My Tiny Life
Crime and Passion in a Virtual World

Being a True Account of the Case of the Infamous Mr. Bungle, and of the Author's Journey, in Consequence Thereof, to the Heart of a Half-Real World Called LambdaMOO

Copyright © 1998 by Julian Dibbell.

First edition published 1998 by Henry Holt and Company. [Browse it]

Chapter 1 was originally published in a somewhat different form in The Village Voice.

Contents

Dedication

Author's Note

PALO ALTO, OCTOBER 1994

1. A Rape in Cyberspace
(Or TINYSOCIETY, and How to Make One)

NEW YORK CITY, DECEMBER 1993

2. The Scarlet Balloon
(Or TINYGEOGRAPHY, a Long View and an Overview)

DELAWARE GAP NATIONAL RECREATION AREA, JULY 1994

3. The Purple Guest
(Or TINYLAW, and Its Discontents)

NEW YORK CITY, JULY 1994

4. Samantha, Among Others
(Or TINYGENDER, a Love Story)

NEW YORK CITY, JULY 1994

5. How Did My Garden Grow
(Or TINYECONOMICS Theoretical and Applied)

NEW YORK CITY, AUGUST 1994

6. The Schmoo Wars
(Or TINYHISTORY,and the Ways a Programmer May Shape It)

NEW YORK CITY, AUGUST 1994

7. S*
(Or TINYSEX, in the Author's Experience)

NEW YORK CITY, SEPTEMBER 1994

8. Toad Minnie
(Or TINYLIFE, and How It Ends)

SOMEWHERE IN THE HILLS NEAR PALO ALTO, OCTOBER 1994

Epilogue

Acknowledgments

Dedication

For Jessica, who is more beautiful to me than text can say

Author's Note

The narrative contained herein is as true to life, and to the facts, as I could bear to make it. In a few spots I felt compelled to jigger the chronology of events for the sake of a smooth story line, but I did so only with matters concerning my own history, not that of the MOO, and only where such alterations affected the substance of my report no more than trivially. As for quotes, I was obliged to invent a few in the autobiographical “RL” episodes, which have been reconstructed mainly on the basis of memory and brief journal entries, but the book's quotes are otherwise taken straight from transcripts of online conversations, from MOO-mail or e-mail, or from interviews conducted via telephone or face-to-face. In a handful of cases, I conflated separate real-time quotes from a MOO player into a single quote, and occasionally I cleaned up typos I thought were more distracting than telling. Likewise, I sometimes revised a few words for the sake of clarity.

For the sake of privacy I made other alterations, the main one being that names were changed from actual to fictitious ones throughout the book. This is common journalistic practice, of course, but here it may seem oddly superfluous considering that the “actual” names I changed were mostly pseudonyms to begin with, used by people whose real-life identities are in many cases still unknown to me. If my approach was unusual, however, so were the circumstances: Lambda-MOO happens to be a world in which, for technical reasons, knowing a person's name is the approximate virtual equivalent of knowing that person's phone number, home address, and social security number as well. And given that that world is also readily accessible to anybody with an Internet account, I thought it best not to offer unavoidable encouragement to any ill-mannered rubberneckers (or worse) who may lurk among my readers. (I don't mean you, of course, and I should add that visitors to LambdaMOO are usually treated no less kindly than they treat the locals.)

Additionally, when writing about Lambda residents who could not reasonably be considered “public figures” within the context of the MOO, I sometimes took measures to conceal their identities from other MOOers as well as from visiting outsiders. These measures variously included rewriting the residents' descriptions of their virtual selves and possessions, revising information about their real lives (such as hometown, age, and place of employment), or both. I changed the non-MOO details of some “MOO-famous” figures as well, to keep certain aspects of their real lives private.

Where I felt there to be no compelling reason for fictionalizing a name or pseudonym, I left it unchanged. This didn't happen often, though. Real names and pseudonyms found in the book include my own, those of Pavel Curtis, and those of LambdaMOO characters long gone from the MOO and very unlikely to return. They do not, however, include the names of the Lambda “satellite worlds” Interzone and aCleanWellLightedMOO, although neither place, I assure you, is any less—or more—real than LambdaMOO itself.

RL

VR

LambdaMOO is a new kind of society, where thousands of people voluntarily come together from all over the world. What these people say or do may not always be to your liking; as when visiting any international city, it is wise to be careful who you associate with and what you say. . . .

—LambdaMOO logon screen

1

A Rape in Cyberspace

Or TINYSOCIETY, and How to Make One

They say he raped them that night. They say he did it with a cunning little doll, fashioned in their image and imbued with the power to make them do whatever he desired. They say that by manipulating the doll he forced them to have sex with him, and with each other, and to do horrible, brutal things to their own bodies. And though I wasn't there that night, I think I can assure you that what they say is true, because it all happened right in the living room—right there amid the well-stocked bookcases and the sofas and the fireplace—of a house I came later to think of as my second home. Call me Dr. Bombay. Some years ago—let's say about halfway between the first time you heard the words information superhighway and the first time you wished you never had—I found myself tripping now and then down the well-traveled information lane that leads to LambdaMOO, a very large and very busy rustic mansion built entirely of words. On the occasional free evening I'd sit down in my New York City apartment and type the commands that called those words onto my computer screen, dropping me with what seemed a warm electric thud inside the house's darkened coat closet, where I checked my quotidian identity, stepped into the persona and appearance of a minor character from a long-gone television sitcom, and stepped out into the glaring chatter of the crowded living room. Sometimes, when the mood struck me, I emerged as a dolphin instead.

I won't say why I chose to masquerade as Samantha Stephens's outlandish cousin, or as the dolphin, or what first led me into the semifictional digital other-worlds known around the Internet as multiuser dimensions, or MUDs. This isn't quite my story yet. It's the story, for now, of an elusive congeries of flesh and bytes named Mr. Bungle, and of the ghostly sexual violence he committed in the halls of LambdaMOO, and most importantly of the ways his violence and his victims challenged the thousand and more residents of that surreal, magic-infested mansion to become, finally, the community so many of them already believed they were.

That I was myself already known to wander the mansion grounds from time to time has little direct bearing on the story's events. That those same events were, months after, to draw me deeper into the complex, flickering core of Lambda-MOO's shadow reality than I had ever thought to go is also, I suppose, of only a slight and hindsighted relevance to the matter now at hand. I mention it only as a warning that my own perspective may, at this late date, be too steeped in the surreality and magic of the place to serve as an altogether appropriate guide. For the Bungle Affair raises questions that—here on the brink of a future in which human existence may find itself as tightly enveloped in digital environments as it is today in the architectural kind—demand a clear-eyed, sober, and unmystified consideration. It asks us to shut our ears for the time being to techno-utopian ecstasies and look without illusion upon the present possibilities for building, in the online spaces of this world, societies more decent and free than those mapped onto dirt and concrete and capital. It asks us to behold the new bodies awaiting us in virtual space undazzled by their phantom powers, and to get to the crucial work of sorting out the socially meaningful differences between those bodies and our physical ones. And perhaps most challengingly it asks us to wrap our late-modern ontologies, epistemologies, sexual ethics, and common sense around the curious notion of rape by voodoo doll—and to try not to warp them beyond recognition in the process.

In short, the Bungle Affair dares me to explain it to you without resort to dime-store mysticisms, and I fear I may have shape-shifted by the digital moonlight one too many times to be quite up to the task. But I will do what I can, and can do no better than to lead with the facts. For if nothing else about Mr. Bungle's case is unambiguous, the facts at least are crystal clear.

The facts begin (as they often do) with a time and a place. The time was a Monday night in March, and the place, as I've said, was the living room—which, due largely to the centrality of its location and to a certain warmth of decor, was in those days so invariably packed with chitchatters as to be roughly synonymous among LambdaMOOers with a party. So strong, indeed, was the sense of convivial common ground invested in the living room that a cruel mind could hardly imagine a better place in which to stage a violation of LambdaMOO's communal spirit. And there was cruelty enough lurking in the appearance Mr. Bungle presented to the virtual world—he was at the time a fat, oleaginous, Bisquick-faced clown dressed in cum-stained harlequin garb and girdled with a mistletoe-and-hemlock belt whose buckle bore the quaint inscription KISS ME UNDER THIS, BITCH! But whether cruelty motivated his choice of crime scene is not among the established facts of the case. It is a fact only that he did choose the living room.

