LEAVING REALITY BEHIND
The Battle for the Soul of the Internet

Adam Wishart and Regula Bochsler

For our friends and family, and for Julian whose delivery date was the same as the manuscript.

Contents

Cover

Title Page

Dedication

Prologue

1 Discovering a New Toy

2 Leaving Reality Behind

3 Kool-Aid Kings and Castles in the Air

4 ‘This is a Digital Hijack’

5 Young, Fun and Full of Creative Juices

6 Go West, Young Men

7 ‘To Infinity … and Beyond’

8 The Phantom Menace

9 A Conviction or Half a Million Dollars

10 Toywar

11 Game Over

Appendix: Share Holdings

Bibliography

Acknowledgements

Index

About the Author

Authors’ Note

Praise

Copyright

About the Publisher

Prologue

At 8.30 a.m. on 29 November 1999, seven lawyers arrived for a hearing on the fifth floor of the Los Angeles County Courthouse. They waited at the back of Department 53, a small, wood-panelled courtroom, for the judge to call the hearing to order. In preparation for this day, these lawyers had spent months submitting hundreds of pages of evidence and arguments to the court. Those on one team had determinedly manœuvred to prevent the hearing taking place at all; those on the other had offered increasing amounts of cash for a speedy resolution of the case. Now their arguments were to be heard in open court.

The plaintiff was a corporation, based ten miles away on the Californian coast in Santa Monica. The firm was personified by the character of its founder, Chief Executive Officer and archly self-described Uncle of the Board, Toby Lenk. This bald, slouch-shouldered thirty-eight-year-old had a fondness for mimicry and silly voices, and such a passion for work that at the time of the hearing he had gone for three years without taking the time off even to buy himself a pair of shoes. He had built his corporation – a toy shop – in less than a thousand days, with the dream to make life easier for parents and relations the world over. Like a fairytale come true, it was now worth $8 billion, and a darling of Wall Street. It was considered to be among the best companies of its kind and Lenk had filled it with only the smartest people, who between them could pack a trophy cabinet with their business diplomas from some of the world’s most prestigious universities. The Monday morning of the hearing followed a gang-busting Thanksgiving weekend during which Lenk’s toy shop had sold record numbers of Barbie Dolls and Star Wars figurines. Toby Lenk, it seemed, could do no wrong. The powerful global brand that he could proudly call his own was eToys.

The defendants had proved tricky to pin down. Indeed, eToys’ lawyers had failed to serve these renegades with all the necessary papers. They were supposedly at large somewhere in Europe; at the time of the hearing one of them, who calls himself agent.ZAI, was in the dank basement of a scruffy townhouse in a run-down neighbourhood in Zürich, Switzerland, eagerly awaiting news.

Physically as well as materially, the opponents were worlds apart. They were never to meet.

Zai was then a slim, diminutive, brown-haired twenty-eight-year-old who over time had nurtured his growing reputation in the arcane world of digital art. Meticulously he had constructed an art project that satirised the dot-com frenzy. Even before Lenk’s toy shop sold its first Mr Potato Head, Zai had described himself as the Chief Executive Officer of a group called etoy and behaved as if he was the leader of a global corporation. But in reality etoy had no employees and little corporate infrastructure. It did have a logo, a brand and a Web site and it sold a series of graphic posters that its members called ‘shares’. There was some seriousness to this apparently comic endeavour; it held up an intriguing mirror, as only art could, to a corporate and financial world that was being seduced by its own cheerleading. The etoy vision had been lent credibility and support beyond that received from the art world – even Austria’s Chancellor Viktor Klima had bought shares.

The legal suit filed by eToys in the Los Angeles Superior Court attacked the entire edifice of etoy’s ludicrous ‘corporate’ venture – its brand, trademark and greatest achievements – in a desperate attempt to shut down the artists’ Web site. Absurdly, the world’s most valuable toy shop had launched an explosive battery against the chimera, accusing etoy of ‘unfair competition’.

Neither Toby Lenk nor Zai made it to the courthouse. Lenk was busy finalising a deal to raise a further $150 million from his investors. Zai had not managed to get a flight to Los Angeles from Zürich over the busy Thanksgiving weekend. In any case, he had been advised that were he to step foot in America he might be arrested for securities fraud, one of the most heinous crimes against capital.

The details of how etoy and eToys built their respective companies and brands say much about the divergent histories of the Internet. On one hand was a new and fragile corporation that Wall Street pushed into the clouds. There eToys perfectly surfed a wave of euphoria about business and the capital markets, inspiring almost devotional loyalty because of the wealth the company created for its investors and employees and because of its customer-pleasing service culture. etoy, on the other hand, was a conceptual-art project that brilliantly summed up the times. It inspired a community that personified the Internet’s alternative history and was uneasy with its eventual corporate colonisation.

Both parties had spent years skilfully positioning themselves to benefit from the Internet goldrush. Now their values – monetary and moral – were clashing.

The conflict not only expressed the divides and fissures that had developed since the formation of the Internet; it also turned on an altogether larger dispute, concerning the very identity of the Internet. The reason for this acrimonious and hard-fought battle was a single, 250-line document now kept in a guarded, bomb-proof room in Herndon, Virginia: the key to the map of the Internet itself, through which domain names – Internet addresses like amazon.com or 4thestate.com – are controlled. The consequences of the domain battle were to play a central and decisive role in the Los Angeles courtroom.

By 10.30 a.m., Judge John P. Shook had stated his judgment. But this was not to be the end of the war …

1 Discovering a New Toy

‘The new artist protests, he no longer paints.’

Dadaist artist Tristan Tzara, Zürich, 1916

On the balmy evening of 1 June 1990, fleets of expensive cars pulled up outside the Zürich Opera House. Stepping out and passing through the pillared porticoes was a Who’s Who of Swiss society – the Head of State, national sports icons, former ministers, and army generals – all of whom had come to celebrate the sixty-fifth birthday of Werner Spross, the owner of a huge horticultural business-empire. As one of Zürich’s wealthiest and best-connected men, it was perhaps fitting that 650 of his ‘close friends’ had been invited to attend the event, a lavish banquet followed by a performance of Romeo and Juliet.

Defiantly welcoming the grandees were 200 demonstrators standing in the square in front of the Opera House. Mostly young with scruffy clothes and punky haircuts, they whistled and booed, angry that the Opera House had been sold out, allowed for the first time to be taken over by a rich patron. They were also chanting slogans about the inequity of Swiss society and the wealth of Spross’s guests. The glittering horde did their very best to ignore the disturbance.

