-Caveat Lector- What follows this brief introduction is a word for word transcript of an actual conversation between a couple of real life working class people. Like most real life conversations by working class people it is punctuated with periodic profanities. If this bothers you, stop reading now. Better still, get over it, read on and learn a little something about how the government treats the people who do its dirty work. Not surprisingly, it's a cautionary tale. Two guys got drunk with a tape recorder one day. One guy was a war hero with a secret that came back to haunt him years later when he thought he'd stumbled on the Unabomber and, like a good citizen is supposed to do, he called the FBI. The other guy was me. Think of me as a sort of unlicensed private detective. I was part of a team working on a case. It wasn't him. He was a sidetrack. What we were really trying to do was find the Unabomber before the Feds did. Our motives varied. The interview would have sparked a tasty bidding war. I personally wanted to kick his butt, up down and sideways and then turn him in to the cops. As much as I agree with his cogent critique of leftism and with some aspects of his critique of industrial society, I can't abide anybody murdering workers, especially at random, especially science workers. The first time I ever heard of the Unabomber was in the text of a bulletin issued to my partner at the time, a science worker, and her work mates. It warned against opening any packages that came in the mail until they had been cleared by security. The way I figure, politics aside, any guy who would blow up Dr. Sue needs his butt kicked bad. I aimed to do it, for moral reasons of course, and not just because any mammal will try to protect its mate. And then of course there was that incipient bidding war. We fanned out and started beating the bushes. We turned up some very interesting folks, but alas, not the Unabomber. He proved to be a wild goose. Any fool can hunt deer. They're not hard to find and they never shoot back. The wild goose, on the other hand, is never a bore. Best of all, you needn't actually bag one to feel the thrill of the hunt. Even spoor, even questionable spoor, is enough to get the blood up. The not uncommon sidetrack often also holds much promise. Not a few times the better stories are found far from the primary trail. What follows is a conversation I had while I was sidetracked. I'm showing it to you word for word because I credit you with having enough intelligence to not need my interpretation and because I like to let my subjects speak for themselves. I've taken the liberty, though, of redacting a couple names in the interest of protecting my sources. One of these days I'm going to edit it down a bit and publish it along with some other interviews with other victims of government's limitless perfidy. I met this guy by way of my late bro Clance, with whom he was inclined on occasion to abuse the world's most popular poison. I've never seen him as drunk as I've heard he get sometimes, but I do believe the accounts. Though he has never been known as a teetotaler, his current excesses are a recent development. Or at least so it's said. I dunno. I wasn't there. I'm passing on hearsay here. He was definitely sober when I first met him, and soberly cautious at first. He doesn't want his real name used. These days, who can blame him? One name's as good as another; let's call him "Fred." He wanted to know who else I knew and what were my motivations for wanting to add his story to my already well stocked collection. I'm almost always willing to explain myself. My motives need no hiding. The meeting had been set up by Clance's ex-in-law, who Fred trusts. Let's call him "Brian." Fred works for Brian part time. Brian and I used to be housemates and workmates. For a while we played in a band together. Fred lives down the hall from my ex. So I came into Fred's life fairly well vouched for. This maybe why he was willing to talk to me frankly about this private matter. It's not that he doesn't want the story to get out. If it would somehow help makes things so this kind of stuff wouldn't happen any more, he's all for it. But in the meantime he's an anonymous source and I intend to protect him. Fred came with a mix of vouchers and disclaimers from the odd dozen or so people we know in common. I had asked around of course whether or not he was on the up and up. My friends seem on the whole to be more inclined to believe Fred when he's talking about the past than when he's talking about the future. This is a common side effect of alcohol. He contradicts himself no more often than anybody else on the sauce. He doesn't drink on the job. Ever. I've been told that you can trust him with your wife, your kids and your money. You probably don't want him driving your car, at least not when he's loaded. His story is consistent from telling to telling. It's apparently not one he tells to most people, and definitely not the thing he's best known for. Basically, I like him. I don't like his story; I'd much prefer when stories like his prove to be untrue. When they don't it's yet more proof the paranoids have been right all along. But it's an entirely believable story, not unlike all too many others which