The remaining facts tell us a bit more about the inner world of Mr. Bungle, though only perhaps that it wasn't a very cozy place. They tell us that he commenced his assault entirely unprovoked, at or about 10 P.M. Pacific Standard Time. That he began by using his voodoo doll to force one of the room's occupants to sexually service him in a variety of more or less conventional ways. That this victim was exu,^[1] a South American trickster spirit of indeterminate gender, brown-skinned and wearing an expensive pearl gray suit, top hat, and dark glasses. That exu heaped vicious imprecations on him all the while and that he was soon ejected bodily from the room. That he hid himself away then in his private chambers somewhere on the mansion grounds and continued the attacks without interruption, since the voodoo doll worked just as well at a distance as in proximity. That he turned his attentions now to Moondreamer, a rather pointedly nondescript female character, tall, stout, and brown-haired, forcing her into unwanted liaisons with other individuals present in the room, among them exu, Kropotkin (the well-known radical), and Snugberry (the squirrel). That his actions grew progressively violent. That he made exu eat his/her own pubic hair. That he caused Moondreamer to violate herself with a piece of kitchen cutlery. That his distant laughter echoed evilly in the living room with every successive outrage. That he could not be stopped until at last someone summoned Iggy, a wise and trusted old-timer who brought with him a gun of near wizardly powers, a gun that didn't kill but enveloped its targets in a cage impermeable even to a voodoo doll's powers. That Iggy fired this gun at Mr. Bungle, thwarting the doll at last and silencing the evil, distant laughter.

These particulars, as I said, are unambiguous. But they are far from simple, for the simple reason that every set of facts in virtual reality (or VR, as the locals abbreviate it) is shadowed by a second, complicating set: the “real-life” facts. And while a certain tension invariably buzzes in the gap between the hard, prosaic RL facts and their more fluid, dreamy VR counterparts, the dissonance in the Bungle case is striking. No hideous clowns or trickster spirits appear in the RL version of the incident, no voodoo dolls or wizard guns, indeed no rape at all as any RL court of law has yet defined it. The actors in the drama were university students for the most part, and they sat rather undramatically before computer screens the entire time, their only actions a spidery flitting of fingers across standard QWERTY keyboards. No bodies touched. Whatever physical interaction occurred consisted of a mingling of electronic signals sent from sites as distant from each other as the eastern seaboard of the United States and the southern coast of Australia. Those signals met in LambdaMOO, certainly, just as the hideous clown and the living room party did, but what was LambdaMOO after all? Not an enchanted mansion or anything of the sort—just a middlingly complex database, maintained for experimental purposes inside a Xerox Corporation research computer in Palo Alto and open to public access via the Internet.

To be more precise about it, LambdaMOO was a MUD. Or to be yet more precise, it was a subspecies of MUD known as a MOO, which is short for “MUD, Object Oriented.” All of which means that it was a kind of database especially designed to give users the vivid impression of moving through a physical space that in reality exists only as words filed away on a hard drive. When users log in to LambdaMOO, for instance, the program immediately presents them with a brief textual description of one of the rooms of the database's fictional mansion (the coat closet, say). If the user wants to leave this room, she can enter a command to move in a particular direction and the database will replace the original description with a new one corresponding to the room located in the direction she chose. When the new description scrolls across the user's screen it lists not only the fixed features of the room but all its contents at that moment—including things (tools, toys, weapons) and other users (each represented as a “character” over which the user has sole control).

As far as the database program is concerned, all of these entities—rooms, things, characters—are just different subprograms that the program allows to interact according to rules very roughly mimicking the laws of the physical world. Characters may not leave a room in a given direction, for instance, unless the room subprogram contains an “exit” at that compass point. And if a character “says” or “does” something (as directed by its user-owner via the say or the emote command), then only the users whose characters are also located in that room will see the output describing the statement or action. Aside from such basic constraints, however, LambdaMOOers are allowed a broad freedom to create—they can describe their characters any way they like, they can make rooms of their own and decorate them to taste, and they can build new objects almost at will. The combination of all this busy user activity with the hard physics of the database can certainly induce a lucid illusion of presence—but when all is said and done the only thing you really see when you visit LambdaMOO is a kind of slow-crawling script, lines of dialogue and stage direction creeping steadily up your computer screen.

Which is all just to say that, to the extent that Mr. Bungle's assault happened in real life at all, it happened as a sort of Punch-and-Judy show, in which the puppets and the scenery were made of nothing more substantial than digital code and snippets of creative writing. The puppeteer behind Bungle that night, as it happened, was a young man logging in to the MOO from a New York University computer. He could have been Mother Teresa for all any of the others knew, however, and he could have written Bungle's script that night any way he chose. He could have sent an emote command to print the message Mr_Bungle, smiling a saintly smile, floats angelic near the ceiling of the living room, showering joy and candy kisses down upon the heads of all below—and everyone then receiving output from the database's subprogram #17 (a/k/a the “living room”) would have seen that sentence on their screens.

Instead, however, he entered sadistic fantasies into the “voodoo doll,” a sub-program that served the not-exactly kosher purpose of attributing actions to other characters that their users did not actually write. And thus a woman in Haverford, Pennsylvania, whose account on the MOO attached her to a character she called Moondreamer, was given the unasked-for opportunity to read the words As if against her will, Moondreamer jabs a steak knife up her ass, causing immense joy. You hear Mr_Bungle laughing evilly in the distance. And thus the woman in Seattle who had written herself the character called exu, with a view perhaps to tasting in imagination a deity's freedom from the burdens of the gendered flesh, got to read similarly constructed sentences in which exu, messenger of the gods, lord of crossroads and communications, suffered a brand of degradation all-too-customarily reserved for the embodied female.

“Mostly voodoo dolls are amusing,” wrote exu on the evening after Bungle's rampage, posting a public statement to the widely read in-MOO mailing list called *social-issues, a forum for debate on matters of import to the entire populace. “And mostly I tend to think that restrictive measures around here cause more trouble than they prevent. But I also think that Mr. Bungle was being a vicious, vile fuckhead, and I. . . want his sorry ass scattered from #17 to the Cinder Pile. I'm not calling for policies, trials, or better jails. I'm not sure what I'm calling for. Virtual castration, if I could manage it. Mostly, [this type of thing] doesn't happen here. Mostly, perhaps I thought it wouldn't happen to me. Mostly, I trust people to conduct themselves with some veneer of civility. Mostly, I want his ass.”

Months later, the woman in Seattle would confide to me that as she wrote those words she was surprised, to find herself in tears—a real-life fact that should suffice to prove that the words' emotional content was no mere fiction. The precise tenor of that content, however, its mingling of murderous rage and eyeball-rolling annoyance, was a curious amalgam that neither the RL nor the VR facts alone can quite account for. Where virtual reality and its conventions would have us believe that exu and Moondreamer were brutally raped in their own living room, here was the victim exu scolding Mr. Bungle for a breach of “civility.” Where real life, on the other hand, insists the incident was only an episode in a free-form version of Dungeons and Dragons, confined to the realm of the symbolic and at no point threatening any player's life, limb, or material well-being, here now was the player exu issuing aggrieved and heartfelt calls for Mr. Bungle's dismemberment. Ludicrously excessive by RL's lights, woefully understated by VR's, the tone of exu's response made sense only in the buzzing, dissonant gap between them.

Which is to say it made the only kind of sense that can be made of MUDly phenomena. For while the facts attached to any event born of a MUD's strange, ethereal universe may march in straight, tandem lines separated neatly into the virtual and the real, its meaning lies always in that gap. You learn this axiom early in your life as a player, and it's of no small relevance to the Bungle case that you often learn it between the sheets, so to speak. Netsex, tinysex, virtual sex— however you name it, in real-life reality it's nothing more than a phone fuck stripped of even the vestigial physicality of the voice. And yet, as many a wide-eyed newbie can tell you, it's possibly the headiest experience the very heady world of MUDs has to offer. Amid flurries of even the must cursorily described caresses, sighs, or penetrations, the glands do engage, and often as throbbingly as they would in a real-life assignation—sometimes even more so, given the combined power of anonymity and textual suggestiveness to unshackle deep-seated fantasies. And if the virtual setting and the interplayer vibe are right, who knows? The heart may engage as well, stirring up passions as strong as many that bind lovers who observe the formality of trysting in the flesh.

