 4)
Rick wasn't as impressed as Frank with the firepower of 'Garden.'
Mostly because he had followed the path of the BAT fighter and
was facing the opposite direction of 'Garden,' trying to achieve a
"Frank, what's wrong with you! Get your ass down here!"
Frank pulled his gaze away from 'Garden' to locate his wingman. His hands
felt sweaty inside the gloves of his space suit, and a feeling that he was
helpless to effect the outcome of the battle settled over him. He spotted his
wingman and began to close the gap with him. I can help Rick, he thought.
Frank could see the BAT fighter executing a tight loop with Rick in his less
manuverable ANGEL trying to keep up.
"Circle right and bring him towards me, Rick."
"I can't see him anymore, Frank. He can turn tighter then I can."
"Circle right, fast, he's coming around behind you."
"Where is he!"
"He's low and to your right! Circle right and double back on him!
Do it NOW!"
Frank's advice was too late. The faster BAT completed its loop and was
behind Rick. A flight of ten missiles were racing through space before Rick
had turned enough. The left half of Rick's delta-shaped ANGEL blossomed with
explosions, three missiles missed. The light coning from the ANGEL's engines
died, and the fighter began to tumble towards Earth. The BAT began to head
towards the rest of the Earth Defense Fleet.
"Rick! Are you conscious? Answer me--" Rick's yelling cut Frank off.
"I've got no control! Help me Frank!"
"You've got to get your engines started, or at least your maneuvering
thrusters. Do it fast before you get any further into the atmosphere."
Frank was finding it hard to think of ways to help, like an alcholic
haze was enwrapping his mind. Come on Rick, he thought, get something to
work. He ignored the retreating BAT fighter and began to follow his friend
into the upper atmosphere. A slight glow was already forming around
Rick's tumbling fighter.
"It's not working. It's not working! Help me Frank! It's hot, oh God
it's hot in here!"
Frank couldn't think of anything to say or do. Rick's fighter was now
only a cherry red streak in the atmosphere.
"I'm burning! OH GOD I'M BURNING! HELP MEEEEE!-----"
Frank could think of only one way to end Rick's agony. He opened fire.
Both lasers and the particle cannon hit. The three beams of energy were so hot
that they ionized the atmosphere like lightning bolts. The glowing beams split
the ANGEL in a firery explosion. Rick's screams ended. Frank pulled his
fighter out of its dive and redirected it towards the battle in space.
The Vengeance had changed course and was heading to support the battleship
and the last frigate who were firing frantically on 'Garden'. The lights of
the station dimmed. Both the battleship and frigate took evasive action as
twin blurs leapt from the station's coilguns. One shell passed harmlessly
beneath the battleship, but the slower frigate was not as lucky. The massive
coilgun round ripped a huge furrow from the head of the frigate to its engines.
A cloud of debris burst away from the frigate as the atmosphere escaped into
But Frank didn't care. With Rick's screams still echoing in his ears, he
commanded the computer to locate the fighter that had crippled Rick and
identify it on his H.U.D. The BAT was closing on the Vengence. Frank pushed
his ANGEL to maximum acceleration and plotted a course that would intercept the
BAT slightly behind the Vengeance. Within fifteen seconds Frank was in range,
but he didn't fire. He wanted to see this one die up close and slowly. Frank
dropped his weapon power to 30% and closed to only 500 feet. He triggered both
right wing lasers. Two flashes appeared on the BAT as twin gashes tore across
the fighter, the edges of the gashes glowing white-hot.
"That's right, you bastard. I could have scrapped you but I want
to pick you to pieces first."
The BAT was racing over the Vengence now and executed a roll that placed
the warship between the two fighters. But at the speeds that the fighters were
travelling, the BAT quickly ran out of cover and the ANGEL descended quickly
behind it. The BAT tried to use its greater acceleration to get to the
protection of the other fighters around 'Garden', But as soon as it increased
the range to 900 feet Frank fired his lasers again. Both hit in rapid
sucession. Two more jagged glowing scars ripped across the BAT's wings.
Then, the ANGEL's particle cannon hummed to life, melting into the side of the
BAT. Two of its three thrusters flickered and died. Frank closed the range to
400 feet. The dueling fighters had left the Vengeance five miles behind and
were a third of the way to 'Garden'.
"Game over, fucker." Frank growled. Resetting his weapons to maximum
power, he dropped his crosshairs onto the BAT. His finger came to rest on the
trigger, and he took a breath to steady himself.
Suddenly, the BAT snapped into a steep rolling dive and declerated.
Frank turned down after him in an effort to bring him back into his line of
sight. But his dive brought him out on a collision course with the side of an
Earth battleship. With a startled curse he dove bellow the battleship,
skimming barely ten feet from its hull. The last Frank saw of the BAT was it
doing a similar manuver over the battleship's top.