The protest had the added significance of being held on the tenth anniversary and in the same spot as the first spark of the city’s most explosive youth revolt of recent years, The Movement. In 1980 the Opera Riot was started by young people returning from a Bob Marley concert, and ended with barricades on the street, burning cars and police firing teargas and rubber bullets. The television pictures came as a shock to Switzerland’s staid community. In the following months The Movement staged many demonstrations, some of which also resulted in riots, as they made their demands: an end to the country’s ‘oppressive’ drugs policy; the introduction of a cultural policy that did not exclude the young (as the Opera did); and the funding of an ‘autonomous’ youth centre. The anti-consumerist protests were often wrapped in humour. Their chants on demonstrations included the Dadaist ‘Turn the State into a Cucumber Salad’ and ‘Down with the Alps, for a direct view of the Mediterranean!’ The demonstrations climaxed when 200 naked young people marched down Zürich’s Bahnhofstrasse, one of the world’s most exclusive shopping streets. The atmosphere was edgy, the crowd shouting, ‘We are the dead bodies of the cultural life of this city!’

Ten years on, the demonstrators outside Spross’s party lacked the impact of the previous generation but shared their spirit. They hung around in small groups, rousing themselves at the arrival of each new limousine.

One individual stood out from the crowd. Seventeen years old with carefully spiked blond hair, he wore a scruffy black leather jacket emblazoned with the words ‘Nazis Raus’ – Nazis Out – and bright-green Doctor Marten boots he had customised himself. The young man Herbert (though he later adopted the name agent.ZAI) was spotted by a producer from Swiss National Television who was on the talent trail for the youth programme Seismo, which needed reporters and presenters. When approached, Herbert railed against the authorities and talked about his involvement in the Students’ Union that he helped run at his high school. He was invited to a casting, where his fast-talking wit quickly secured him a starring role.

Herbert worked for the production for the next year, gaining special permission from his school to attend recordings and meetings. A two-hour discussion programme for young people, each episode covering a single topic, Seismo involved numerous guests, a live audience and band performances. The shows were brash, arresting spectacles that were always staged in strange locations – on one occasion it was set among the machinery at a water-purifying plant. Herbert gave compelling performances, interviewing guests and presenting recorded segments. The contrast between this spirited, jagged young man and Switzerland’s elder politicians and pundits made particularly engaging television.

Seismo taught Herbert much about the inner workings of the media, of which he was a keen and diligent student. The show also brought him a certain kudos. The press described him and his three fellow youth reporters as ‘lively, competent and cheeky’; they were interviewed and had their pictures published in the media, and occasionally Herbert was recognised in the street. During the course of that year he became more self-regarding than he had been before, and dyed his hair black to show off his good looks and intense eyes all the better on-screen. For the first time in his life he had achieved a kind of recognition. In a world where the old and comfortable truths of youth rebellion – the battles between East and West, between capital and labour – were no longer so easily grasped, the delights of the media and the celebrity that it brought were all the more enticing. It was a seduction that, as the years went on, Herbert found himself unable to resist.

At high school Herbert was not having such a good time. His bristling intelligence together with his rebelliousness annoyed his teachers at the straitlaced and traditional establishment that had a reputation as the proving ground for the Swiss elite. So he left, travelling to Basel to attend the most radical of all Swiss schools, the Anna Göldin-Gymnasium, named after the last Swiss witch to have been burned at the stake. The school was anti-authoritarian, governed for the most part by the students themselves, who democratically set and enforced the rules. But even in this most liberal of environments Herbert soon became embroiled in conflicts with both students and teachers. His free spirit did not flourish: without qualifications he moved back to Zürich.

The move left Herbert at a loose end, and by the spring of 1991 he was keen to find a place where he could feel comfortable and use his estimable skills. With a group of political activists and friends he broke into an old gas-meter factory called Wohlgrot and occupied the site. It was situated right in the centre of town, just behind Zürich’s main railway station, and included a cluster of buildings surrounding a courtyard, and a villa where the factory manager had once lived. The place became a popular and heavily populated squat, the most significant of countercultural happenings in the city since The Movement, and its existence was proclaimed by a huge parody of a station sign. Instead of ‘Zürich’, it read ‘Zureich’ – ‘Too Rich’.

During the coming months Herbert spent much of his time in the squat. With a café, a bar, a cinema and a concert venue, the place quickly took on the character of an underground cultural centre; it was illegal, for a start, but perhaps its most subversive feature was the ‘junkie room’, where heroin addicts could go either to shoot up or to receive medical help. But, as with Herbert’s radical school, amid the anarchy at the squat there was conflict. Late in 1991, when the new dance-beats of techno had arrived in the city, the squat’s first rave was held in a basement. A squatter threw a teargas grenade into the crowd in protest because he considered techno too ‘commercial’ for this fiercely anti-capitalist space. Herbert and his friends and everyone else present were forced to make a speedy exit up a narrow staircase. The event turned him against the puritan spirit of the protestors.

As time wore on, the idyllic utopia that Herbert had envisioned became the venue for more and more rancorous arguments. As he remembers, ‘We wanted the villa to be a special place, a nice place, but the others took over and it became dirty and fucked up.’ And so he began to dream of organising something independent, something over which he could wield more control.

Herbert’s yearning for his own thing resulted in his decision to stage a shocking performance. It was the summer of 1992, and Switzerland’s 156 numbers – the equivalent of America’s 1–900 numbers and Britain’s 0898 numbers – had just appeared and had immediately become synonymous with phone sex and pornographic chatlines. Hungry for this latest sordid, circulation-boosting story, newspaper editors had given the subject acres of newsprint, simultaneously titillating their readers with the details of what the phone services offered and condemning the lucrative schemes’ operators. To Herbert, too, this new phenomenon presented a glimmer of opportunity.

He remembers, ‘I wanted to be a pioneer at any price, because everything else seemed to be too boring.’ What he wanted to do was run his own 156 number, to use this very new technology to challenge the hypocrisy of the media and to pointedly shock the culture of the dull, lifeless and extraordinarily wealthy city of Zürich. He loved The Sex Pistols, the British band who in 1977 had reached Number One in Britain in the week of the Queen’s Silver Jubilee and subsequently shocked the nation with their angry lyrics and by swearing on national television. Perhaps Herbert’s scam could do the same. Zürich, after all, had a history of bizarre events. Dada, the art movement that first shocked polite society by performing nonsense poetry, making collages and championing tomfoolery in the face of the horrors of the First World War, had begun here, and went on to influence almost every aspect of conceptual art in the twentieth century.

Herbert also liked the 156 idea because it made him feel like a grown-up. ‘We wanted our own company, our stickers, our logo, our publicity,’ he recalls. The 156 line might even make some money, and he particularly liked the fact that this partly entrepreneurial venture would irritate the pious protestors, the po-faced squatters and the bickering politically correct alumni of his old school, all of whom were critical of any sort of commerce.