To participate, therefore, in this disembodied enactment of life's most body-centered activity is to risk the realization that when it comes to sex, perhaps the body in question is not the physical one at all, but its psychic double, the bodylike self-representation we carry around in our heads—and that whether we present that body to another as a meat puppet or a word puppet is not nearly as significant a distinction as one might have thought. I know, I know, you've read Foucault and your mind is not quite blown by the notion that sex is never so much an exchange of fluids as it is an exchange of signs. But trust your friend Dr. Bombay, it's one thing to grasp the notion intellectually and quite another to feel it coursing through your veins amid the virtual steam of hot netnookie. And it's a whole other mind-blowing trip altogether to encounter it thus as a college frosh, new to the Net and still in the grip of hormonal hurricanes and high school sexual mythologies. The shock can easily reverberate throughout an entire young worldview. Small wonder, then, that a newbie's first taste of MUD sex is often also the first time she or he surrenders wholly to the quirky terms of MUDdish ontology, recognizing in a full-bodied way that what happens inside a MUD-made world is neither exactly real nor exactly make-believe, but nonetheless profoundly, compellingly, and emotionally true.

And small wonder indeed that the sexual nature of Mr. Bungle's crime provoked such powerful feelings, and not just in exu (who, be it noted, was in real life a theory-savvy doctoral candidate and a longtime MOOer, but just as baffled and overwhelmed by the force of her own reaction, she later would attest, as any panting undergrad might have been). Even players who had never experienced MUD rape (the vast majority of male-presenting characters, but not as large a majority of the female-presenting as might be hoped) immediately appreciated its gravity and were moved to condemnation of the perp. exu's missive to *social-issues followed a strongly worded one from Iggy (“Well, well,” it began, “no matter what else happens on Lambda, I can always be sure that some jerk is going to reinforce my low opinion of humanity”) and was itself followed by others from Zakariyah, Wereweasel, Crawdaddy, and emmeline. Moondreamer also let her feelings (“pissed”) be known. And even Xander, the Clueless Samaritan who had responded to Bungle's cries for help and uncaged him shortly after the incident, expressed his regret once apprised of Bungle's deeds, which he allowed to be “despicable.”

A sense was brewing that something needed to be done—done soon and in something like an organized fashion—about Mr. Bungle, in particular, and about MUD rape, in general. Regarding the general problem, emmeline, who identified herself as a survivor of both virtual rape (“many times over”) and real-life sexual assault, floated a cautious proposal for a MOO-wide powwow on the subject of virtual sex offenses and what mechanisms if any might be put in place to deal with their future occurrence. As for the specific problem, the answer no doubt seemed obvious to many. But it wasn't until the evening of the second day after the incident that exu, finally and rather solemnly, gave it voice:

“I am requesting that Mr. Bungle be toaded for raping Moondreamer and I.I have never done this before, and have thought about it for days. He hurt us both.”

That was all. Three simple sentences posted to *social. Reading them, an outsider might never guess that they were an application for a death warrant. Even an outsider familiar with other MUDs might not guess it, since in many of them “toading” still refers to a command that, true to the gameworlds' sword-and-sorcery origins, simply turns a player into a toad, wiping the player's description and attributes and replacing them with those of the slimy amphibian. Bad luck for sure, but not quite as bad as what happens when the same command is invoked in the MOOish strains of MUD: not only are the description and attributes of the toaded player erased, but the account itself goes too. The annihilation of the character, thus, is total.

And nothing less than total annihilation, it seemed, would do to settle Lambda-MOO's accounts with Mr. Bungle. Within minutes of the posting of exu's appeal, HortonWho, the Australian Deleuzean, who had witnessed much of the attack from the back room of his suburban Melbourne home, seconded the motion with a brief message crisply entitled “Toad the fukr.” HortonWho's posting was seconded almost as quickly by that of Kropotkin, covictim of Mr. Bungle and well-known radical, who in real life happened also to be married to the real-life exu. And over the course of the next twenty-four hours as many as fifty players made it known, on *social and in a variety of other forms and forums, that they would be pleased to see Mr. Bungle erased from the face of the MOO. And with dissent so far confined to a dozen or so antitoading hardliners, the numbers suggested that the citizenry was indeed moving toward a resolve to have Bungle's virtual head.

There was one small but stubborn obstacle in the way of this resolve, however, and that was a curious state of social affairs known in some quarters of the MOO as the New Direction. It was all very fine, you see, for the LambdaMOO rabble to get it in their heads to liquidate one of their peers, but when the time came to actually do the deed it would require the services of a nobler class of character. It would require a wizard. Master-programmers of the MOO, spelunkers of the database's deepest code-structures and custodians of its day-to-day administrative trivia, wizards are also the only players empowered to issue the toad command, a feature maintained on nearly all MUDs as a quick-and-dirty means of social control. But the wizards of LambdaMOO, after years of adjudicating all manner of interplayer disputes with little to show for it but their own weariness and the smoldering resentment of the general populace, had decided they'd had enough of the social sphere. And so, four months before the Bungle incident, the archwizard Haakon (known in RL as Pavel Curtis, Xerox researcher and Lambda-MOO's principal architect) formalized this decision in a document called “LambdaMOO Takes a New Direction,” which he placed in the living room for all to see. In it, Haakon announced that the wizards from that day forth were pure technicians. From then on, they would make no decisions affecting the social life of the MOO, but only implement whatever decisions the community as a whole directed them to. From then on, it was decreed, LambdaMOO would just have to grow up and solve its problems on its own.

Faced with the task of inventing its own self-governance from scratch, the LambdaMOO population had so far done what any other loose, amorphous agglomeration of individuals would have done: they'd let it slide. But now the task took on new urgency. Since getting the wizards to toad Mr. Bungle (or to toad the likes of him in the future) required a convincing case that the cry for his head came from the community at large, then the community itself would have to be defined; and if the community was to be convincingly defined, then some form of social organization, no matter how rudimentary, would have to be settled on. And thus, as if against its will, the question of what to do about Mr. Bungle began to shape itself into a sort of referendum on the political future of the MOO. Arguments broke out on *social and elsewhere that had only superficially to do with Bungle (since everyone seemed to agree he was a cad) and everything to do with where the participants stood on LambdaMOO's crazy-quilty political map. Parliamentarian legalist types argued that unfortunately Bungle could not legitimately be toaded at all, since there were no explicit MOO rules against rape, or against just about anything else—and the sooner such rules were established, they added, and maybe even a full-blown judiciary system complete with elected officials and prisons to enforce those rules, the better. Others, with a royalist streak in them, seemed to feel that Bungle's as-yet-unpunished outrage only proved this New Direction silliness had gone on long enough, and that it was high time the wizardocracy returned to the position of swift and decisive leadership their player class was born to.

And then there were what I'll call the technolibertarians. For them, MUD rapists were of course assholes, but the presence of assholes on the system was a technical inevitability, like noise on a phone line, and best dealt with not through repressive social disciplinary mechanisms but through the timely deployment of defensive software tools. Some asshole blasting violent, graphic language at you? Don't whine to the authorities about it—hit the @gag command and said asshole's statements will be blocked from your screen (and only yours). It's simple, it's effective, and it censors no one.

But the Bungle case was rather hard on such arguments. For one thing, the extremely public nature of the living room meant that gagging would spare the victims only from witnessing their own violation, but not from having others witness it. You might want to argue that what those victims didn't directly experience couldn't hurt them, but consider how that wisdom would sound to a woman who'd been, say, fondled by strangers while passed out drunk in the middle of a party, and you have a rough idea how it might go over with a crowd of hardcore MOOers. Consider, for another thing, that many of the biologically female participants in the Bungle debate had been around long enough to grow lethally weary of the gag-and-get-over-it school of virtual-rape counseling, with its fine line between empowering victims and holding them responsible for their own suffering, and its shrugging indifference to the window of pain between the moment the rape-text starts flowing and the moment a gag shuts it off. From the outset it was clear that the technolibertarians were going to have to tiptoe through this issue with care, and for the most part they did.

