Reaching Across the Pacific
As Yoo Jae-won headed for the phone with the number he had copied onto a note, he stopped short. “Oh right, there’s a time difference.”
The call had to go to California in the United States. The time difference with Korea was sixteen hours, so right now it would be the middle of the night there. The smart move was to wake up early and call in the morning. Ending the day like this felt incomplete, so he logged back into the CompuServe FTP to check on Keyboard Warrior.
“Oh! Already more than ten?”
Excluding the copies he had downloaded himself to verify the upload, the download count had reached seventeen. It had been less than an hour since he posted it, yet quite a few people had already grabbed it. The fusion of education and action gaming, plus the addition of zombies that Americans loved, meant anyone who saw the title would feel compelled to try it. A strong start.
What worried him was how much the internet fees would add up to. At least the infamous phone-bill bomb that every PC-communication user eventually experienced was still a distant threat. The system charged per connection, so the fee stayed fixed as long as the line didn’t drop. He remembered the switch to hourly billing wouldn’t happen until around 1989 or 1990. Until then, staying connected to 01410 was safe.
The real problem was KETEL’s internet charges. Korea had been the second country in the world to link to the internet. Dr. Kilnam Chon, the pioneer, had made it practical by connecting Seoul National University with the Gum i Electronics Technology Research Institute. Even though routers for long-distance relays weren’t sold in the United States, they had substituted with software and established the link. Popular use, however, was still premature. XT computers were only just beginning to spread, so the network existed mainly at universities and research labs. As a result, the fees were punishing. Had Yoo Jae-won’s family still been poor, he could never have afforded it. Fortunately, founding ID Technology and securing solid startup capital made it manageable.
“I’d love to give Keyboard Warrior a self-recommendation, but that’s impossible right now.”
Self-recommendation—recommending your own post. It was embarrassing, but for success Yoo Jae-won was prepared to do far worse. The trouble was he lacked a paid CompuServe ID. Without one he couldn’t post on the BBS. FTP at least let KETEL lend an ID for uploads. Later CompuServe would open overseas accounts and the process would become simple, but for now the service operated only inside the United States.
“Well, it feels like losing a day, but I’ll have to handle it tomorrow. Hmm. In that case, shall I browse some PC communication for the first time in a while?”
After closing the internet, Yoo Jae-won wandered through the KETEL boards with a touch of regret. Compared to the boundless internet, the boards felt painfully small. Still, the sight of many people gathering to share ideas, or chatting in real time, was genuinely entertaining. Above all, this was not the frivolous internet culture of the twenty-first century; sincerity still lived here. Even in chat rooms people used polite speech as a matter of course and observed the same etiquette they would in face-to-face conversation. That was only natural. Most KETEL users were college students, professors, or researchers, so the average age was high. On top of that, the network was so tight-knit that rudeness could follow you for years. It was not yet an era of “bangga bangga” or “hallung,” so the chat atmosphere was rather stiff, yet talking with strangers remained surprisingly enjoyable.
Of the roughly twenty chat rooms, the one that caught Yoo Jae-won’s interest was the even more formal “Programming Research Group.” Beginners and experts gathered there to exchange tips, know-how, and solutions. Because the topic was his specialty, he slipped into the ongoing conversation without the slightest awkwardness. And about twenty minutes after he entered, his presence began to shine.
The message came from Kim Nam-seung, who had wrestled for days with the program’s core algorithm. After Yoo Jae-won solved it in a single stroke, the man’s joy overflowed. The word “teaching” revealed that he had mistaken Yoo Jae-won for a professor. After all, Kim himself taught at the Korea Advanced Institute of Science and Technology and had struggled with the same problem; it was only natural he would assume a peer.
Yoo Jae-won politely dismissed the praise and did not correct the misunderstanding. It was not that fame frightened or annoyed him. Instinct told him it was better to store up such moments and release them with maximum impact later. The chat continued. He found himself clicking perfectly with the professors and university students in the room. When he played with children his own age, the mental-age gap forced him to switch off his mind; here he could display his full intellectual power without restraint. Before he knew it, he had stayed at the computer until late at night. Only after his parents told him to sleep did he post a farewell and log off.
The next day.
“Ugh, I blew it.”
He had set an alarm, but waking up proved impossible. When he finally opened his eyes it was past ten in the morning. Staying up late on PC communication had cost him. And because it was Sunday his parents had let him sleep in. As a result, his American business was delayed another full day by his own mistake.
After that the usual Sunday routine began. At around ten-twenty he followed his mother to church and automatically took his seat at the piano. Ever since he had demonstrated his skill to the pastor and the pastor’s wife, he had been responsible for accompanying the hymns while the congregation waited for the service to start. It was the perfect duty—neither burdensome nor likely to dull his technique—so he had accepted gladly. During the service itself the pastor’s wife still played, but before the service the congregation had come to associate the piano with Yoo Jae-won alone.
He was playing today as usual when the back of his head prickled. Turning, he found Su-kyung staring at him with wide eyes. Su-kyung’s mother attended church only sporadically; that occasional attendance had led to an acquaintance with Yoo Jae-won’s mother and ultimately to the computer sale. His mother’s plan to build church connections and sell electronics had succeeded for the first time thanks to her. Usually Su-kyung’s mother came alone, yet today Su-kyung had accompanied her.
His hands continued moving across the keys while the congregation sang. He caught her eye and gave a quick wink. Su-kyung flinched in surprise.
After the service.
Naturally the two families split—mothers with mothers, children with children.