Frank's jaw went slack as his H.U.D. informed him of the situation. The
two largest and newest battleships in existance, and the pride and joy of the
Earth Defense Fleet, had just dropped out of light speed between the
Vengeance and the space station. Together with eight destroyers, six frigates,
and 250 fighters. His H.U.D. labled each one as supposedly on duty in other
"Ambush...," Frank whispered. Earth must have heard about Mars's plans
to attack months ago and recalled all these ships. They must have hid them all
on the far side of Venus until the Martian forces had committed to the attack.
One of the Earth battleships opened fire on the Martian battleship with
eight coilguns. The battleship dissolved in a flurry of explosions. Then four
more coilguns fired from the aft of the battleship and the already battle
damaged Vengeance also ceased to exist.
A flicker of light at the edge of Frank's vision caught his attention.
Looking to his left he saw the BAT that he had been trying to destroy barreling
down on him. The light that had caught his attention was being generated by a
cluster of ten fighter-to-fighter missiles swarming down apon him. Massive
explosions rocked the ANGEL as control panels flared and died. Burning white
sparks filled the cockpit along with smoke from burning wires. The polarized
canopy fractured into a webwork of cracks. Frank was thrown hard into his
restraining straps, and his vision went dark.
When Frank's vision cleared only the H.U.D. and the incoming radio signal
systems worked. One static filled monitor screen bathed him in irratic white
light. The ANGEL was drifting towards deep space and had turned towards Earth,
affording a perfect view of the raging space battle. The laser lights of his
H.U.D. highlighted every ship against the cracked canopy. In the absence of a
working communicator, no one could hear Frank crying as he drifted helplessly
away from the Martian slaughter.
\ MY GOD, WHY HATH THOU FORSAKEN ME? /
\ PART II /
\ BY /
| TED SANDERS |
Stuart had felt the hit, and it did not feel good. According
to the optical clock on Stuart's screen, he knew that he was out for
more than three hours. He had felt the stinging of the cold sand
ruffling against every part of his suit. His microphone had gone dead,
and that was no mystery. As blood slowly trickled out his mouth, Stuart
realized that he had been cut in the blow. Probably bit his tongue, but
it still hurt.
Who in the hell could have knocked him down that way? It
had to be one of those raiders, the kind that would hold people hostage
for a time and then release them for small and trivial demands. It
didn't matter because Stuart belonged to The First Pentecostal Church
of Linear Saints. That was enough diplomacy to save him from anything.
Stuart shook his head, and the sand fell from the top of his helmet.
The landscape was the 46th parallel, and it had to be hostile!
Many craters crossed over many hills: this was hell! No cities,
no atmosphere, and worst of all, no women! As the numbness faded, Stuart
realized that he was positioned on a metal cross. Two metal beams
crossed, resembling a crucifix. Stuart was suspended from the
remains of a hijacked starship. Stuart knew this starship; it was the
Excelsior. The beams had the serial numbers, and the Environmental logo,
a little rat sitting on top of a planet, supposedly Earth. 20 gauge
wire suspended Stuart from his blessed terra firma, and there was no
apparent way down.
As Stuart eyed the landscape, he saw the edge of the
supercrater. Rows and rows of small figures, all clothed in dark robes
walked in unison. Each about 3 ft. tall, and each carrying tools,
obviously tools of destruction. Picks, axes, torches, and forks, all
heading right at poor little Stuart.
At the sight of these dwarves, Stuart had felt something he had
never felt before. It wasn't just one feeling, it was many, it was
terrifing, it was horror, it was a need for penance. Stuart felt the
need to get down on his knees and pray to god. He hadn't done anything
wrong, but he just needed the security that the Church would save him.
As the creatures approached Stuart, one pointed a finger at him.
The methodicism of this small man were unusual; he couldn't be a
raider, then what could he be? A brother of The First Pentecostal Church
of Linear Saints? No, the requirements for that were to be fairhaired
and over six feet tall. No, this was not a friendly man.
The creature in front lifted his hood, to expose an old
fashioned bubble helmet and a grotesque face. The face was similar to
that of a rat, the kind that plagued earth for over a century. The kind
that transmitted the bubonic plague, and destroyed half of Europe. There
was only one species that Stuart knew that looked like this. It had to
be a Gaumerton.
The Gaumerton were, supposedly, a mythological brotherhood of
social outcasts on Delta-9, who formed their own monastery. Due to their
lack of social graces, and their taste for human sacrifices, this made
their race quite endangered. Were these the alleged raiders that held so
many other environmental explorers captive?
The first Gaumerton approached Stuart and grabbed his suit. A
series of howls and high pitched screams came in unison out of the
little beasties' mouths.