have proved to have been all too true. Until convinced otherwise, I'm willing to give it and him the benefit of the doubt. You can decide for yourself. Of course I can no more vouch for his veracity than you can for mine. I can vouch for him having told it; I can prove that. The scars he alludes to in the text are real; I've seen them. They are consistent with having been caused by the reasons he gave. Some of the skills he claims have been demonstrated conclusively in front of entirely credible witnesses, myself included. He had nothing to gain, and perhaps a lot to lose, by telling me this unfortunately all too plausible tale. At the very least, I hope you'll find it as entertaining as it is educational. But I fear his quest for justice, at least by way of court, is just another wild goose chase. Once we had exchanged who-do-you-knows, Fred briefly outlined his story for me. It was indeed as Clance and Brian said it was. I took a few notes. I thought of some questions. I showed him my tape recorder and he nodded his consent. Brian's place of business is too noisy to allow for any confidence in my tape recorder's anemic built in mike. The more robust remote mike lay on my desk, at home a bridge away, where in my haste I had left it. So we adjourned to his digs, a residential hotel a few blocks away on Shattuck Ave., in the heart of downtown Berkeley. As any paranoid can tell you, the leading of a virtual stranger to one's lair is an act of enormous trust. As one who fully appreciates all that the honor entails, it has long been my custom demonstrate my appreciation the most suitable fashion I can. In Fred's case I sprang for some beer. I'd heard he liked the stuff, a lot. I don't mind it all that much either, though it's not really my drug of choice. I figured that if I acted natural, i.e. if I sprawled on the floor swilling germ piss, it would set him at ease and his tale would flow more freely. And of course I knew I could count on the alcohol itself. It's the mother of tongue looseners. So for once, for the sake of the story, I forewent my beloved caffeine and went native. Like Heinlien says, "When in Rome, shoot Roman candles." I even stayed sober longer than Fred did, but must admit I did lose track of the tape counter once and of the plot line at least twice. My humble apologies. I tried my level best. History demanded a witness and so I selflessly sacrificed precious brain cells from my dwindling supply. They're dead as Clance's liver now, lost and gone forever just so you could hear this tale. So bear with me, please, especially as we near the end. I did manage to bring back a pretty interesting story, if not in perfect order, and I spared you one hellacious hangover. Fred's room is a bachelor's room, knee deep in tools, parts and laundry. Empties cover it like sprinkles on a party cake. There are an awful lot books, some with many pages marked, none with a shelf to call home. The tools included a gem cutter's set up and an obsolete, but functional, computer. Feeling quite at home I plumped up some softer detritus and, after popping a couple of tall ones, I made myself comfy and turned on the tape. *** <nessie>: So look, over at [Brian's place of business] you told me the basics of the story and I took a few notes here and . . . Fred: Are we recording now? <nessie>: Yeah, we're recording now. This isn't going to be published as an interview for a while, if at all. It's research for an article, maybe, hopefully, a book by somebody else. But basically, for all I know you'll end up a paragraph in a paper in Portland written by somebody you never met. Her name's Mitzi, and she makes a point of always coming up with more story than she needs 'cuz that's how it's supposed to be done. Maybe you'll end up on the cutting room floor; I dunno. I dunno what else she's come up with or even who else or how many people like me she's got beating the bushes on this case or how the story's shaping up. Outa my hands. Tell you what, though, she might end up leaving your part of it out, but she'll never make stuff up about you and neither will I, and that's as good as it gets in the news biz. Either way I get paid (though not very much) and I'll still own the interview itself. Eventually I'll probably get around to transcribing it (that's the plan, anyway) and then I'll put it out over the modem. It'll get archived in a number of places and your place in history, if not your actual name, will be preserved for posterity. Maybe even someday somebody might learn something from it. We can always hope, anyway. Fred: What you do, that's up to you. OK? <nessie>: She has a deal to sell a story on the Unabomber to a weekly up there called PDXS. So she starts asking around. She immediately came up with much, much more information than they're willing to pay for, so . . . But she needs money now so she's gonna put a little piece in PDXS and if we get lucky maybe it'll develop into a book. If it does, you an' me's filler, bro, but hey, what the hell. Fred: There's the Express here. <nessie>: Well, she's in Portland and they're in Portland and they probably drink together or something, I dunno. If I knew anything about how to sell writing I wouldn't be gum shoeing like this; I'd be collecting royalties leave the