“When did you get so good at piano? There isn’t even an academy in our neighborhood.”
“I learned it at home on the computer.”
“No way. That story was real? I thought Mom was just exaggerating.”
Having recited the same explanation before, Yoo Jae-won delivered it with perfect naturalness. Besides, the computer remained a magic wand in their eyes. Learning piano through software was not all that different from learning from a book, yet Su-kyung simply accepted the answer.
During the conversation the reason for her church visit became clear.
“Let’s go to my house. We can use the computer together and you can teach me a little.”
It seemed yesterday’s session had been fun. She was inviting him again. Yoo Jae-won also enjoyed working on a good machine. The frame rate at her house was far smoother than at his; the American version of Keyboard Warrior felt completely different. The 286 at home was decent, but the moment three or four zombies appeared the game stuttered. The 386 suffered no such lag.
“Sure. But I’m a little busy today.”
At the negative reply Su-kyung’s disappointment showed plainly.
“Busy? Then how about after school tomorrow?”
“Tomorrow? I have work tomorrow as well…”
Successive refusals made her disappointment even clearer. She had apparently expected him to come running the moment she called. He was not rejecting her out of dislike. He needed to go straight home and conduct business over a long-distance call to America; how long that conversation would last was impossible to predict. On top of that, tomorrow he had to oversee the packaging of orders. He had promised Sambo Computer delivery within the week, and the company was preparing its own marketing campaign. Any delay would cause serious trouble.
“Hmm. If you help me, I should have some free time on Tuesday.”
“Help with what?”
Yoo Jae-won glanced at his parents. Both were absorbed in their own lively conversation and paid no attention to the children.
“It’s simple! Just leave it to me!”
Su-kyung clenched her fist, eyes sparkling.
The following dawn.
Yoo Jae-won finally woke at the planned hour. It was 5:30 a.m. In California it was 1:30 p.m. As he dialed, he could not help worrying what his parents would say when they saw the phone bill. KETEL’s internet charges would arrive separately as a giro notice, but international call fees would be added directly to the regular bill.
In 1988 an international call to the United States cost 6,180 won for three minutes. Five minutes would devour an ordinary worker’s entire daily wage. If the other party understood him quickly and cooperated, the call could be short, but Yoo Jae-won knew the first conversation rarely ended that way. In fact, if things went too smoothly he would have to suspect fraud. That was simply how the world worked.
Even so, he had zero doubt the person who answered would accept his request. He took a deep breath and began pressing the buttons: the U.S. country code, the California area code, then the office number. After a brief silence the line clicked and began to ring.
His tension rose. No error message had sounded; half the battle was won. The call was traveling across the Pacific cable, attempting to reach the opposite side of the planet. After the fourth ring came a click, followed by an unfamiliar foreign voice.
The English was pure American, spoken by a man who sounded fairly young. It was the first time Yoo Jae-won had heard the voice, so it felt unfamiliar, yet somehow welcome at the same time.
“I called to request a job. Am I speaking with Mr. Remington Sting himself?”
Perfect accent flowed from Yoo Jae-won’s mouth as well. After more than ten years of English study in his previous life, the result was only natural. Of course, Korean students studied English from middle school through university, but not all spoke it well. Yoo Jae-won’s own previous skill had been mediocre. The change had come after the deal with the god. While preparing for regression he had studied with desperate intensity. In high school he had been on the verge of giving up foreign languages, but the resolve he felt afterward was on another level. Thanks to that burning effort, he could now speak flawless American English.
“Yeah, that’s me. My secretary packed up and left after his weekly paycheck was late just once. So I’m stuck answering the phones myself. Can’t blame a client for being suspicious. Anyway, a job request is always welcome news. What’s the case?”
“It’s not a case. It’s business at the company level.”
“Business?”
“The company I work for develops computer software. We’ve just released a new product and want to let consumers know about it while gathering their opinions. We’re planning a large-scale beta test. Unfortunately our headquarters is too far from California to run the event ourselves. I’d like you to supervise the entire operation, Mr. Sting.”
He had confirmed Keyboard Warrior’s quality at Su-kyung’s house. Once people tried it, they would be hooked. The plan was therefore to run a paid beta test aimed at CompuServe users. Simply asking for volunteers would yield no one, so he intended to offer modest prize money to recruit testers. Participants would play the game and post their honest impressions—positive or negative—on the CompuServe boards. He was not aiming for a few dozen testers but for several hundred at minimum. If they flooded the boards with feedback, Keyboard Warrior would instantly become a hot topic on CompuServe.
“Hmm. I’m afraid you’ve dialed the wrong number. This is a detective agency, not an event-planning company.”
The 1970s and ’80s had been the golden age of private detectives in America. Agencies like Pinkerton had even opened franchises nationwide. But as state police and the FBI upgraded their equipment and adopted computers, their capabilities soared and the demand for private detectives gradually shrank.
“No, I called after doing my research. You are the right man for the job, Mr. Remington Sting. I will pay generously, so please accept.”
In the end, a detective would take any job if the fee was right. By the late eighties they were finding lost pets, running background checks, and doing simple errands. The profession had declined to the point where “errand center” or “odd-job office” would not have been inaccurate descriptions.
A sigh heavy with thought traveled across the line. Remington seemed to be deciding whether to hang up or continue the conversation. Yoo Jae-won was certain the man would accept even this request that had nothing to do with investigation. The reason was simple: the difficult reality of full-time detectives in the late eighties was something Remington himself had told him about in the original timeline.