Herbert registered a phone line and set about gathering a team to execute the project. He called on his old friend Juri to handle the technology and set up the equipment. Juri was an apprentice electrician, but hated the dull monotony of a professional life that demanded so little of his skills. He had spent his younger years locked in front of computers, trying to break into computer networks as part of the tiny and highly specialised underground world of phone-phreakers and hackers. As he would later prove, he was extremely talented when armed with a computer, a modem and a few bits of elegantly written code. In person he was shy and rather wordless, and computer technology provided him with a way of communicating with the world. At high school, where Herbert met him, Juri shoplifted-to-order computer accessories for his classmates and ploughed the profits back into his enormous phonebills. He was tall and clumsy, with an unmemorable face; his fearlessness was the key to his successful career as a hacker.

Another friend whom Herbert contacted for help was Alberto. Herbert and Alberto’s families had known each other for ever; by 1992, Alberto, two years older than Herbert, was already committed to a career as a student of architecture at the Zürich Technical University. By contrast to the scruffy punks and slackers squatting the Wohlgrot, he was always neat, his vivid dark eyes framed by delicate black-rimmed glasses. Herbert and his friends had nicknamed him Master Proper, the name of a cleaning product. More distant and ultimately more calculating than his friends, Alberto would in the years to come bring a cold, intellectual grounding, the brains to their sloganeering rebellion.

Thomas was the third of Herbert’s friends to be recruited. Tall, with a rectangular-shaped head, he posed as a violent bruiser and loved what he considered to be the glamorous chic of motorbikes and guns. He would happily spend hours cooking barbecues, drinking beer and watching Formula One. However, this muscled exterior concealed a clever soul; Thomas was a gifted storyteller, and laced his deft observations with a dry and inscrutable humour.

The name that Herbert, Juri, Alberto and Thomas chose for their scam was HIRN-lein, meaning ‘small brain’ but in Swiss-German sounding just like ‘brain line’.

Soon the posters they had painted were pasted all over Zürich. They screamed ‘BLOODBATH’ in large print, alongside an assurance to readers that the words had been splattered with real pigs’ blood. Herbert ascribed the action to a new organisation called Verein der Freunde Monopolistischer Märkte (VFMM) – The Association of the Friends of Monopolistic Markets – a joke at the expense of the anti-capitalist squatters.

Anyone who responded to the gruesome poster and phoned HIRN-lein’s l½-franc-a-minute line (about 50 pence Sterling, or 90 American cents) was greeted by machine-gun fire and the screams of a hysterical woman. This was followed by the moralising and portentous voice of a man: ‘Dear listener, is this what you want to listen to? Is a bloodbath a reason to call us? It is sad if not tragic that you too are part of this pitiable crowd who feels attracted by a bloodbath, a massacre, even misery and death of fellow human beings.’ In the background, symphonic film-music reached a crescendo. The narrator continued in an imploring tone: ‘You have dialled this number; reflect on it, be honest with yourself. Is it worth throwing life away to obscene lust?’ The tape ended with HIRN-lein’s slogan, ‘The Modesty of Truth’.

Hardly anyone but their friends called, and the story was not picked up by the press. Only Marc Ziegler, a prosecutor known as ‘the hunter of the 156 numbers’ for his determined attempt to shut down the more pornographic lines, seemed to notice HIRN-lein at all. When interviewed by a reporter on a local radio station about the 156 phenomenon, he said that someone should take the HIRN-lein boys by the ear and give them a good talking-to.

Still they remained desperate for a reaction to their work, and thus recorded further tasteless stories and produced yet more shocking posters. It was a poster bearing the slogan ‘Somehow we find it completely perverted to fuck in front of a dead body’ that provoked a complaint to another Zürich prosecutor, Lino Esseiva. He then launched a pornography investigation against Alberto, as registrant of the phone number – the boys had discovered that it was illegal for Herbert, as a minor, to have the phone line registered in his name, so had cautiously transferred it into Alberto’s, the only one of the group who was over twenty years old. Alberto was summoned to Esseiva’s office and closely questioned about his intentions; his response was to cleverly explain that HIRN-lein was a media-and-art experiment, rather than a porn line. This seemed to satisfy Lino Esseiva, who accepted that the group’s actions weren’t criminal – even if he thought they were disgusting.

The boys were happy that their oeuvre finally had been noticed. They cheered themselves on with the thought, ‘The more people hate us, the better.’ To up the ante, Herbert asked his friend Nico Wieland to write a letter to Tages-Anzeiger, Switzerland’s most popular broadsheet newspaper. After outlining his puritan disdain of the antics of HIRN-lein, Nico signed off: ‘I rely on the tiny remains of intelligence that are left in our society to fight this and other perversions.’ The letter was published and had the desired effect: the much dreamed-of journalists started calling.

To the boys’ delight, the journalists mostly wrote sanctimonious condemnations. ‘We are the Saddam Husseins of the 156 lines,’ Herbert gloated in response to press questions. When a journalist from Switzerland’s biggest tabloid newspaper called, they told her that they were students who believed in the imminent arrival of extra-terrestrials and wanted to use the line to finance the building of a landing strip in Ethiopia. The credulous journalist agreed to meet them, and under the expert supervision of architecture student Alberto they spent the whole night drawing plans and building a model. The following Sunday the tabloid ran the headline ‘Hallo Ufo, bitte landen!’ (‘Hello UFO, please land!’) accompanied by a picture: Thomas, in jacket and tie, with a map of Africa; Alberto, smiling under his spectacles, with his model of the landing strip; and Herbert, in a baseball cap, holding a poster bearing their 156 number, looking like a geeky high-school student.

Herbert also used his contacts to persuade Swiss National Television to carry a report on their youth show. He dictated his terms. Instead of giving interviews, Alberto pretended to be a phone-line addict; Juri and Thomas, in suits and ties, played the HIRN-lein entrepreneurs; and Herbert acted as the group’s chief ideologist.

The project was a triumph in media manipulation, but after a couple of months Herbert had to wind it down – for all the publicity, it hadn’t made any money.

By the spring of 1993, Herbert again felt under pressure to make his way in the world and find something new to do. More than anything, he hated the idea of getting a job, of joining the plodding masses in their grey offices. He wanted something that combined the adrenaline hit of his TV performances with the thrill of HIRN-lein’s provocation. But most avenues were closed to him because he had not graduated from high school. One hope of an interesting life came in the chance to go to art school in neighbouring Austria, where the entry requirements were less rigorous than those in Switzerland. To bolster his resolve and to prevent his return to Zürich, he gave up his apartment and gave away most of his belongings. After a lavish final HIRN-lein party, Herbert left for Vienna.