gumshoe work to gumshoes. PDXS is a better paper than the Express anyway, much more entertaining. Mitzi writes for a living and makes one. I guess a big part of that be drinking with guys who own papers. I know it ain't 'cuz she's fuckin' any of 'em, so she must be making it on talent. Drinking with guys like that is a talent all in itself. (At this Fred cracked up.) Mostly she drinks with guys like ourselves. And her husband. Now there's a man who can drink. Only reason I'm plying your tongue with this shit and not they ain't is 'cuz you ain't in Portland. You'd like her. She sharp as a tack. And in a round about way, she is buying this beer. (Ed raised his can in an exaggerated toast. I clinked it with mine. Both were already more than half empty. We drained them and started two more. It was going to be one of those afternoons. At least it was a hot one so we had an excuse to "cool off.") Mostly she writes computer biz and tech gossip for the trade press. She out sources a lot of the research end of her biz so she has time to be with her kids. The phone work she does like a maestro; the leg work she out sources. I'm an out source. I hope I'm the one to hit pay dirt. For all we know you might come up with the lead we're all looking for. At the very least, you will sure as hell flesh out the background. In a story like this, the background is a story all in itself. I think she really to be an investigative journalist but there's only so many spots and none of 'em pay what they're worth. But this is what she's doing besides what pays the mortgage. We've worked together on projects before. I researched part of a book that just came out under her name, "International Guide to the Internet." Great book, especially the site reviews. I didn't get paid nearly what it was worth and neither did she and in the middle of the deal the company was sold and we got stiffed for some of the money, me worse'n her. We were supposed to have a series. I got stiffed for a bunch of money I really coulda used that month. They were gonna cover my telecom bill and now I'm in debt and publishing sucks. Ain't one single, honest deal gets made, Fred. That's what I like about the Net. It cuts the publishers out of the equation. No deals, no bullshit. Just me and my readers. Screw the publishers. Who the hell are they to tell us what we get to read? Fred: I'll drink to that. <nesie>: In any event I'm more interested in getting the information like this out than I am getting paid top dollar. My theory is the main thing that's wrong with the world is people don't know what's happening. I'm gonna a fix that, all by myself if I have to Fred: Oh, I agree! <nessie>: If people knew what was going on, even the dumb ones would know enough to do something about it. Hell, we even stopped a war, once, once we finally realized how fucked up a war it really was. Fred: People do not realize in this country how much the military was falling apart in Viet Nam. The fact that an officer died in our squad was nothing. That was happening all over the place. I would say that probable two or three thousand of the names on the wall were officers who were killed by their own men. That information is not well known. It's not spread around. <nessie>: Only war in American history where a higher percentage of officers than of enlisted men were casualties. Fred: That I didn't know. <nessie>: Well I don't know if it's true or not. A guy said. I heard it on the radio. We'll never know. The first casualty of war is truth. But you know what you experienced. First give me some background. Where'd you grow up? What'd your father do? Did you have any brothers and sisters? You know. That kinda shit. Fred: My father was a police officer <nessie>: Where? Fred: In Sonoma County. He was a very staunch . . . he wasn't really my father; he was my stepfather . . . He wanted to fight in W.W.II but had asthma and so they turned him down. And so, since I was the oldest son, even though I was a step-son was expected to do the things that he could not do. He wanted me to become a soldier. He died before he got to realize that dream. I did every thing I could to not become a soldier until all of a sudden I just found myself there. <nessie>: You were in school? They drafted you? Fred: No. They tried. I was a good student. What happened is the war was happening and I began protesting the war. And then I discovered the counter culture, you know, rock and roll, girls, and uh, my grade point average fell and finally it reached 1.9 on one fateful day. I'd already been down to Oakland twice. I received that little letter . . . <nessie>: You were in college, right? Where did you go? Fred: City College in Santa Rosa <nessie>: Right. Fred: And they drafted me and sent me to Fort Ord. I did my basic at Fort Ord. Did AIT, Advanced Infantry Training at Fort Ord. And that's when I ran into a couple of people who said, "Oh, you don't want to go to the war . . ." The deal was I joined up. I was drafted, but I joined up because they offered me a three year hitch for joining versus a four year hitch if I got drafted and you had more choices. So after basic I was told by these guys I was hanging out with (it turned out to be wrong), "As long as you keep in training, you wont go in country. That