Yet no position was trickier to maintain than that of the MOO's resident anarchists. Like the technolibbers, the anarchists didn't care much for punishments or policies or power elites. Like them, they hoped the MOO could be a place where people interacted fulfillingly without the need for such things. But their high hopes were complicated, in general, by a somewhat less thoroughgoing faith in technology (Even if you can't tear down the master's house with the master's tools—read a slogan written into one anarchist player's self-description—it is a damned good place to start). And at present they were additionally complicated by the fact that the most vocal anarchists in the discussion were none other than exu, Kropotkin, and HortonWho, who wanted to see Mr. Bungle toaded as badly as anyone did.

Needless to say, a pro-death penalty platform is not an especially comfortable one for an anarchist to sit on, so these particular anarchists were now at great pains to sever the conceptual ties between toading and capital punishment. Toading, they insisted (almost convincingly), was much more closely analogous to banishment; it was a kind of turning of the communal back on the offending party, a collective action that, if carried out properly, was entirely consistent with anarchist models of community. And carrying it out properly meant first and foremost building a consensus around it—a messy process for which there were no easy technocratic substitutes. It was going to take plenty of good old-fashioned, jawbone-intensive grassroots organizing.

So that when the time came, at 7 P.M. PST on the evening of the third day after the occurrence in the living room, to gather in emmeline's room for her proposed real-time open conclave, Kropotkin and exu were among the first to arrive. But this was hardly to be an anarchist-dominated affair, for the room was crowding rapidly with representatives of all the MOO's political stripes, and even a few wizards. Lombard showed up, and Aurea and Quanto, Spaff, TomTraceback, Eldopa and Bloof, ShermieRocko, Silver Surfer, MaoTseHedgehog, Toothpick—the names piled up and the discussion gathered momentum under their weight. Arguments multiplied and mingled, players talked past and through each other, the textual clutter of utterances and gestures filled up the screen like thick cigar smoke. Peaking in number at around thirty, this was one of the largest crowds that ever gathered in a single LambdaMOO chamber, and while emmeline had given her place a description that made it infinite in expanse and fluid in form, it now seemed anything but roomy. You could almost feel the claustrophobic air of the place, dank and overheated by virtual bodies, pressing against your skin.

I know you could because I too was there, in one of those pivotal accidents of personal history one always wants later to believe were approached with a properly solemn awareness of the moment's portent. Almost as invariably, of course, the truth is that one wanders into such occasions utterly without a clue, and so it was with me that night. Completely ignorant of any of the goings-on that had led to the meeting, I showed up mainly to see what the crowd was about, and though I observed the proceedings for a good while, I confess I found it hard to grasp what was going on. I was still the rankest of newbies then, my MOO legs still too unsteady to make the leaps of faith, logic, and empathy required to meet the spectacle on its own terms. I was fascinated by the concept of virtual rape, but I was even more so by the notion that anyone could take it altogether seriously.

In this, though, I found myself in a small and mostly silent minority, for the discussion that raged around me was of an almost unrelieved earnestness, bent it seemed on examining every last aspect and implication of Mr. Bungle's crime. There were the central questions, of course: Thumbs up or down on Bungle's virtual existence? And if down, how then to ensure that his toading was not just some isolated lynching but a first step toward shaping LambdaMOO into a legitimate community? Surrounding these, however, a tangle of weighty side issues proliferated. What, some wondered, was the real-life legal status of the offense? Could Bungle's university administrators punish him for sexual harassment? Could he be prosecuted under California state laws against obscene phone calls? Little enthusiasm was shown for pursuing either of these lines of action, which testifies both to the uniqueness of the crime and to the nimbleness with which the discussants were negotiating its idiosyncracies. Many were the casual references to Bungle's deed as simply “rape,” but these in no way implied that the players had lost sight of all distinctions between the virtual and physical versions, or that they believed Bungle should be dealt with in the same way a real-life criminal would. He had committed a MOO crime, and his punishment, if any, would be meted out via the MOO.

On the other hand, little patience was shown toward any attempts to down-play the seriousness of what Mr. Bungle had done. When the affable Shermie-Rocko proposed, more in the way of a hypothesis than an assertion, that “perhaps it's better to release . . . violent tendencies in a virtual environment rather than in real life,” he was tut-tutted so swiftly and relentlessly that he withdrew the hypothesis altogether, apologizing humbly as he did so. Not that the assembly was averse to putting matters into a more philosophical perspective. “Where does the body end and the mind begin?” young Quanto asked, amid recurring attempts to fine-tune the differences between real and virtual violence. “Is not the mind a part of the body?” “In MOO, the body IS the mind,” offered Shermie-Rocko gamely, and not at all implausibly, demonstrating the ease with which very knotty metaphysical conundrums come undone in VR. The not-so-aptly named Obtuse seemed to agree, arriving after sufficient consideration of the nature of Bungle's crime at the hardly novel yet now somehow newly resonant conjecture that “all reality might consist of ideas, who knows.”

On these and other matters the anarchists, the libertarians, the legalists, the wizardists—and the wizards—all had their thoughtful say. But as the evening wore on and the talk grew more heated and more heady, it seemed increasingly clear that the vigorous intelligence being brought to bear on this swarm of issues wasn't going to result in anything remotely like resolution. The perspectives were just too varied, the memescape just too slippery. Again and again, arguments that looked at first to be heading in a decisive direction ended up chasing their own tails; and slowly, depressingly, a dusty haze of irrelevance gathered over the proceedings.

It was almost a relief, therefore, when midway through the evening Mr. Bungle himself, the living, breathing cause of all this talk, teleported into the room. Not that it was much of a surprise. Oddly enough, in the three days since his release from Iggy's cage, Bungle had returned more than once to wander the public spaces of LambdaMOO, walking willingly into one of the fiercest storms of ill will and invective ever to rain down on a player. He'd been taking it all with a curious and mostly silent passivity, and when challenged face-to-virtual-face by both exu and the genderless elder statescharacter PatSoftly to defend himself on *social, he'd demurred, mumbling something about Christ and expiation. He was equally quiet now, and his reception was still uniformly cool, exu fixed an arctic stare on him—no hate, no anger, no interest at all. Just. . . watching. Others were more actively unfriendly. 'Asshole,” spat MaoTseHedgehog, “creep.” But the harshest of the MOO's hostility toward him had already been vented, and the attention he drew now was motivated more, it seemed, by the opportunity to probe the rapist's mind, to find out what made it tick and if possible how to get it to tick differently. In short, they wanted to know why he'd done it. So they asked him.

And Mr. Bungle thought about it. And as eddies of discussion and debate continued to swirl around him, he thought about it some more. And then he said this:

“I engaged in a bit of a psychological device that is called thought-polarization, the fact that this is not RL simply added to heighten the affect of the device. It was purely a sequence of events with no consequence on my RL existence.”

They might have known. Stilted though its diction was, the gist of the answer was simple, and something many in the room had probably already surmised: Mr. Bungle was a psycho. Not, perhaps, in real life—but then in real life it's possible for reasonable people to assume, as Bungle clearly did, that what transpires between word-costumed characters within the boundaries of a make-believe world is, if not mere play, then at most some kind of emotional laboratory experiment. Inside the MOO, however, such thinking marked a person as one of two basically subcompetent types. The first was the newbie, in which case the confusion was understandable, since there were few MOOers who had not, upon their first visits as anonymous “guest” characters, mistaken the place for a vast playpen in which they might act out their wildest fantasies without fear of censure. Only with time and the acquisition of a fixed character did players tend to make the critical passage from anonymity to pseudonymity, developing the concern for their character's reputation that marks the attainment of virtual adulthood. But while Mr. Bungle hadn't been around as long as most MOOers, he'd been around long enough to leave his newbie status behind, and his delusional statement therefore placed him among the second type: the sociopath.

