The Cuckoo's Egg

by Clifford Stoll

At least nobody could complain about my appearance. I wore the standard Berkeley corporate uniform: grubby shirt, faded jeans, long hair, and cheap sneakers. Managers occasionally wore ties, but productivity went down on the days they did.

“Cliff, he’s not much of an astronomer, but what a computer hacker!” (The computer folks, of course, had a different view: “Cliff’s not much of a programmer, but what an astronomer!” At best, graduate school had taught me to keep both sides fooled.)

Roy treated his students and staff much as his subatomic particles: keep them in line, energize them, then shoot them into immovable objects.

Collect raw data and throw away the expected. What remains challenges your theories.

The astronomer’s rule of thumb: if you don’t write it down, it didn’t happen.

The boss wanted me to jump through hoops; I’d put up a three-ring circus.

Did this hacker have a magic decryption formula? Unlikely. If you turn the crank of a sausage machine backwards, pigs won’t come out the other end.

Things are easier in grad school. Just call everyone with a tie, “Professor,” and anyone with a beard, “Dean.” When in doubt, just say “Doctor.”

“Any system can be insecure. All you have to do is stupidly manage it.”