was the belief. And so I said, OK, I want to go airborne, and sign in for the 101st Airborne. So I ended up at Ft. Benning, Georgia. I did really well. And I guess because I was a small guy, and at the time they were looking for tunnel rats, that sort of people, small, and I guess I did well on all the tests . . . I know I did . . . and as a result they decided to make me into a reconnaissance specialist. And so they pulled our squad out of the main . . . Basically the recon people came and got to pick and choose who they wanted. I don't know how they make those decisions, but they do. Anyway, I'm in for the training and the training included a lot of intelligence gathering type stuff, weapons identification, tracking . . . I was an Eagle Scout and I think that helped. I think that's basically a para-military organization. I didn't believe it at the time. But now, in retrospect, I believe it is a para-military organization. And in fact, when I researched the history of it, that what it was. It was started by a guy in England because English soldiers were getting killed wholesale. So he started training them as kids to be better soldiers, better material to make a soldier out of. <nessie>: It sounds like the Young Pioneers or the Hitler Youth. Fred: Yeah, basically the same thing. OK, well part of the training also included demolitions. They trained us in weapons identifications, Various people in the squad spoke various languages. They wanted people who were able to operate complicated equipment. That's where I came in, because I'd been in college. They taught me how to . . . I had a first class radio licensee; I was a ham operator. <nessie>: When'd you get your licensee? Fred: '66. I was a kid, thirteen years old when I got my first class license. That was the year before my dad died. He had this really nice (unintelligible). Anyway, I was training, I was thinking about maybe trying to become a Ranger. But I was too small, and I don't think I was tough enough, although back then I thought I could conquer the world. One fateful night, about four o'clock in the morning, they got us up, said, "Grab your gear, let's go. You've been activated." Next thing I know I'm on a C141 or 151 Starlifter. We touched down at Edwards Air Force Base and refueled. We weren't even allowed off the plane. I think we touched down again in Hawaii. They let us off the plane to eat. Next thing I know . . .the whole thing took about two days . . . I was in . . . <nessie>: Wait. Back up a minute. You're back at Ft. Benning; you're being trained in demolitions. What demolitions? What'd they teach you? Fred: Use of high and low order explosives, grenades, RPGs, lots of stuff like that. A lot of that was covered in AIT, also. But mostly use of explosives with an aim towards destroying ammunition dumps, critical equipment. It wasn't like anti-personnel stuff. It was mostly because of recon. Sometimes a recon mission would be not to just find something. If we found something that was real spooky we would be activated to like blow it up and go bug out. You know, try to cripple the enemy, try to cripple Charlie, give him a black eye if nothing else. Anyway I found myself in the Philippines and then I the USS Abraham Lincoln, which is an aircraft carrier, and I guess it was a day or two later I was in Viet Nam, walking across the tarmac in Saigon wondering how in the hell I got here and what the hell was I gonna do now. <nessie>: '71, right? Fred: Yeah. Late '71. <nessie>: So the war already is lost, every body's on dope, and America's in denial, right? Fred: Yeah, well that's the way I looked at it. I didn't even know it at the time. I was just out of training and my head was full of all these terms like "duty" and "honor" and "the American way," and that stuff and I honestly believed that what I was doing . . . they had changed my mind, even though I had been a war protester previous to that, they had manipulated me psychologically that I believed that what we were doing there was the right thing. <nessie>: They're good at that. Fred: Well, they sure are. <nessie>: I gotta introduce you to Hassna, sometime. He'll tell you. FRED: Next thing I was in Pleiku. That's where they sent a lot of the recon forces because Pleiku is almost exactly between the north and the south, and it's also on the border with Cambodia. And we aren't even supposed to really be in Cambodia, officially, even at that time. Because of our mobility, because we were a small squad we were sent around to find various people and various things. <nessie>: Sent? What do you mean sent? You were airborne. Did you parachute? Did they bring you in a helicopter, vertical insertion? Fred: We were an eight man squad, eight soldiers and one lieutenant. <nessie>: (laughs) I love it. Fred: And they usually put us on three Bell 500Ds which were specially prepped. <nessie>: These are the quiet ones, right? Fred: Six blade rotors . . . the damn thing could be sitting behind the tree line a hundred yards from you and pop up and you wouldn't even know the damn thing was there. You would not know it was there. It's spooky if you think about it. Then it could switch and it'd roar like a demon. That's the way they set 'em up. They had these special high tech rotors. I don't