"Ahhhh!, is beeped!" said the Gaumerton. "Think you hurt
Gaummy's moon! No way beeped."
"I'm not trying to hurt your moon! I'm trying to..."
"Shut-up beeped!" interupted the Gaumerton.
"You no good! Many other beepeds try to hurt Gaummy's moon!
Stuart knew that his fate was sealed, so he began to recite the
"Our Father, who art in heaven, hallowed be thine name. Thy
kingdom come, thy will be done, on earth as it is in heaven."
"Quiet beeped!" interupted the Gaumerton. "Me no father, Me
Gaummy and me pissed, and so is he!"
What could this mean. Obviously the Gaumerton was pissed, but
who else was pissed? Stuart's social graces flew out his atmospheric
suit. Stuart began to scream and cry and pray. The Gaumerton slowly and
methodically began to pry at Stuart's helmet. Just as the Gaumerton
began to pry at the two locks, Stuart's microphone turned back on.
"Stuart, are you there! Come on: it's time you get back, you
stupid jerk!" said Bradkins.
"Bradkins! Help me! I have a swarm of Gaumerton's all over me!
They're trying to take my helmet off!"
"Stuart! I have to put up with your racist shit, and now you
want me to believe that a group of rats are trying to kill you!" said Bradkins.
"Bradkins! Get your ass down here you stupid kike! I tell you that if
you're not down here in five ...."
Stuart was interupted by the sound of a dead microphone. What
was left? Stuart began to sob and pray again.
"Dear lord! Help me! Everybody has abandoned me, and I know that
you and the church are still here. So please HELP!" screamed Stuart.
Just as Stuart uttered his last request, a large plume of black
smoke covered the horizon. The Gaumerton's were petrified, and all of
them ran. They only one that stayed was the leader, the same Gaummy that
was trying to pry Stuart's helmet off.
As the black smoke darkened, a bolt of lightning struck the
remaining Gaumerton, and knocked him dead on the ground.
Stuart began to sigh, but just then, another bolt of lightning
struck Stuart's helmet, knocking it to the ground.
As Stuart began to inhale the vacuum, his tongue and eyes began
to bulge. A thunderous voice covered the landscape and said.
"Stuart, guess who! And boy, am I pissed!"
/ Poetry \
/ By \
/ Stewart Carrington \
"Tender Tear" |
A crystal swelled amongst the ceaseless vessel |
A scenic wonder not ever to be understood |
A cry of pain for endless hunger |
A wonder for what we all have to endure... |
No crystal tears, please, for I have a life |
No crystal fears, please, for I have enticed |
No crystal portraits, please, for I am the painter |
No crystal dreams, please, for I am not perfect |
No sense of emptyness, for I am fullfilled |
No sense of belonging- for my mind has just cleared |
No sense, for I am alive |
No reason, for I left my shrine |
No life, for e'er I was dead |
Yes, now you know.... my life was just led |
enter into my little world, There- my ship's host unfurled
Glare and deny me my life- I shall not accept it and make it my right.
I shall say goodbye, for you are blind to the truth-
And to another I shall say hello, for she is my youth.
Return into the reality you think should be, for I am the light that shall
always escape thee.
As I said before, remember my love and forget me- You said it could never
Now in the break refurl the host..........
..........send flowers, forget-me-nots,
for I have forgotten
SUBJECT:Raze or burn.........
You raised me..... and razed me. You looked at me with praisefull eyes,
then looked right through me...
I am of your blood, though you can't tell.
I am of your life, though you fail.
I am of your beliefs, only more.
I am of your rights... what a BORE!!!!!!!!
This was of the past, I say, but you won't listen,
my life you spin into your own submission.
I shall in the end be without thee,
And alone, after life, is when you shall meet ME.
For as of now, and the future to come, you do not know your aging son.
I shall raise thee, and praise thee.....
but shall not follow, for I am but one........
and that is me.
Hmmm....one might remember recreation |
is also re-creation |
or perhaps if a flower |
was a flow-er |
People would understand. |
Life's not in the living or dead, |
But of God and the living inside one's head. |
Mental tears shall all abound; Yet in the physical realm none shall be found
Mortal thoughts may all remain; But no love is there left to yet reclaim
When you trace the sullen flight, Of a Crow into the speckled night
All that remains a distant dream-Until the sun breaks the endless seam...
Sunlight turns in it's puest form, Releases the traced emotions worn
Grips the fist on one's fate, Gives the choice that you shall in time berate
Inters the worth of your wealth, to find in the end it should have been health
Cross the cavern of your dreams- To caress the tears of mighty seas.
Think of yesterday as freedom's chain, And never know that bond again.
Drink from the pool of broken sorrow, Then breathe the air of newborn morrow
Awaken to that light, tender touch, and remember to feel....