And as there is but small percentage in arguing with a head case, the room's attention gradually abandoned Mr. Bungle and returned to the discussions that had previously occupied it. But if the debate had been edging toward ineffectuality before, Bungle's anticlimactic appearance had evidently robbed it of any forward motion whatsoever. What's more, from his lonely corner of the room Mr. Bungle kept issuing periodic expressions of a prickly sort of remorse, interlaced with sarcasm and belligerence, and though it was hard to tell if he wasn't still just conducting his experiments, some people thought his regret genuine enough that maybe he didn't deserve to be toaded after all. Logically, of course, discussion of the principal issues at hand didn't require unanimous belief that Bungle was an irredeemable bastard, but now that cracks were showing in that unanimity, the last of the meeting's fervor seemed to be draining out through them.

People started drifting away. Mr. Bungle left first, then others followed—one by one, in twos and threes, hugging friends and waving good night. By 9:45 P.M. only a handful remained, and the great debate had wound down into casual conversation, the melancholy remains of another fruitless good idea. The arguments had been well-honed, certainly, and perhaps might prove useful in some as-yet-unclear long run. But at this point what seemed clear was that emmeline's meeting had died, at last, and without any practical results to mark its passing.

It was also at this point, most likely, that TomTraceback reached his decision. TomTraceback was a wizard, a taciturn sort of fellow who'd sat brooding on the sidelines all evening. He hadn't said a lot, but what he had said, in emmeline's room and elsewhere, indicated that he took the crime committed against exu and Moondreamer very seriously, and that he felt no particular compassion toward the character who had committed it. But on the other hand he had made it equally plain that he took the elimination of a fellow player just as seriously, and moreover that he had no desire to return to the days of wizardly intervention. It must have been difficult, therefore, to reconcile the conflicting impulses churning within him at that moment. In fact, it was probably impossible, for though he did tend to believe that the consensus on *social was sufficient proof of the MOO's desire to see capital justice done in the Bungle case, he was also well aware that under the present order of things nothing but his own conscience could tell him, ultimately, whether to ratify that consensus or not. As much as he would have liked to make himself an instrument of the MOO's collective will, therefore, there was no escaping the fact that he must in the final analysis either act alone or not act at all.

So TomTraceback acted alone.

He told the lingering few players in the room that he had to go, and then he went. It was a minute or two before 10 P.M. He did it quietly and he did it privately, but all anyone had to do to know he'd done it was to type the @who command, which was normally what you typed if you wanted to know a player's present location and the time he last logged in. But if you had run a @who on Mr. Bungle not too long after TomTraceback left emmeline's room, the database would have told you something different.

Mr_Bungle, it would have said, is not the name of any player.

The date, as it happened, was April Fool's Day, but this was no joke: Mr. Bungle was truly dead and truly gone.

They say that LambdaMOO wasn't really the same after Mr. Bungle's toading. They say as well that nothing really changed. And though it skirts the fuzziest of dream-logics to say that both these statements are true, the MOO is just the sort of fuzzy, dreamlike place in which such contradictions thrive.

Certainly the Bungle Affair marked the end of LambdaMOO's brief epoch of rudderless social drift. The rash of public-spiritedness engendered by the events might alone have led in time to some more formal system of communal self-definition, but in the end it was the archwizard Haakon who made sure of it. Away on business for the duration of the episode, Haakon returned to find its wreckage strewn across the tiny universe he'd set in motion. The elimination of a player, the trauma of several others, and the nerve-wracked complaints of his colleague TomTraceback presented themselves to his concerned and astonished attention, and he resolved to see if he couldn't learn some lesson from it all. For the better part of a day he puzzled over the record of events and arguments left in * social, then he sat pondering the chaotically evolving shape of his creation, and at the day's end he descended once again into the social arena of the MOO with another history-altering proclamation.

It was to be his last, for what he now decreed was the final, missing piece of the New Direction. In a few days, Haakon announced, he would build into the database a system of petitions and ballots whereby anyone could put to popular vote any social scheme requiring wizardly powers for its implementation, with the results of the vote to be binding on the wizards. At last and for good, the awkward gap between the will of the players and the efficacy of the technicians would be closed. And though some anarchists grumbled about the irony of Haakon's dictatorially imposing universal suffrage on an unconsulted populace, in general the citizens of LambdaMOO seemed to find it hard to fault a system more purely democratic than any that could ever exist in real life. A few months and a dozen ballot measures later, widespread participation in the new regime had already produced a small arsenal of mechanisms for dealing with the types of violence that called the system into being. MOO residents now had access to a @boot command, for instance, with which to summarily eject berserker “guest” characters. And players could bring suit against one another through an ad hoc mediation system in which mutually agreed-upon judges had at their disposition the full range of wizardry punishments—up to and including the capital.

Yet the continued dependence on extermination as the ultimate keeper of the peace suggested that this new MOO order was perhaps not built on the most solid of foundations. For if life on LambdaMOO began to acquire more coherence in the wake of the toading, death retained all the fuzziness of pre-Bungle days. This truth was rather dramatically borne out, not too many days after Bungle departed, by the arrival of a strange new character named Dr. Jest. There was a forceful eccentricity to the newcomer's manner, but the oddest thing about his style was its striking yet unnameable familiarity. And when he developed the annoying habit of stuffing fellow players into a jar containing a tiny simulacrum of a certain deceased rapist, the source of this familiarity became obvious:

Mr. Bungle had risen from the grave.

In itself, Bungle's reincarnation as Dr. Jest was a remarkable turn of events, but perhaps even more remarkable was the utter lack of amazement with which the LambdaMOO public took note of it. To be sure, many residents were appalled by the brazenness of Bungle's return. In fact, one of the first petitions circulated under the new voting system was a request for Dr. Jest's toading that almost immediately gathered several dozen signatures (but failed in the end to reach ballot status). Yet few were unaware of the ease with which the toad proscription could be circumvented—all the toadee had to do (all the Ur-Bungle at NYU presumably had done) was to go to the minor hassle of acquiring a new Internet account, and LambdaMOO's character registration program would then simply treat the known felon as an entirely new and innocent person. Nor was this ease necessarily understood to represent a failure of toading's social disciplinary function. On the contrary, it only underlined the truism (repeated many times throughout the debate over Mr. Bungle's fate) that his punishment, ultimately, had been no more or less symbolic than his crime.

What was surprising, however, was that Mr. Bungle/Dr. Jest appeared to have taken the symbolism to heart. Dark themes still obsessed him—the objects he created gave off wafts of Nazi imagery and medical torture—but he no longer radiated the aggressively antisocial vibes he had before. He was a lot less unpleasant to look at (the outrageously seedy clown description had been replaced by that of a mildly creepy but actually rather natty young man, with blue eyes. . . suggestive of conspiracy, untamed eroticism, and perhaps a sense of understanding of the future), and aside from the occasional jar-stuffing incident, he was also a lot less dangerous to be around. It seemed obvious, at least to me, that he'd undergone some sort of personal transformation in the days since I'd first glimpsed him back in emmeline's crowded room—nothing radical maybe, but powerful nonetheless, and resonant enough with my own experience, I felt, that it might be more than professionally interesting to talk with him, and perhaps compare notes.

For I too was undergoing a. transformation in the aftermath of that night in emmeline's—and was increasingly uncertain what to make of it. As I pursued my runaway fascination with the discussion I had heard there, as I pored over the *social debate and got to know exu and some of the other victims and witnesses, I could feel my newbie consciousness falling away from me. Where before I'd found it hard to take virtual rape seriously, I now was finding it difficult to remember how I could ever not have taken it seriously. I was proud to have arrived at this perspective—it felt like an exotic sort of achievement, and it definitely made my ongoing experience of the MOO a richer one.

But it was also having some unsettling effects on the way I looked at the rest of the world. Sometimes, for instance, it grew difficult for me to understand why RL society classifies RL rape alongside crimes against person or property. Since rape can occur without any physical pain or damage, I found myself reasoning, then it must be classed as a crime against the mind—more intimately and deeply hurtful, to be sure, than cross burnings, wolf whistles, and virtual rape, but undeniably located on the same conceptual continuum. I did not, however, conclude as a result that rapists were protected in any fashion by the First Amendment. Quite the opposite, in fact: the more seriously I took the notion of virtual rape, the less seriously I was able to take the tidy division of the world into the symbolic and the real that underlies the very notion of freedom of speech.