know how . . . I mean, that wasn't my concern. But they would sneak us into various places and they'd drop us off. We'd either use the indigenous personnel there, and we'd hoof it from there. They'd basically lead the way until we got to a certain set of coordinates and they'd bug out and it was up to us to complete our mission, which could be a photographic mission, or it could be a targeting mission, it could be an assessment, a manpower/material assessment, a supplies assessment, any of that sort of thing. <nessie>: How much of it was demolition? Fred: More than I'd like to admit. I'd say one mission in five. <nessie>: What'd you blow? Fred: Blew a couple of bridges, blew up ammunition dumps, I blew up some critical equipment, communications . . . <nessie>: You could work as a powder monkey if you really wanted to? Fred: A what? <nessie>: You know, the guy in the mine that sets the. . . Fred: I don't have non military training. But yes, It would be relatively easy. <nessie>: You can do the calculations and . . . Fred: Yes, of course. There isn't that much to do I mean like I know how much C-3 or C-4 to use to break a beam, if that's what you wanted me to do. I could like plant standard charges and . . . well, yes, I was trained fairly well. The training was invaluable. But after the military, of course, I never used it. I came back . . . <nessie>: Wait a minute. You're still in the war. Tell me about the Lieutenant and the friendly fire. OK, you're in the war nine months and this thing happens. Tell me this thing. Fred: There was a rogue Lieutenant . . .who seemed to think that the Geneva Convention or the rules of warfare just simply didn't apply to him. He was trying to make Colonel. More than anything else in the war he wanted to be a Colonel. And he didn't care how he got that, just so long as he got that. To him we were nothing more than pawns in his game.. A pawn, as you know, is expendable. We would be sent on missions, there's a couple missions that come to mind in particular, where in our traveling to our designated coordinates (where we were supposed to go) we ran into people that we captured who were valuable resources, and by rule, we were supposed to bring them back. The Lieutenant didn't like that idea. His job, as he saw it was to complete the mission at any and all costs. I personally saw him pull out a .45 , a Colt. .45, and blow one of these guy's heads off, even though we had captured him, we had disarmed him. We'd interrogated him. We were supposed to take him back., you know keep him safe until we were supposed to turn him over. <nessie>: March him back or have a helicopter come and get him? Fred: We were supposed to march him back to the LZ, but we were on time frame. The missions were very closely timed. Before a mission we'd be briefed. After a mission, because of our designation, we'd be debriefed. And they debriefed each and every one of us individually, and then as a group. And then with what ever information we gave them they'd try to figure out what really we saw. This Lieutenant, I personally cost the lives of at least, at least, ten good men, American men, by stupidity, by doing things that shouldn't have been done. I saw him kill people that were civilians, people, indigenous people. I saw him do things that I knew were blatantly against the rules of warfare. I know that sounds kinda like a joke, but there are rules to warfare. We agreed, after W.W.II to follow them. All the people in this squad saw these things happening, and we knew that eventually he was either gonna get all of us killed or, he was gonna get us all in serious trouble. Something had to be done. It was decided amongst us all after one night of heavy drinking after a mission that something had to be done about the guy. We drew straws. We were on a mission . . . actually we were on our way back . . . .we wee on our way back to an LZ to bug out and, uh, well a grenade got out of control. And the lieutenant died. We took his body back. About two months later, after another couple of missions, with a new Lieutenant, a very good guy, this guy was cool, we were coming back and we had landed at the firebase in Pleiku and we were approached by the base commander and approximately a half a dozen heavily armed MPs. <nessie>: You were coming in off patrol? Fred: We were on a three day mission. <nessie>: Were you walking or flying? Fred: We got dropped off. the helicopter. We were walking into the base. We'd been cleared. The way we do it is we radioed ahead that we're coming in. We'd send up smoke. We'd say, what color smoke? They'd identify the smoke, that means it was us. Then we'd walk in. All the radio channels were being monitored. Charlie was smart. Even though they were under armed they . . they were good. I don't know how better to put it. They had ways of tricking . . . even there were times when they infiltrated Pleiku Base Alpha. <nessie>: There's no question about that. Everyone agrees. Fred: OK, well anyway We walked in . . . <nessie>: I don't mean you guys weren't good. They were just better. Fred: We walked in and the base commander came up to us and out of nowhere suddenly we're surrounded by MPs and they were heavily armed too. We were heavily armed. And the commander ordered us, after