I miss you much.
SUBJECT:a walk through my wall
no, It's not the same, and I would love to walk through the rain with you.
A lonely sill, lonely true. A silent dove, through the window grew.
Sit next to me for mine life, scream the silence of eternal strife,
To be with me you must leave me alone, let me face myself, the ugly clone.
desert rain beat through my brow, a speared patter, hits me now
tis the tear of your lip, from above reflected in the isles of love.
silent pondering one-hundred proof, sink emotion,
but bury me away....
from truth..... for tis not like me to do this here, not like me to
put you through this spin..... only
can I but win.....sorry,
it's true, let me be for a while.... insanity's not new....
an old friend, back again
doesn't like visitors.......
.............will leave in a while....
/ Brainwashing \
\ By /
/ Rodrigo de Almeida \
\ Siqueira /
Brainwashing is the process of deliberately subjecting individuals to
physical and psychological hardship in order to alter their thoughts,
attitudes, and actions. It differs from other forms of persuasion or
instruction not only in the key element of coercion, but in the radical intent
to clear the mind totally of one set of ideas and replace them by another
often completely opposed set. The term indoctrination is applied to the
implanting of new ideas, but indoctrination may take place without
brainwashing. The term brainwashing is a literal translation of the Chinese:
hsi nao, referring to thought reform. When the Chinese Communists came to
power in 1949, they sought to reeducate the intellectuals and middle classes
with brainwashing techniques; they applied the same methods to prisoners taken
during the Korean War. Similar efforts to control the minds of individuals
have been made by authorities in other countries.
The two aspects of brainwashing are confession of past crimes or errors
and reeducation to new beliefs. Prisoners are brought to confess by lack of
sleep and food and other forms of intense physical discomfort, isolation from
familiar surroundings, a prison routine requiring absolute obedience and
humility, and social pressure from cell mates. The last includes mutual
criticism and self-criticism sessions, which play particularly on the
generalized guilt feeling that all people have to some extent. At the same
time, regular indoctrination sessions are conducted. The acceptance of the new
ideas is again fostered by group pressure and the anticipated reward of
freedom. Improved understanding of psychology and neurophysiology have enabled
modern totalitarian regimes to create extremely effective brainwashing
programs. Some of their techniques, however, have been used for centuries;
the Inquisition, for example, elicited confessions from alleged heretics by
similar methods. In the context of religion, some scholars have noted a
parallel between brainwashing for political purposes and the techniques used by
some religious groups to generate religious excitement and conversion. The
parallel is observable in religions that use physical means (such as scourging,
rhythmic dancing and drumming, and sometimes drugs) to induce a trancelike
state in which the individual is open to conversion. It is also apparent in the
mind-control practices of some of the religious cults of the 20th century, most
notably the People's Temple group of Guyana, whose membership committed mass
suicide in 1978.
Bibliography: Bromley, D. G., and Richardson, J. T., eds., The
Brainwashing-Deprogramming Controversy (1984); Lifton, Robert Jay, Thought
Reform and the Psychology of Totalism (1961); Sargant, William, Battle for the
Mind (1957; repr. 1971); Schein, Edgar H., et al., Coercive Persuasion (1971).
* THE FINAL WORD *
# by #
* Ted Sanders *
The staff of the ICS, current and past, apologizes for the delay
in issue #5. Over the summer each of our staff have left their humble
little terminals and conversed with the entire world. I myself have
talked to several people in South Dakota and Nebraska that are dedicated
groupies of the I.C.S. We enjoy the fact that many people read our 'zine
and hope that they have stayed with us over our "cybervacation."
In the midst of writing the final word I referred back to Bob
Wilson's article, "The Friend I Never Met-Notes on Electronic Faith" and
felt the true joys of a new subscriber to the cyberworld. Reading this
made me think of the first time I was introduced to the world of VAX. I
remember Benjamin Price, alias Beelzebub, dragging me down to the lab
and showing me the groovy world of Vax Internet Environments. I talked
to a (supposed) young lady who absolutely loved my wit and humor. Later
on I found out that this young lady was actually a young man,
specifically Matthew Thyer, former Final Editor of the I.C.S.
Many people do not realize the effects that a few small
blips of electricity can have on the human psyche. I have several
friends that have been kicked out of school due to their obsessive
involvement with MUD's. I've seen people stop their entire lives and
travel to other countries to visit friends from the NET.
In my opinion it's not the computers that do the harm, it's
the suckers that use too much time on the NET. We can play in our
cyberworlds, we can use and abuse our cyberworlds, but we can't live in
our cyberworlds. That's part of the focus of the ICS, aiming at
everyone, even the average joe that spends 30 minutes a day on his
So "Cowboys in the Sky" keep dreaming of electric sheep!
Love ya Bob!
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