At the same time, his friend Hans – another failed student from the Anna Göldin-Gymnasium – decided that he would also apply. As large as Herbert was small, Hans was a skinhead whose mood-changing drinking habits and aggression made him a dominating force. His real love, however, was more sublime. ‘I wanted to be a poet, a voice in the world,’ he remembers. He had spent his teens writing acres of poetic rants that he described as WORDWAR. In ‘Reality’ he wrote, ‘my brain is splattering in the flames’ and that he was suffering ‘the permanent reduction of the physical-body functions, the retracting of the limbs, mutilation of the extremities, medical dependence on the higher lifeforms in the body’. Much of his poetry was nonsensical, testosterone-fuelled adolescent ranting, but it had energy and force nonetheless.

The relationship of Herbert and Hans was intense, borne of teenage enthusiasm for each other. Together they felt much stronger and more likely to succeed than they did on their own. Though they were not lovers, they behaved like a couple – finishing each other’s sentences, sharing confidences and trust in one another. Hans had a kind of immediate and spontaneous courage that fired Herbert up, and in the past they had goaded each other into doing increasingly outrageous stunts. But their friendship masked a rivalry and was, in part, an expedient alliance. ‘I know that I am greedy,’ says Herbert, ‘but Hans is endlessly greedy. I always said that, if you let him, he empties the buffet without caring about other people.’ Hans remembers, ‘We decided to be friends rather than enemies.’

Enthusiastically the two forged plans of how they would conquer Vienna together. Herbert used an illustrated portfolio of the HIRN-lein project to gain a place in the graphics department of the Vienna Academy of Applied Arts. Hans was determined to be radical, so chose not to submit any images to the same department. Instead he presented the text of the WORDWAR poems and was summarily rejected.

Despite this set-back, Hans and Herbert were not ready to give up their desire for a common future and Hans moved to Vienna anyway. They were so short of money, though, that they were forced to share a tiny bedsit, which they crammed with their video cameras and computers. They formed another association, Elastic Worldwide 4D, which was little more than the name and their enthusiasm; days and nights were spent taking drugs, making computer animations and talking about their future. And at some point they discovered the Academy’s department of visual media, run by Professor Peter Weibel, a man whose strange role in the seventies art scene they found very appealing.

Weibel had been a member of an art group called the Viennese Actionists, a bizarre descendant of Dada. The Actionists performed some of the most unsavoury and sadomasochistic public performances to have ever been described as art. One member of the group was arrested following a performance during which he sang the national anthem while masturbating. Weibel himself was led around the centre of Vienna by another Actionist, Vallie Export, on a lead as if he were a dog.

Herbert and Hans applied to join Weibel’s department together, but were required to submit their portfolios as individuals. Both boys were offered places and both were delighted. But by the autumn of 1994 this was not enough. They wanted to create a larger vehicle for their ambition, and felt that their combined skills alone were insufficient for them to make it to the big-time. So they decided to gather together a group of like-minded friends.

Herbert’s HIRN-lein collaborators were also interested in doing something else. Alberto continued to study architecture; Thomas, to everyone’s surprise, had enrolled at law school, but felt uncomfortable with his conservative colleagues; Juri was still an apprentice electrician and was desperate to give it up.

Herbert also got in touch with a couple of other friends, who had lent a hand at the beginning of HIRN-lein: Peter, a singer and charmer, and Franco, a keyboard player and guitarist, both of whom used computers to make and record music. Aged fourteen the pair and Herbert had founded their first club, the Gesellschaft für professionelle Amiga-Anwendung (GPA) – the Society for the Professional Use of the Amiga – to feed a shared enthusiasm for Amiga computers.

The Amiga computer was released in June 1985. The lineage of the computers dominating the market at that time could ultimately be traced back to the telegraph; the user could communicate only in letters and numerals, typing in complicated commands that would appear on the monochrome screens. By contrast Amiga was the first truly multimedia machine, with capabilities for sound, moving images and colour. At the launch Blondie’s Debbie Harry sang along to one. The computers were marketed under the tag line ‘Only Amiga Makes it Possible’; even Andy Warhol was said to own one.

The Amiga was never very popular but did develop a cult following. In a forerunner of today’s free-software movement, Amiga enthusiasts created an entire set of publicly available software which they distributed via bulletin-board systems and through small-advertisement sections in the back of magazines. And, in the mid-1980s in Switzerland, Herbert and his friends Peter and Franco jumped on the bandwagon. They produced a regular fanzine for their pro-Amiga society and recruited hundreds of members from around Europe – mostly from behind the Iron Curtain, where kids were desperate for contact with the computer magazines and software of the West. The society eventually disbanded, but the three boys remained friends.

While the others were provoking Zürich with HIRN-lein, Peter and Franco had set off on a pilgrimage to the heartland of world rave-culture: Manchester. The place was engulfed by the latest, ecstasy-fuelled dance phenomenon – Newsweek even splashed its cover with the city and its clubs, under the title ‘Madchester’. Peter and Franco had gone there thinking that it would be the perfect proving ground for their band, SuperSex, but they landed in the most violent part of the city, Moss Side. They met a lot of musicians, but nobody really understood why they had come. ‘We wanted to feel like pop stars – at least for a couple of months,’ remembers Franco. They finally ran out of money and their immigration status became perilous. Back in Zürich, both were only too happy to hear from Herbert.

In the early autumn of 1994, Herbert sent an invitation to his chosen friends, requesting their attendance at a meeting in the Swiss resort of Weggis on Lake Lucerne. Herbert titled the invitations ‘The Company – The Family’ and outlined his and Hans’s ideas for possible collaboration. The front of the invitation asked, ‘Fun, money and the new world?’ On the back was the icon of an attaché case in front of an emerging and radiating sun, in the centre of which was a dollar symbol.

The Magnificent Seven – Herbert, Alberto the brainy architecture student, Juri the shy hacker, Thomas the muscled law student, Peter and Franco the musicians, and Hans the radical poet – piled into two cars and drove the two hours from Zürich to Weggis. A century previously, Weggis had been an opulent resort that had played host to royalty and celebrity. It was also the place where Hans Arp, one of the founders of Dada, had come to break away from the tradition of representational art.

Amid an alpine landscape of old farmhouses, stables and orchards, the location for the meeting was an eyesore of a seventies concrete apartment-building. The borrowed apartment might in another time have been the location of a family holiday – happy snaps taken on the long balcony, the snow-capped mountains as backdrop.

As the boys rolled out their sleeping bags and cracked open beers, they were still uncertain as to what was about to happen. Their motivations and aspirations were a confused desire for fame amalgamated with a determination for political change and a belief in the power of art. All seven of them shared a rebellious sensibility, wanting to poke fun at and denounce the overbearing and monotonous tone of the society in which they lived. They all hoped that this meeting would produce something new and innovative that would further their collective anarchistic take on the world. More than anything, they hoped they could find a way to control their own destinies, to save themselves from dull, office-bound careers. Like young men the world over, they were also in search of visceral excitement and both emotional and geographic adventure. As Herbert puts it, ‘All of us were extremely greedy – for excitement, for drugs, for success.’