Let me assure you, though, that I did not at the time adopt these thoughts as full-fledged arguments, nor am I now presenting them as such. I offer them, rather, as a picture of the sort of mind-set that my initial encounters with a virtual world inspired in me. I offer them also, therefore, as a kind of prophecy. For whatever else these thoughts were telling me, I have come to hear in them an announcement of the final stages of our decades-long passage into the Information Age, a paradigm shift that the classic liberal fire wall between word and deed (itself a product of an earlier paradigm shift commonly known as the Enlightenment) is not likely to survive intact. After all, anyone the least bit familiar with the workings of the new era's definitive technology, the computer, knows that it operates on a principle impracticably difficult to distinguish from the pre-Enlightenment principle of the magic word: the commands you type into a computer are a kind of speech that doesn't so much communicate as make things happen, directly and ineluctably, the same way pulling a trigger does. They are incantations, in other words, and anyone at all attuned to the technosocial mega-trends of the moment—from the growing dependence of economies on the global flow of intensely fetishized words and numbers to the burgeoning ability of bioengineers to speak the spells written in the four-letter text of DNA—knows that the logic of the incantation is rapidly permeating the fabric of our lives.

And it was precisely this logic, I was beginning to understand, that provided whatever real magic LambdaMOO had to offer—not the fictive trappings of voodoo and shape-shifting and wizardry, but the conflation of speech and act that's inevitable in any computer-mediated world, be it Lambda or the increasingly wired world at large. This was dangerous magic, to be sure, a potential threat—if misconstrued or misapplied—to our always precarious freedoms of expression, and as someone who lives by his words I dared not take the threat lightly. And yet, on the other hand, I could no longer convince myself that our wishful insulation of language from the realm of action had ever been anything but a valuable kludge, a philosophically imperfect stopgap against oppression that would just have to do till something truer and more elegant came along.

Was I wrong to think this truer, more elegant thing might be found on LambdaMOO? I did not know. I continued, in my now-and-then visits, to seek it there, sensing its presence just below the surface of every interaction. Yet increasingly I sensed as well that if I really wanted to see what lay beneath those surfaces—to glimpse unveiled whatever there was of genuine historical novelty in VR's slippery social and philosophical dynamics—I was going to have to radically deepen my acquaintance with the MOO somehow.

For a time I considered the possibility, as I said, that discussing with Dr. Jest our shared experience of the workings of the place might be a step toward the understanding I sought. But when that notion first occurred to me, I still felt somewhat intimidated by his lingering criminal aura, and I hemmed and hawed a good long time before finally resolving to drop him MOO-mail suggesting we have a chat. By then it appeared to be too late. For reasons known only to himself, Dr. Jest stopped logging in. Maybe he'd grown bored with the MOO. Maybe the loneliness of ostracism had gotten to him. Maybe a psycho whim had carried him far away or maybe he'd quietly acquired a third character and started life over with a cleaner slate.

Wherever he'd gone, though, he left behind the room he'd created for himself—a treehouse tastefully decorated, as he'd described it, with rare-book shelves, an operating table, and a life-size William S. Burroughs doll—and he left it unlocked. So I took to checking in there occasionally, heading out of my own cozy nook (inside a TV set inside the little red hotel inside the Monopoly board inside the dining room of LambdaMOO) and teleporting on over to the treehouse, where the room description always told me Dr. Jest was present but asleep, in the conventional depiction for disconnected characters. The not-quite-emptiness of the abandoned room invariably instilled in me an uncomfortable mix of melancholy and the creeps, and I would stick around only on the off chance that Dr. Jest might wake up, say hello, and share his understanding of the future with me.

It happens, in fact, that Dr. Jest did eventually rise again from his epic sleep. But what wisdom he had to offer on that occasion I couldn't tell you, for I had given up the habit of my skittish stakeouts by then. Some final transformation had come over me between visits to that lonely place: the complex magic of the MOO grew gradually to interest me less and less as a way of understanding the future and more and more as a way of living the present, until one day I teleported home from Dr. Jest's treehouse for the last time, determined to wait no longer for a consultation with my fellow doctor to give me what I wanted from the MOO, but to wrest it instead from the very heart of the place. I was resolved now, to make a life there—to loosen for a while the RL ties that kept me still a sort of tourist on the MOO and to give in, body and soul, to the same powerful gravity that kept so many other MOOers logged on day after day and for hours at a time.

And in the end that's just what I did, so that for a brief, unforgettable season the buzzing haze of VR came at last to envelop my existence: my small daily dramas were absorbed into the MOO's teeming reservoir of small daily dramas, my labors were directed as much toward the ongoing construction of that virtual world as toward the quotidian maintenance of my stake in the material one, and my days were swept by the same broad currents of MOO history that gave rise to the Bungle Affair and the momentous social changes that followed on it.

That is all quite another story, of course. Yet as I said before, it begins where Mr. Bungle's ends, and there remains now only a very little of his to tell. Dr. Jest did finally reawaken, it's true, one late-December day—but he didn't even make it to January before he decided, for no apparent reason but old times' sake, to go on a late-night Bungle-grade rampage through the living room, thus all but formally requesting to be hauled before an official mediator and toaded with a vengeance. The new MOO polity promptly obliged, and I, still busily contriving to loosen those RL ties in preparation for my full-time residency, missed by days my last chance to hear the doctor's story from his own virtual mouth.

But this was no great loss, I suppose. For after all what more could I have learned? Dr. Jest's relapse into mindless digital violence, mocking as it did my wishful projection of hard-earned wisdom onto him, was lesson enough, driving home what Bungle's story in its fullest implications should have already taught me by then: that nothing in the MOO was ever quite what one imagined it to be.

I would still have to learn this lesson many times over, of course. I'd learn it again when on the eve of my immersion in VR two separate and credible sources revealed to me that the virtual psychosis of Mr. Bungle had been even starker than anyone guessed: that the Bungle account had been the more or less communal property of an entire NYU dorm floor, that the young man at the keyboard on the evening of the rape had acted not alone but surrounded by fellow students calling out suggestions and encouragement, that conceivably none of those people were speaking for Bungle when he showed up in emmeline's room to answer for the crime, that Dr. Jest himself, thought commonly to have reincarnated the whole Bungle and nothing but the Bungle, in fact embodied just one member of the original mob—just one scattered piece of a self more irreparably fragmented than any RL multiple personality could ever fear to be.

I don't know exactly how often it occurred to me, in the VR-saturated months to follow, that other such shards of Mr. Bungle's shattered identity might lurk among the ethereal population I moved through on a daily basis. But if they were there they never made themselves known, and I certainly never tried to sniff them out. It was far too late for that: the time had come for me to live in LambdaMOO, and I no longer sought the company of ghosts.

RL

VR

2

The Scarlet Balloon

Or TINYGEOGRAPHY, A Long View and an Overview

It was early in the afternoon of my first day as a full-fledged inhabitant of LambdaMOO, and I was in the living room.

It was very bright, open, and airy there, with large plate-glass windows looking southward over the pool to the gardens beyond. On the north wall, there was a rough stonework fireplace. The east and west walls were almost completely covered with large, well-stocked bookcases. An exit in the northwest corner led to the kitchen and, in a more northerly direction, to the entrance hall. The door into the coat closet was at the north end of the east wall, and at the south end was a sliding glass door leading out onto a wooden deck. There were two sets of couches, one clustered around the fireplace and one with a view out the windows.

There was a crowd in the living room, as usual, but I didn't know anybody in it. Minnie was there—I'd heard her name in conversation once or twice before— and someone called Jimpsum, watching me with mild interest. Lestat, the vampire, was also present, as were Lopher, Pensee, Squib, phedro, Jackson, Portia, Mehitabel, Zaphtra, Spunkin, Dweezilheimer, and a guest.

The guest was beige.

The crowd, in general, was doing what you did in the living room, which was nothing in particular. My screen was filling up rapidly with lines of idle chat and random silliness.

