Fry Guy had discovered that by sounding authoritative and demonstrating his knowledge of computer systems, most of the time people believed he was who he said he was. And they gave him the information he asked for, everything from account codes and passwords to unlisted phone numbers. That was how he got the number for CSA; he just called the local telephone company's operations section.
"Hi, this is Bob Johnson, Indiana Bell tech support," he had said. "Listen, I need you to pull a file for me. Can you bring it up on your screen?"
The woman on the other end of the phone sounded uncertain. Fry Guy forged ahead, coaxing her through the routine: "Right, on your keyboard, type in K--P pulse.... Got that? Okay, now do one-two-one start, no M--A.... Okay? "Yeah? Can you read me the file? I need the number there...."
It was simply a matter of confidence--and knowing the jargon. The directions he had given her controlled access to unlisted numbers, and because he knew the routine, she had read him the CSA number, a number that is confidential, or at least not generally available to fifteen-year-old kids like himself.
But on the phone Fry Guy found that he could be anyone he wanted to be: a CSA employee or a telephone engineer--merely by pretending to be an expert. He had also taught himself to exploit the psychology of the person on the other end of the line. If they seemed confident, he would appeal to their magnanimity: "I wonder if you can help me . . ." If they appeared passive, or unsure, he would be demanding: "Look, I haven't got all day to wait around. I need that number now." And if they didn't give him what he wanted, he could always hang up and try again.
Of course, you had to know a lot about the phone system to convince an Indiana Bell employee that you were an engineer. But exploring the telecommunications networks was Fry Guy's hobby: he knew a lot about the phone system.
Now he would put this knowledge to good use. From his little home computer he had dialed up CSA, the call going from his computer to the electronic box beside it, snaking through a cable to his telephone, and then passing through the phone lines to the unlisted number, which happened to be in Delaware.
The electronic box converted Fry Guy's own computer commands to signals that could be transmitted over the phone, while in Delaware, the CSA's computer converted those pulses back into computer commands. In essence, Fry Guy's home computer was talking to its big brother across the continent, and Fry Guy would be able to make it do whatever he wanted.
But first he needed to get inside. He typed in the account number Tom had given him earlier, pressed Return, and typed in the password. There was a momentary pause, then the screen filled with the CSA logo, followed by the directory of services--the "menu."
Fry Guy was completely on his own now, although he had a good idea of what he was doing. He was going to delve deeply into the accounts section of the system, to the sector where CSA stored confidential information on individuals: their names, addresses, credit histories, bank loans, credit card numbers, and so on. But it was the credit card numbers that he really wanted. Fry Guy was short of cash, and like hundreds of other computer wizards, he had discovered how to pull off a high-tech robbery.
When Fry Guy was thirteen, in 1987, his parents had presented him with his first computer--a Commodore 64, one of the new, smaller machines designed for personal use. Fry Guy linked up the keyboard-sized system to an old television, which served as his video monitor.
On its own the Commodore didn't do much: it could play games or run short programs, but not a lot more. Even so, the machine fascinated him so much that he began to spend more and more time with it. Every day after school, he would hurry home to spend the rest of the evening and most of the night learning as much as possible about his new electronic plaything.
He didn't feel that he was missing out on anything. School bored him, and whenever he could get away with it, he skipped classes to spend more time working on the computer. He was a loner by nature; he had a lot of acquaintances at school, but no real friends, and while his peers were mostly into sports, he wasn't. He was tall and gawky and, at 140 pounds, not in the right shape to be much of an athlete. Instead he stayed at home.
About a year after he got the Commodore, he realized that he could link his computer to a larger world. With the aid of an electronic box, called a modem, and his own phone line, he could travel far beyond his home, school, and family.