For a week they sat around the dining-room table in the holiday apartment and deliberated about their future. Everyone had been asked to prepare a paper to present to the others about their special interests and aspirations. Herbert submitted his thoughts about commercial sponsorship. Hans spoke about corporate identity; he admired Andy Warhol and the way he had used the aesthetic of commercial art to satirise and celebrate advertising. Peter, the plastic pop-boy, and Franco, his tall charming collaborator, talked about music and the use of multimedia, and about their desire to be pop stars, like David Bowie, the Sex Pistols or Madonna. Alberto lectured about Archigram, a 1960s collective of architects who became famous for their visions of ‘plug-in cities’.

The arduous meetings lasted for up to eighteen hours a day. The atmosphere was combative and exhausting. ‘We were searching for ideas, but it was no fun at all,’ Peter recalls. ‘The process of creating a group with these people who are so different was very strenuous.’ For Alberto, the very impossibility of agreement was the purpose. ‘It was a test, whether we could manage to spend one week together. It had a symbolic character,’ he recalls. Herbert taped all the meetings with a cheap video camera, convinced that they would later have some historical value – and because they all wanted a record of them in case arguments broke out in the future about what had been agreed.

The group acknowledged that, in this ‘multimedia’ world, becoming ‘pop stars’ or just being ‘artists’ would not necessarily guarantee their success. They spent hours discussing their collective view that the world was undergoing a ‘multimedialisation’ – by which they meant that the separate disciplines of text, images and sound were collapsing together, since all now relied to a greater or lesser degree on computers. The co-operation between artists of different media was required. They saw the success of manufactured boy-bands and avant-garde art groups as a demonstration of the need for some kind of collaboration. Also they had all witnessed the power of their combined forces in the clubs that Herbert had so avidly formed in previous years: the HIRN-lein, the Society for the Professional Use of the Amiga and – to a lesser degree – Elastic Worldwide 4D.

Instead of a club they decided to form a corporation. Says Juri, ‘We were kids who pretended we were doing business.’ Previous generations might have blanched at such a commercial take on youth rebellion. But this group felt no guilt. Capitalism dominated the world and had just ‘won’ the Cold War; the Berlin Wall had crumbled only a few years before. Indeed, brands – of sneakers, in fashion and music – were often the heroic icons of the moment. ‘We were fascinated by multinational corporations – millions of people, one name, one brand. Like Sony,’ says Alberto, who especially admired anything Japanese.

For these young men it was as if there was no alternative to ‘a company’ as an engine of ideas, cultural change and defiant rebellion. The bickering, political correctness of the Old Left in the squat and in the radical Anna Göldin-Gymnasium was hardly a compelling alternative. Indeed it was clear that the furthering of their opinions would be better done by creating a corporation and a brand than by employing the outdated and singular methods of music, art or literature. This was how to triumph in the nineties.

It was as if they were going to turn on its head the behaviour of big-brand corporations that ‘steal’ the cool of rebel music and the élan of street fashion for marketing their burgers, sneakers and clothes. As a lyric of Peter’s favourite band, Chumbawamba, said, ‘They think it is funny turning rebellion into money’. Now Herbert and his friends were going to steal from the power of the dominant corporate ideal and turn it to their own defiant ends. And if it could make some kind of profit too, then all the better.

The boys set out to codify this ‘just do it’ philosophy into the constitution of their corporation. But they could not finally do away with the collectivist ideology employed by the protesters and squatters. They agreed that on the inside they were to be a collective, that no one would have any hierarchical power over any other, that everything was to be agreed by democratic vote. Once a rule was agreed it would be followed like a corporate diktat, and policed with determined and aggressive diligence. The first rule to be instituted was that no one was allowed to eat during meetings – it was considered ‘unprofessional’.

Despite this theoretical agreement, in practice Herbert exerted his influence. ‘He was very much in the centre of the group because he established the rules,’ remembers Franco. ‘He was the only one that still had energy at the end of the day, when everybody else was totally exhausted. These were the moments where his opinion got accepted by the rest of the group.’

Since part of the group would be living in Vienna and the others in Zürich, they also discussed their modus operandi. They felt that they were in need of what they called a ‘virtual office-system’. Juri, the hacker, suggested that they might use the Internet rather like a special kind of phone or fax machine, for swapping information – just a boring utility. Like most of the rest of the world, the others had little idea what the Internet was. By 1994, the Internet still had a comparatively small number of people connected to it, and the majority of those in the backwaters of the scientific-research community, in the corporate offices of Silicon Valley, or in localised enclaves, like the rave scene in San Francisco.

Juri knew his way around the Internet, but it was far from simple. The software that was used, such as it was, had been written inside the academic computer-science community and was not really intended for the average home-user. Getting online was hard in itself, and asked for dogged determination. Modems were expensive and their installation involved the typing in of many seemingly random and complicated series of numbers and letters, user names, and passwords. Mistyping meant failure to connect, with no friendly error-message – often just a blank screen. The difficulty of the logging-on process cloaked a uniquely powerful network that was about to leap into the public consciousness.

The network’s success owes much to one man, Jon Postel. By 1994, he had twenty years’ experience – first as a graduate student and eventually as a professor – writing and editing a number of key documents that formed the foundations of the Internet. These described how computers would be able to communicate with each other. The Internet is not so much a radical new technology but rather a set of brilliantly written rules that computer scientists call Standards. These rules are consistently applied by all computers across the network; without a set of Standards computers live on the Tower of Babel, unable to speak to each other because they do not share a common language. Like the internationally agreed size for cargo containers, or the regulations of the Universal Postal Union, Internet Standards are not especially complicated – but when the network grew large and ubiquitous it became an extraordinarily powerful way of trading information.

The first Standards were written in the late 1960s in response to the request by an obscure research agency, the Applied Research Projects Agency (ARPA), associated with the American Defense Department, that wanted, apart from anything else, to communicate at a time of war. Since then the Standards have been improved and clarified through a loose network of computer academics and consultants, nurtured and corralled by Postel and a few others. To begin with, the few constitutionally appointed organisations and the culture were very much in line with the T-shirt slogan of one of the central bodies, ‘We reject kings, presidents, and voting. We believe in rough consensus and running code.’