A cockatoo perched near the fireplace squawked, “Just another MOO.”

Pensee bravely gags the cockatoo, read the next line on my screen, ignoring nipped fingers and frantic squawking.

The cockatoo was a robot, programmed to repeat at random a small selection of the hundreds of statements spoken in its vicinity over the last few hours. The cockatoo was immensely annoying, but its designer had mercifully equipped it with a gag command, which shut it up for a little while at least.

Spunkin, observing Pensee's brave gagging of the cockatoo, thought, “Beat me to it.”

Spunkin thought this out loud, actually, wrapping his thought in a little typographic thought balloon, which looked like this:

Spunkin . o O ( Beat me to it. )

Pensee grinned.

Mehitabel said to Lopher, “Furrmi was OK, I guess. Too many danmed typos, though.”

Lestat's soft chuckle echoed in my ears as he returned to New Orleans to feed. Lestat was gone.

Lopher said, “Well, Furrmi and I weere good drinking pals :)”

Mehitabel said, “Er, 'damned' that is. Damn.”

Pensee said to Lopher, “Oh dear, I'm sorry to hear that.”

Mehitabel blushed.

Chemo comes out of the closet (so to speak ...), said my screen.

Jimpsum said, to no one in particular, “Which of these is the most important to you in your life: spiritual enlightenment, good grooming, sex, pizza, electrical appliances, spray starch?”

Lopher said, “What can I say? I like fuck ups, and he was one of the biggest;)”

Chemo slid open the glass door to the deck and slipped out, sliding the door closed behind him.

Burg teleported in.

Template teleported in.

Mehitabel teleported out.

Spunkin thought, “Hmmm. Spray starch . . .”

Minnie said, “NairTM.”

A teal guest came out of the closet (so to speak . . .).

Portia said, “Good grooming before sex and pizza after.”

The teal guest slid open the glass door to the deck and slipped out, sliding the door closed behind it (“it” being the guest, of course, which like all other guests was of the neuter gender).

Spunkin fell down laughing at Portia's answer.

Minnie said, “Or Trident Sugarless bubblegum.”

Jimpsum chuckled politely at Minnie.

Burg looked at Minnie with some curiosity (or so Minnie's automated look-detector informed us). Burg was the twenty-sixth to do so that day.

Jimpsum said, “Assume you have a thousand dollars. Do you keep it, or go for what's behind door number three?”

phedro exclaimed, “KEEP IT. ALL THE PRIZES SUCK ANYWAY!”

Leda teleported in.

Minnie said to Jimpsum, “I'd give it to a homeless person.”

Burg said, “Does anybody here go to Northwestern?”

Minnie looks preposterous with this halo on her head, Minnie emoted.

Pensee grinned a little.

Template looked at Minnie with some curiosity. Template was the twenty-seventh to do so that day.

Jimpsum said, “If you could pass your time with foolish daydreaming instead of doing a decent job of what you're supposed to be doing, would you endlessly mull over simple-minded questions like these?”

Inspector Gadget entered from the north.

Burg teleported out.

Rob Lowe came out of the closet (so to speak . . .).

Burg teleported in.

Spunkin said to Jimpsum, “Uh . . . isn't that what we're doing now? :-)”

I exited to the north.

I was in the entrance hall.

It was a small foyer, the hub of the currently occupied portion of Lambda House. To the north were the double doors that formed the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror at about head height on the east wall, just to the right of a corridor leading off into the bedroom area. The south wall was all rough stonework, the back of the living room fireplace; at the west end of the wall was the opening leading south into the living room and southwest into the kitchen. And to the west was an open archway leading into the dining room.

There was nobody there, and for that I was grateful. The living room had its charms, to be sure, but I preferred them in smaller doses than the one I'd just taken. It exhausted me to try and follow the interactions in there; keeping track of the disjointed threads of conversation and the flighty comings and goings of the residents felt too much like trying to navigate a cocktail party under the influence of various psychotomimetic drugs.

Besides, even under the best of circumstances I had never been that good at working a room, and for anyone even moderately unsure of his social graces, the living room was not necessarily the most delightful place to be. Indeed, in my earliest visits to the MOO, the living room had seemed to me an emotional torture chamber comparable only to the luncheon tables of junior high school. There was something downright cruel, I felt, in the architectural decision that obliged guests and newbies—whose sleeping quarters were located by default in the living room's coat closet—to step out into a crowd of deftly chattering regulars every time they logged on and made their first awkward forays into the MOO. Even if the regulars hadn't sometimes gone out of their way to make the new arrivals feel clumsier than they already did (in an earlier design of the living room's sliding glass door, for instance, any players too green to know they had to type open door before exiting would find their boneheaded, nose-flattening collision with the pane announced to the room in humiliating detail), the experience would still have been a trying one for many a budding MOOer. Just as at the lunch tables of yore, the challenge of finding one's place in that boisterous roomful of strangers could be daunting, and it hardly helped matters to learn, as one soon did, that beneath the surface of the living room's giddy chitchat the regulars were often carrying on a number of unseen conversations (both with one another, via the whisper command, and with players in other rooms, via the longdistance page command) in which, for all one knew, all manner of sneering judgments were being passed on one's ungainly newbie self.

Thankfully, within a few weeks of my first visit I had found a new place to sleep—the little red Monopoly hotel in the dining room, where I'd installed my nineteen-inch TV set and crawled inside and called it home (using, naturally, the @sethome command to do so). And not long after that I had found a new set of friends—through exu, who had taken me under her wing and introduced me to her lively, bohemian circle. From then on, whenever I connected to the MOO I usually teleported straight to exu's room, a.k.a. the Crossroads, materializing in the richly cluttered attic she'd constructed beneath the roof of an old barn in the fields just west of Lambda House, and lingering there into the night trading erudite quips and lowbrow gossip with assorted anarcho-pagans, slacker intellectuals, and queer-theorist computer programmers.

Some nights the party migrated over to Interzone—a MOO founded by exu and her pals and modeled on somebody's notion of a postapocalyptic Berlin— and I would migrate with it. I'd set up an Interzone connection in a second on-screen window and spend my evening there, meeting new friends of exu's and switching briefly back to LambdaMOO to add their Lambda character-names to the growing list in my automated login-watcher, which alerted me when anybody I might like to talk to happened to connect. exu was already on the list, of course, as were Kropotkin and HortonWho; and soon there was Sebastiano, who lived in a small gay community woven into a rug hung from the wall of exu's barn; and S*, whose principal Lambda character (loosely based on the woman who shot Andy Warhol) lived inside a small, free-floating bead of seawater; and Niacin, who had so many alter egos on Lambda it was hard to say exactly where he lived.

And there was Gracile, too, and Elsa, and Alva, all good for a late-night tête-à-tête, along with others who would do in a pinch—the upshot being, in short, that I no longer had to enter the living room with anxiety knotting up my stomach, wondering if I was cool enough or clever enough to rate a nod from the upper-classmen. I had my own cool, clever crowd now, and I could take the living room or leave it as I pleased, and so I did. I'd pop in now and then to hook up with an acquaintance or two; or sometimes I'd just wander in and sit there on the sidelines for a while and watch, with quiet amusement, the dizzying, cartoonish goings on.

Today, however, I had gone into the living room in search of something other than companionship or entertainment: I was looking for a new home.

I more or less had to, because the old one, as I'd discovered to my dismay upon logging in earlier that day, had apparently vanished into thin air. The television set in which I slept was still intact, and I had awoken as usual amid the fat-cushioned Oriental splendor with which I had decorated it (drawing much of my inspiration, you may as well know, from dim memories of I Dream of Jeannie and the silken interior of Barbara Eden's magic lamp). But when I tried to leave my lushly appointed lair I noticed something was seriously amiss: the exit, which had always reliably led through the glow of the television screen out into the hotel room beyond, now led no place at all. It wasn't that the exit was blocked, as a quick examination told me, nor was it exactly a matter of the TV set having been removed from its location. What appeared to have happened, on the contrary, was that the location had been removed from the TV set. The very ground on which it stood, that is to say, had been snatched out from under it, for the hotel room itself was gone, and gone without a trace—erased from the database without warning or explanation or even, evidently, the slightest concern for the resulting metaphysical quandary of my television set, now separated entirely from the fabric of MOOspace and bearing me along with it through the topographic limbo into which it had been cast.

