didn’t want to adjust its copyright notice on the e-books. Readers who wanted to make their books transferable would either have to crack the encryption code or convert the book to an open format such as HTML. Either way, the would be breaking the law and facing criminal penalties.
With two fresh interviews under my belt, I didn’t see any way to write the book without resorting to the new material. I quickly set up a trip to New York to meet with my agent and with Tracy to see if there was a compromise solution.
When I flew to New York, I met my agent, Henning
Barring that, Henning said, we could always take the carrot-and-stick approach. The carrot would be the publicity that came with publishing an e-book that honored the hacker community’s internal ethics. The stick would be the risks associated with publishing an e-book that didn’t. Nine months before Dmitri Skylarov became an Internet cause clbre, we knew it was only a matter of time before an enterprising programmer revealed how to hack e-books. We also knew that a major publishing house releasing an encryption-protected e-book on Richard M. Stallman was the software equivalent of putting “Steal This E-Book” on the cover.
After my meeting with Henning, I put a call into Stallman. Hoping to make the carrot more enticing, I discussed a number of potential compromises. What if the publisher released the book’s content under a split license, something similar to what Sun Microsystems had done with Open Office, the free software desktop applications suite? The publisher could then release commercial versions of the e-book under a normal format, taking advantage of all the bells and whistles that went with the e-book software, while releasing the copyable version under a less aesthetically pleasing HTML format.
Stallman told me he didn’t mind the split-license idea, but he did dislike the idea of making the freely copyable version inferior to the restricted version. Besides, he said, the idea was too cumbersome. Split licenses worked in the case of Sun’s Open Office only because he had no control over the decision making. In this case, Stallman said, he did have a way to control the outcome. He could refuse to cooperate.
I made a few more suggestions with little effect. About the only thing I could get out of Stallman was a concession that the e-book’s copyright restrict all forms of file sharing to “noncommercial redistribution”.
Before I signed off, Stallman suggested I tell the publisher that I’d promised Stallman that the work would be free. I told Stallman I couldn’t agree to that statement but that I did view the book as unfinishable without his cooperation. Seemingly satisfied, Stallman hung up with his usual sign-off line: “Happy hacking”.
Henning and I met with Tracy the next day. Tracy said her company was willing to publish copyable excerpts in a unencrypted format but would limit the excerpts to 500 words. Henning informed her that this wouldn’t be enough for me to get around my ethical obligation to Stallman. Tracy mentioned her own company’s contractual obligation to online vendors such as Amazon.com. Even if the company decided to open up its e-book content this one time, it faced the risk of its partners calling it a breach of contract. Barring a change of heart in the executive suite or on the part of Stallman, the decision was up to me. I could use the interviews and go against my earlier agreement with Stallman, or I could plead journalistic ethics and back out of the verbal agreement to do the book.
Following the meeting, my agent and I relocated to a pub on Third Ave. I used his cell phone to call Stallman, leaving a message when nobody answered. Henning left for a moment, giving me time to collect my thoughts. When he returned, he was holding up the cell phone.
“It’s Stallman”, Henning said.
The conversation got off badly from the start. I relayed Tracy’s comment about the publisher’s contractual obligations.
“So”, Stallman said bluntly. “Why should I give a damn about their contractual obligations?”
Because asking a major publishing house to risk a legal battle with its vendors over a 30,000 word e-book is a tall order, I suggested.
“Don’t you see?” Stallman said. “That’s exactly why I’m doing this. I want a signal victory. I want them to make a choice between freedom and business as usual”.
As the words “signal victory” echoed in my head, I felt my attention wander momentarily to the passing foot traffic on the sidewalk. Coming into the bar, I had been pleased to notice that the location was less than half a block away from the street corner memorialized in the 1976 Ramones song, “53rd and 3rd”, a song I always enjoyed playing in my days as a musician. Like the perpetually frustrated street hustler depicted in that song, I could feel things falling apart as quickly as they had come together. The irony was palpable. After weeks of gleefully recording other people’s laments, I found myself in the position of trying to pull off the rarest of feats: a Richard Stallman compromise.
When I continued hemming and hawing, pleading the publisher’s position and revealing my growing sympathy for it, Stallman, like an animal smelling blood, attacked.
“So that’s it? You’re just going to screw me? You’re just going to bend to their will?”
I brought up the issue of a dual-copyright again.
“You mean license”, Stallman said curtly.
“Yeah, license. Copyright. Whatever”, I said, feeling suddenly like a wounded tuna trailing a rich plume of plasma in the water.
“Aw, why didn’t you just fucking do what I told you to do!” he shouted.
I must have been arguing on behalf of the publisher to the very end, because in my notes I managed to save a final Stallman chestnut: “I don’t care. What they’re doing is evil. I can’t support evil. Good-bye”.
As soon as I put the phone down, my agent slid a freshly poured Guinness to me. “I figured you might need this”, he said with a laugh. “I could see you shaking there towards the end”.
I was indeed shaking. The shaking wouldn’t stop until the Guinness was more than halfway gone. It felt weird, hearing myself characterized as an emissary of “evil”. It felt weirder still, knowing that three months before, I was sitting in an Oakland apartment trying to come up with my next story idea. Now, I was sitting in a part of the world I’d only known through rock songs, taking meetings with publishing executives and drinking beer with an agent I’d never even laid eyes on until the day before. It was all too surreal, like watching my life reflected back as a movie montage.
About that time, my internal absurdity meter kicked in. The initial shaking gave way to convulsions of laughter. To my agent, I must have looked like a another fragile author undergoing an untimely emotional