The Economist once proclaimed that, ‘If the Net does have a god, he is probably Jon Postel’ – and, with his long hair, bushy white beard and open-toed sandals, he does have the look of an Old Testament prophet. This Professor of Computing at the University of Southern California was a product of the hippy movement, and the key Internet Standard, the Transmission Control Protocol/Internet Protocol (TCP/IP), of which he was the co-author, chimed with his personality. Enshrined within the code was a dislike of central authorities and the promotion of individual freedom. Previously computer networks and telephone systems had depended on a central commanding authority – even making a local telephone call requires dialling a central exchange, which then routes the call back to the receiver. The US military thought this was a vulnerable way of setting up a communication system. The network that TCP/IP governed was to have none of this.

The Standards of the Internet were to eschew this kind of centrality. It was to be a network in which every computer that was attached to it was to have equal power and equal value to the network. The TCP/IP Standard was remarkable because it gave no favour to those computers on the network owned by corporations, governments or the powerful. As a consequence any computer could, in theory, attach itself to any other that would transfer information ubiquitously.

Most surprising at the time, the Standards rejected the dominant technology of networking: switches. A telephone call, for example, requires a continuous electrical circuit to be switched on – via switches at the local exchange and all the exchanges along the route. In contrast the idea of the Internet is that information – be it a voice stream, like a telephone call, or a graphic image or a text document – flows through the network in a series of discrete pieces. To send a large piece of information it is first divided up into ‘packets’ and then sent separately to the destination computer, where it is reassembled. The system has the power and flexibility of a central Post Office and, as with the postal system, every computer on the Internet has an address. These addresses, twelve-digit numbers, are unique. Also like a mail system, the Internet would collapse into chaos if the same information could be directed to two or more post boxes with the same address.

These two elements of the TCP/IP Standard – the distributed and equal network, and the sending of packets – make it rather like a ‘Mutual Post Office’, a co-operative movement of which anyone can become a member provided that they pay a small fee and follow the rules of TCP/IP. At its inception, the system offered several obvious advantages. For a start, it could not be destroyed by knocking out the central sorting office or telephone exchange; the packets of information could route around any temporary obstruction. The network could also grow like wildfire without the need for studious bureaucrats to diligently design and then control it. To become a member of the Mutual Post Office, one simply needed to attach a computer to another already on the network and agree to play by the rules.

The mutuality had a radical cultural impact. The system’s lack of control and regulation defined the early incipient Internet community. As wrote Kevin Kelly, former editor of WIRED magazine, ‘The US government, which indirectly subsidizes the Net, woke up one day to find that the Net had spun itself, without much administration or oversight, among the terminals of the techno-elite. The Internet is, as its users are proud to boast, the largest functioning anarchy in the world.’ This anarchy would not be easily controlled by governments, corporations or even by lawyers. Indeed, over the coming years it seemed as though the Internet’s many conflicts and lawsuits had their foundation hard-wired into the mutual details of this technology.

In the concrete building in Weggis, Juri and Franco were charged with getting the company on the Internet as a cheap and practical form of communication between Zürich and Vienna. Nobody considered the Internet as an important new medium, let alone as their new company’s focus or platform.

Eventually, after days of debate, the friends also managed to agree on a name, Combination-Combination, which was supposed to express their intention to combine the efforts of different people with different specialities in different places. It was in the universal language of hip youth – English – and contained an allusion to their technical know-how.

They decided to raise the money to fund the setting up of the necessary infrastructure and offices by servicing the rave scene, using their many multimedia skills to contribute to the experience. Five of them could contribute to this venture: Herbert, Hans and Juri were to create images to project on club walls using computers, and musicians Franco and Peter would compose sounds. The others were to think about their possible contribution to the larger group project – it was hoped that this would be the first step towards something bigger.

On the last evening in Weggis the group staged the official founding ceremony of Combination-Combination. They were thrilled that the bonds of old friendships were now united in a common destiny. In the meadow in front of the apartment they lit a firework and toasted their future with champagne. Franco, who had been given the position of the group’s ‘specialist in human resources’, was designated to make the official speech. He told the others that he hoped ‘we would succeed in shaping not only pioneering new technologies but also promising human relationships. And that we were a very special team and would be able to do so.’ Even today, Herbert goes into raptures when he remembers the founding of the group that he would so relentlessly drive. ‘It was a magic moment when all these brains came together to form a common will.’

Back home in Zürich, Thomas – the law student – wrote his first business letter, to the company founders. It contained a budget and asked everybody to send 5,000 Swiss francs (£2,000) as their individual share of the founding capital. ‘Dear Business Partners,’ it read. ‘How each one gets hold of this money is his private matter (fantasy and creativity!).’ With the money, the boys rented a tiny room in an empty office building and set about making parties happen.

Soon they were asked to provide the visuals for a rave in Basel. Dozens of TV screens were dragged into an old factory, where Juri hooked them up to his computers and fed them whirling graphics. The friends all wore the same clothes for the event, a uniform of a black suit with a Pepsi logo on the sleeve, pointedly turning the brand on itself.

After Basel, Hans and Herbert returned to Vienna and convinced a nightclub promoter to hire them. The plan was that Juri, who remained in Zürich, would produce the visuals on his computer and then send them down the line directly from one computer to another.

The day before the party, Juri set his computer in Zürich to dial the computer lab of the Academy of Applied Arts in Vienna, where Hans and Herbert were waiting. Nowadays computer files containing graphic images and animations amounting to the equivalent libraries of data are regularly swapped across large distances. Juri’s graphic file was tiny by comparison, but that did not make his task any easier. In Vienna Hans and Herbert watched as the line was connected and part of the file was slowly transferred. Then the connection broke, and Juri had to start again. It was a frustrating process. The boys were worried that failure to get the images on time would put their careers as party organisers in jeopardy.

Four hours later, the pictures arrived. The group knew that neither their nerves nor their wallets could cope with this sort of lengthy international transmission, so they found a more old-fashioned way to go about their business. From then on, when in similar straits, Juri would take out his computer’s hard drive and tape it to the underside of a seat on the express train from Zürich to Vienna. Herbert or Hans would wait at the station to retrieve it.

Combination-Combination might have continued to be party organisers, or they might have tried seriously to achieve success as a band or become defiant political artists, had it not been for the intervention in autumn 1994 of Franz Penz, one of Herbert and Hans’s teachers at the Academy. In his thirties, with an ill-cut beard to match his ill-fitting pullovers, Penz had wanted to show the two students something novel and exciting that wasn’t available in the art school. Penz was not, however, a great talker and refused to describe the new phenomenon. The boys had begged him to tell them more, but Penz simply said, ‘This is way too cool; I really can’t explain.’ So they went with him across town, to the Technical University’s computer laboratory.

What Penz showed them was the World Wide Web – an easy-to-use information system with a graphical user-interface. Using a mouse to control a pointer on a computer screen, one could click on various parts of the display and bring up new information. It was simple and freewheeling – and, of course, soon to become known as ‘Web surfing’. Within half an hour, Hans had negotiated his way around the Web, from New York to Tokyo to Madrid. ‘I had stars in my brain, and I knew this was exactly what I wanted for the next couple of years. This was the future.’