I was annoyed, but hardly mystified. I quickly deduced the reason for this disruption. The hotel room, I well knew, had belonged to a player named Ecco (who was a dolphin and a very longtime presence on my login-watcher list), but Ecco had not logged on in several months and as a consequence she had been “reaped”—her account closed, her character erased, her hotel room and other properties and creations reduced to the electronic bits of which they were made and redistributed to more active players. Ecco learned that she'd been reaped not long after it happened, and I heard the news not long after that, because she told it to me herself—face-to-face, in the genuine, physical flesh. Which was how she told me most things, actually, and which was also only natural, considering the fact that Ecco, the late virtual dolphin, was in real life Jessica, the woman I shared my home and bed with.

As it happens, the death of Ecco and the life I lived with Jessica were not unrelated phenomena. We'd been together nearly three years by then—a record for me after the decade or so of fitful, fraught liaisons that comprised my adult love life, and an emotional achievement topped only by my unprecedented decision (finally acted on sometime in the midst of Dr. Jest's long sleep, and just a month or two after I'd moved my TV set into Ecco's virtual hotel room) to actually live under the same real-world roof with her. Granted, it wasn't as if we'd gone so far as to get formally hitched, but for the time being it wasn't as if I was really capable of going that far anyway. For though I loved Jessica dearly, and though I had nothing against marriage in principle, in practice it was clear to me by now that a whole thoroughly uninviting closetful of psychological baggage would have to be sifted through before I might aspire to so unflinching a state of union. It's embarrassing to admit, yes, but there it is: I had reached that stage in some people's lives when their jumpy progressions from one partner to another can no longer pass for anything as rational as shopping around or as liberating as free love. I suffered, I knew, from a hard case of that pandemic set of affective phobias and existential willies known to the layperson as fear of commitment. The symptoms weren't anything too terribly severe, but they were tenacious enough that my relatively tranquil RL cohabitation with Jessica qualified as a small personal miracle, which I regarded with the appropriate measures of reverent wonder and superstitious anxiety.

Yet if this novel state of affairs could be said to constitute a great leap forward in my fumblings toward intimacy with the woman I loved, its effects on our MOO relationship were nothing short of terminal. Indeed, they could hardly have turned out otherwise, since the very existence of that relationship had always largely depended on the physical distance we'd maintained between us. In the beginning, I suppose, the strange new world of LambdaMOO may have brought us together in a spirit of shared discovery, but it very soon became just a nice place to meet on the nights we found ourselves bedding down separately in our crosstown apartments—a warmer, somehow more physical plane than the raw VR embodied by the telephone, where communication was perhaps more efficient but the opportunities for an emotionally convincing good-night cuddle (to say nothing of a leisurely hour of lovemaking amid the plush furnishings of an enchanted mansion's master bedroom) were not quite as ample. It came as no surprise then, really, that our moving in together brought an almost immediate end to our MOO encounters, even though as a two-phone-line household we could as easily have carried them on from opposite ends of our new apartment as we had from opposite sides of the city. There just wasn't much of a point anymore.

Nor evidently did any other very compelling motives remain, in the wake of our domestic merger, to keep Jessica returning to the MOO. My irregular visits continued, of course, but hers grew increasingly infrequent and eventually stopped altogether. Two months went by without her logging in, then three, and then at last a fatal four—the maximum period of inactivity allowed to LambdaMOO players by the all-knowing but not exactly all-merciful wizards, who'd recently been charged by the MOO electorate with maintaining a strict regimen of population control and had taken to the task with a more or less punctual ruthlessness.

And so Ecco had been reaped, and so I had arrived a few days later to find my virtual home adrift in the void. And so, now, I stood here in the entrance hall of Lambda House, sizing up the room's potential as a setting for my TV set.

The potential was not tremendous, but I hadn't seen much better. Earlier in the day exu had offered to let me put the TV in the junk-strewn yard in front of the barn, and I had gratefully taken the offer into consideration. Of my MOO friends, after all, exu was still the closest (we'd even met in real life, briefly, when she and Kropotkin came to New York for a short midwinter visit), and the idea of putting roots down in her neighborhood appealed to me. But even in VR there was something unsettling about the thought of leaving a perfectly good piece of consumer electronics out in the heat and dust of a barnyard. And though the living room seemed a more obviously congenial locale, the instant I teleported into that maelstrom of sociability I remembered why I'd been so glad to stop sleeping in the coat closet. Besides, the living room's owner didn't appear to be permitting anybody to set up house within the room itself—nobody lived there but the cockatoo, and all things considered, I supposed that was as it should be. Every community, virtual or otherwise, needed its public gathering places, and the living room could hardly serve that function if individual players started staking out their turf there.

As far as I could tell, however, nobody did much gathering in the entrance hall. People mostly passed through it, pausing for a while to chat with other passers-through perhaps, but always ultimately heading somewhere else. Nobody would care much if I made my home here, I didn't think, and the location was certainly central.

I took another look around, which is to say I typed the look command and saw the entrance hall's description one more time:

It was still a small foyer, the hub of the currently occupied portion of Lambda House. To the north were the double doors that formed the main entrance to the house. There was a mirror at about head height on the east wall, just to the right of a corridor leading off into the bedroom area. The south wall was all rough stonework, the back of the living room fireplace; at the west end of the wall was the opening leading south into the living room and southwest into the kitchen. And to the west was an open archway leading into the dining room.

I squinted my eyes and tried to picture my nineteen-inch television set blending in with the scenery—over there beneath the mirror perhaps, or next to the globe that stood in the corner, or up against the rough stonework of the south wall.

I couldn't see it.

I exited to the east.

I was in a corridor.

The corridor went east and west. There was a door to the north leading to a powder room. A door to the south led to the stairwell.

I went east.

The corridor ended here with short flights of stairs going up and down to the east. South led to one of the master bedrooms.

I went south.

I was in a large bedroom, the main master bedroom of the house, overlooking the pool to the south through a sliding glass door. There were louvered doors leading west, and a north exit back to the corridor.

An obnoxious beeping sound was going off every few seconds:

«beep» it went.

«beep»

I ignored the beeping. It was just the burglar alarm, and apparently you could waste an amusing few minutes trying to solve the puzzle of how to shut it off, but I had never bothered with it before and didn't feel like trying now. I just pretended the noise wasn't there, as I usually did—as I had, for example, the night Ecco and I had had tinysex right here on the bed, heedless in our newbie enthusiasm of the fact that the room was open to the public, and that anybody could have walked or teleported in on us right in the middle of our steamiest emotes.

«beep»

I smiled at the memory. And I realized that this was not the place for me to make my new home, either. I needed someplace a little farther off the beaten path. Someplace cozy, and written well and warmly. Someplace where the scenery had a little poetry in it, but wouldn't clash with the matte-black finish of a magic television set.

«beep»

But how was I to find this place? Just wandering from room to room like this could end up taking days, what with all the construction that had gone on in and around Lambda House in its three years of existence. I needed some way to step back and look at the MOO as a whole—some vantage point beyond it all from which to scan the possibilities.

«beep»

I thought a bit.

«beep»

I thought some more.

«beep»

I opened the sliding glass door and headed south.

From the pool deck I walked west a bit, into a relatively neglected corner of the Lambda gardens. A bubble floated in midair there—I slipped inside it, smiled to see one of TomTraceback's alter egos curled up asleep within, then slipped back out and continued south. I passed the blue-and-white awnings of a makeshift outdoor café. I crossed a well-tended patch of turf complete with Italianate reflecting pool and Victorian gazebo. At the south end of the patch of turf I let myself through a wooden gate into a large open field of tall grass, and there I stopped and had a look at what I had come here for: three brightly colored hot-air balloons, straining at their moorings.

I chose the scarlet one with the golden lion figure sewn into its surface and clambered into its basket. I'd never actually been up in one of these balloons before, but the flight instructions, written on a placard inside the basket,