a couple of very tense moments, to surrender our weapons and to . . . basically we were taken into custody. We were placed under house arrest. There was questions asked each of individually and as a group as to what happened to the Lieutenant, Lt. (name deleted) Jeez I don't wanna get too specific here. Anyway, they basically knew. I don't know how they knew, but they knew that he died under what was later classified as friendly fire. He was fragged. That was it, OK? He had to die. That's all there is to it. <nessie>: Fine with me. Fred: Well, it was for us, too. And I think in retrospect, a lot of people's lives were saved. However, we were facing courts martial. And after numerous negotiations with the JAG officer, the Judge Advocate General, and being later transferred back to Saigon, it was decided that they couldn't pin it on any individual in the squad and we stood tough. So they came and offered us a deal. They said, we can't really go through this. This is not going to be of benefit to anybody. If we were to pursue this, someone, if not all of you are do twenty to forty years in Leavenworth. We'll make you a deal. You hear by sign this paper. In doing so you are given a conditional Section 10 discharge. You forego all rights and privileges. You give up all and honors. Now I had two purple Hearts, a Bronze Star, and a medal of Valor. I was a fuckin' war hero, OK? I mean to some extent. I call them my stupid medals 'cuz every time I did something stupid, I'd get a medal for it. But that's another story. That's my take on it. Anyway, the deal was we relinquished our decorations, relinquished our rights to the GI Bill, to the housing loan, to VA medication, all that stuff. Basically the deal was we go back to the real world. We're civilians. We are not required by law to put down that we were ever in the military. Our records were sealed. Some of the stuff we were doing was illegal anyway. It worked for me. I mean I took it that way. I figured it was better that way than the other way. I mean they couldn't . . . this was happening all over Viet Nam. They had so many people up on charges that they couldn't possibly have prosecuted them all. Leavenworth would be brimming to this day. They'd have had to expand it. So they were offering deals right and left and this was happening right and left. The military command structure, the C and C, Command and Control, were basically beginning to worry that we were going to degenerate from a fighting force, from an organized fighting force, into a bunch of rogue units, all highly armed and all operating on their own agendas. That's what was happening. <nessie>: It was happening, Everybody says that. It wasn't just you. Fred: Basically, I took the deal. I went back to San Francisco. <nessie>: This is like '72, November? Fred: Beginning of '73 <nessie>: Beginning of '73, OK. Fred: Just after Christmas I wandered in San Francisco Airport. <nessie>: Did you have any money? Fred: Oh yeah, I had some money.. I got all my pay. They didn't, uh, you know. They paid us. All; our back pay and everything. They gave us the money. But like we had to sign an agreement also which would repeat this order, that we would not speak about what we'd done, or this incident, for a period of twenty years. I pretty much stuck to that, because I couldn't talk about it anyway. There was shit that happened that was just . . .it's just better that people don't know about these things. <nessie>: So what about the record they sealed. Fred: Well, they told me that the specifications were on this conditional discharge that I would be a civilian. Since I had behaved in an unmilitary like manner, which is what the final charge was, I behaved in an unmilitary like manner Fred: I guess so. I don't know. <nessie>: Hell yes. Hell yes. So you're talkin' to the guy on the phone and what does he say? Fred: He said, "Thank you very much. We'll get in touch with you." I said, "Well what about the reward?" "Well . . . If this guy turns out to be him, and he gets convicted, you get the million dollars. <nessie>: You gave him your name and your address? Fred: I gave him my name and my address. <nessie>: Any other information? Just your name and your address? Fred: That's all. I didn't tell him anything about my background. I didn't tell him about my field military records. I didn't tell him nothing. I tried to return to work about a week later. I worked half a day . . . <nessie>: A week after you made the phone calls? Fred: The phone calls, right. I work half a day, thereabouts <nessie>: Wait a minute. You made the phone calls while you were out sick? Fred: Yup <nessie>: OK. Fred: I know the time line gets a little . . . the way this conversation is going . . . it kinda bounces around a little bit . . . it's hard for me to like figure out . . . I mean I've actually tried to sit down and establish a time line on this, and . . . <nessie>: Don't worry about it. I'll sort it out later. Fred: (chuckles) Oh good. I'm glad you're the scientist, then. <nessie>: Just keep going. (cont.) DECLARATION & DISCLAIMER ========== CTRL is a discussion and informational exchange list. Proselyzting propagandic screeds are not allowed. Substance�not soapboxing! 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