The World Wide Web began in Switzerland in 1990. A taciturn, idealistic Englishman, Tim Berners-Lee, was working as a researcher at CERN, the European Particle Physics Laboratory, in Geneva, where he had decided that he wanted to create a common Standard for sharing information. At the time, outside a small community of academics and publishers, this was not thought to be the most exciting task. Berners-Lee’s idea was to create something new for the common good, agreed upon between many parties, of which he would be a catalyst and consensus-builder. Dale Dougherty, a publisher of computer books, met Tim Berners-Lee during this time and was struck by his fervour. ‘His idealism was his driving force; that appealed to me,’ he recalls. ‘There was the idea that information online could be linked together and used.’

Previously, using the Internet to find a useful document on a remote machine was tricky. Postel’s Standards focused on the network and the transferring of information, not on the organisation of information – which usually ended up in tree-like hierarchical file systems, rather like those of a computer’s hard drive. The casual user would have to send a command requesting a list of the contents of a particular directory. To find anything useful required a trawl through directory after subdirectory until one chanced upon something interesting.

Berners-Lee wanted to replace these old and difficult methods by enhancing the existing network with a new information system. His models were academic papers: generally full of links, with citations, references and footnotes scarring the texts. His hope was that the ability to jump directly to the source of a citation, rather than having to plod to the library and search for it, would be immensely useful to the research community.

There were some precedents for this idea. Vannevar Bush, Franklin Roosevelt’s scientific advisor and for many the father of the military-industrial complex, had written an article about such a system way back in 1945. Ted Nelson, a self-described ‘paradigm creator’, had dreamed up an information system named Xanadu in the early 1960s, in which he called the connections between documents ‘hyperlinks’. But nobody had ever managed to get such a system to work across a network of computers. Nor had any single system been widely adopted by sufficient numbers of people to be of real use. At the time of Berners-Lee’s investigation, a competing system called Gopher – much beloved of librarians because it allowed remote access to large databases such as catalogues – seemed like it might become ubiquitous enough for users to invest the time in getting and installing its software. But Berners-Lee was undaunted, and soon adopted the name Hypertext for his document system.

Just as the Internet relies on the Standards of TCP/IP, Tim Berners-Lee needed a set of Standards which would enable computers using Hypertext to communicate and which would dovetail with the Internet itself. Late in 1990 he finalised those Standards. The idea was that the sharable information would be held on a remote computer, which Berners-Lee called the server, and these would be available and accessible to a global audience across the Internet. Other computers within the network would run a different sort of computer application; these would be known as browsers, and could request information from the server. Once the information had made its way to the browser it would appear in a window; the user could then pull up other information by clicking on any of the hyperlinks that were displayed in the browser window.

This transfer of information was regulated by the Standards. The ‘http’ that is now a prefix to Web addresses stands for Hypertext Transfer Protocol, which is just a way of ensuring that computers are speaking the same language. One of the most important parts of the Standards that Berners-Lee created, and which has underlain every dispute about Web domains, is the Uniform Resource Locator, or URL. Just as every computer on the Internet has a unique address, which is akin to the location of a house on a street, so the Web needed a definition for the precise location of individual pieces of information – like that of a book or document within the house. That definition is the URL. With it, every music file, program or document can have a specific and precise place on the Internet.

In defining these Standards, Berners-Lee wrote the rudimentary software, as a sort of test, but not on a widely accepted operating system. While touring conferences and writing papers trying to promote what he now called the World Wide Web, he received a muted response. The truth was that Berners-Lee’s Web was just one of a number of different protocols and applications then competing for critical mass in the information community.

In late 1992, Marc Andreessen, the son of a seed salesman from provincial Wisconsin, was a twenty-one-year-old computer programmer finishing his final year at the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and working for $7 an hour at the University’s National Center for Super-Computing Applications (NCSA). Ambitious and arrogant, he was searching for something new to do when another researcher suggested that he write a browser for the barely known but potentially interesting World Wide Web.

In the middle of November 1992, Andreessen contacted Tim Berners-Lee and the Web community for the first time, in a note to the www-talk mailing list, the notice board for the tiny population of Web developers, in which he said that he was ‘starting the game late’. Over the following weeks, he did everything he could do to catch up – working feverishly, posting messages at all times of the day and night – behaviour that he would later describe as ‘obsessive-compulsive’. Almost from the beginning he referred to the Web and his browser as a ‘product’.

On 29 January 1993, Andreessen made a historic announcement to the www-talk mailing list. ‘By the power vested in me by nobody in particular, alpha/beta version 0.5 of NCSA’s … World Wide Web browser, X Mosaic, is hereby released.’ Two months after they’d started their task, he and Eric Bina, his colleague and collaborator, had created their first Web browser. It was for the computer-operating system favoured by the computer-science community, Unix. Remarkably easy to install, more importantly, it worked; Andreessen pushed it out with aggressive fervour to email groups and bulletin-board services around the Internet. It was adopted with a genuine excitement, in the belief that it really was going to make the difficult world of the Internet popular and easy to use.

There were already other browser developers at work but none shared Andreessen and Bina’s single minded determination. Nor could they match the speed of their codewriting or focus on creating new features to meet the demands of the users. Mosaic would come to dominate the Internet. In the free-for-all of the Internet, the ability to put out software that worked trumped everything else.

Andreessen wasn’t content just to work within the Standards that Berners-Lee had created – he wanted to extend them. Just a month after releasing his first browser, he proposed that it should be possible to view images in the midst of documents. Berners-Lee suggested that it would be better if the images were a hyperlink that when clicked would open up in a separate window. Two weeks later Andreessen announced his unilateral decision to display images in his forthcoming browser Mosaic. He wrote, ‘I don’t see an alternative [to this other] than to … wait for the perfect solution to come along.’

In March of 1993, Tim Berners-Lee happened to be in Chicago. He thought it would be interesting to meet the new enthusiasts for his Web a couple of hours away in Urbana-Champaign. There, in the Center’s basement meeting room, Andreessen and Berners-Lee and their various allies sat face to face.

The purpose of the meeting was ostensibly to agree further extensions to Berners-Lee’s Standards, but beneath the surface of their discussion bubbled genuine hostility between the protagonists. Tim Berners-Lee later remembered it with discomfort: ‘All my previous meetings with browser developers had been meetings of minds, with a pooling of enthusiasm. But this meeting had a strange tension to it.’ For Berners-Lee the universal system that he had created seemed as if it was about to be taken over by a group determined to claim it as their own. Also at the meeting was Tom Bruce, a researcher from Cornell University, who had travelled to Urbana-Champaign with Berners-Lee. When he surprised the Andreessen team by announcing that he was writing the first browser for the Windows operating system, he sensed that he was now characterised as competition (rather than a fellow collaborator) and as such he was the foe to be beaten.

Joseph Hardin, then Andreessen’s boss, recalled that Berners-Lee was upset. ‘This was one of the first times that he really saw the group that was moving so fast. And the technology was taking on a life of its own. It’s like a parent who sees a child grow up all of a sudden. We were playing with his baby.’ Hardin and his team had no qualms about being competitive; they thought that they could be really successful only if their software was adopted by huge numbers of computer users.

The young hacker and the older researcher had very different personalities. Tim Berners-Lee was idealistic, he wanted to create a common standard for sharing information. As Dale Dougherty describes him, ‘Tim wants to talk about ideas, and get you excited about them, rattling through them so fast, he doesn’t care for nuts if you get them all and he doesn’t necessarily care to sell you on something.’

Andreessen was quite different, he was a champion, a salesman, challenging people, and arguing with them. Forceful, determined, persuasive and desperate to push ideas in exactly the directions that he chose. Even his boss at the time, Joseph Hardin, describes his arrogance, ‘He very much felt that he was the leader of the thing.’

On leaving this first meeting in Illinois, Berners-Lee felt that his Web was in danger of fatally fracturing, because Andreessen’s team was running ‘single-handedly’ towards the goal line. As he recalled: ‘Evidence was mounting that “the Web” could splinter into various factions – some commercial, some academic; some free, some not. This would defeat the very purpose of the Web: to be a single, universal accessible Hypertext medium for sharing information.’

To prevent this, soon afterwards Berners-Lee released the Standards under a ‘public license’ which meant that the World Wide Web could never be controlled by a single institution or corporation. He also established the World Wide Web Consortium, a not-for-profit organisation whose sole purpose is to guard the Standards that make the Web work. This was in order to guarantee that the Standards would not be perverted by corporations seeking to extend them to the exclusion of other users, and as a way of preventing any individual, including Berners-Lee himself, from profiting from his innovation.

In various subsequent meetings, tension continued to be felt between the consensual Tim Berners-Lee and the determined and singular Marc Andreessen. Observers describe the young hacker’s behaviour as childish, with his wisecracking to the sniggers of his team, making sarcastic, deprecating comments about his elders, and ‘we are going to conquer the world’ attitude. Nonetheless, this gung-ho spirit did inspire incredible productivity from the Mosaic team. During 1993 the Mosaic Web browser was released first for Windows and then Macintosh – and it was the Mosaic browser that Hans and Herbert discovered via Franz Penz. The Web phenomenon had begun, and growth in traffic suddenly became exponential as new users flocked to the easy-to-use Internet. In the one year until the end of 1993, the number of Web sites grew from a few hundred to more than 10,000.

The opposing characters of the Web’s main protagonists did much for its ultimate success. While Tim Berners-Lee built the Web, safeguarded the Standards and kept order, the younger Marc Andreessen made a compelling browser and fought aggressively to make the World Wide Web a simple, accessible technology.

Marc Andreessen went on to set up a corporation that made browsers – and in doing so became the first of the boyish Internet millionaires, a role model for a new generation of entrepreneurs using the Internet as a platform for profit. For their cover, Time magazine placed him barefoot on a gold throne – the rebel king.

By contrast, Tim Berners-Lee adopted the role of consummate politician, defending his creation from avaricious colonisation by any commercial interest. Fortune magazine in turn depicted him as Saint Tim. Always the European, he would later write, ‘Many people ask why I didn’t commercialize the Web. It’s a strange question. By asking the question, people are suggesting that they respect people as a function of their net worth. That’s worrying. It’s not an assumption I was brought up with; and it is disturbing, the extent to which it pervades [the USA].’

Without these two notes the Web phenomenon could not have had such explosive resonance. What Berners-Lee and Andreessen achieved was remarkable: despite the anarchistic sensibility of the Internet community, they had built order, a set of common rules that was widely adopted because nobody owned or controlled it. Yet the Web would not have been so massive had a singular individual and the company that he became part of not dominated the process in the first years. This struggle between self-interest and public good, between wilful individualism and determined collectivism, was the defining conflict of the birthing of Web technology. This conflict would set the framework for and determine the path of many others of the coming years.

From Vienna, Hans and Herbert quickly communicated their discovery of the World Wide Web to the other members of the gang. ‘A world opened up to me that I did not know existed. It was like a parallel universe, and it seemed to be incredibly huge,’ says Franco. ‘I had this impression despite the fact that there was almost exclusively university stuff up there.’ Almost immediately, the group came to see the Internet as more than a vehicle for simple communication – they began to realise that it was a medium through which they could define their identity.

Herbert and Hans were so excited about their discovery that they demanded Internet access at their art school, and even set about organising access for the rest of their class (though their efforts were met with derision from the archly hip art students, who thought that the latest cool media was video, not the Internet). In Zürich, the rest of the crew wangled passwords for the computer lab at the university.

One of the first things the friends used the Web for was to search for a new name, because Thomas hated Combination-Combination. He thought it was both too long and too dull ever to be seen as anything cool. Instead, the story goes that Juri created a little computer program called the Term Shooter, a script that was able to generate names. It created four-letter words with a vowel in the middle, like that of their role model Sony, and descenders or ascenders for graphic effect. Supposedly, one night towards the end of 1994, they were huddled around their respective computers in Vienna and Zürich with the Term Shooter spewing out thousands of scrolling names. It was like a transnational shoot-’em-up word game; if a name didn’t stick immediately, it wasn’t worth considering. At first they found nothing. Then one name resonated across the collective. Herbert, Juri and the others danced on their keyboards. It was better than Sony. It looked good and it had comic connotations. They liked it for its whimsy, for its drug reference and its playfulness. The name was etoy.

Later in 1994, Peter was using Mosaic to navigate his way around the Web one day when he chanced upon a Web site, based at a polar-research centre in Ohio, that also hosted Web sites for free. There he created the beginnings of etoy’s first site; it was dreary, with black text on a grey background. It had a Web address and a URL with so many parts that it was impossible to remember: http://www-bprc.mps.ohio-state.edu/cgi-bin/hppetoy.html. Next to the icon of a little bomb, Peter had written, ‘etoy, here we are now! … etoy is THE new lifestyle for the coming generation. Please visit us when this site will be finished, in mid-January.’

The boys celebrated in the way they knew best: by getting drunk at a party. Elated by their new discovery, they ran round scribbling the ‘@’ symbol on to party-goers’ hands. As Peter remembers, ‘We were so excited that we told everybody how brilliant the future would be.’

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