Warm Party for a Code Group By Danit Lidor 2:00 a.m. Sep. 13, 2002 PDT The cypherpunks are throwing a PGP (pretty good party) this weekend. The venerable online community is celebrating its 10th anniversary which, in the ephemeral world of the Internet, is remarkable. But don't go unless you RSVP first. These people are admittedly paranoid, contentious and quarrelsome. And they're not afraid to express their ire, either. No wonder. In 1992, the cypherpunks emerged from a small group of people who, because of their interest in cryptography and encryption, recognized that the free-flowing format of the burgeoning Web culture must provide for anonymous interactions. Not surprisingly, they soon came under the uncomfortable scrutiny of the formidable National Security Agency. The situation escalated in early 1993, after a computer programmer named Phil Zimmermann (a patron saint of the community) -- alarmed that the patents for public key encryption were sold to a company called RSA -- wrote an open-source, free program called PGP (Pretty Good Privacy). The resulting debacle, in which Zimmermann was threatened with criminal prosecution for exporting weapons (encryption technology is termed a weapon by the U.S. government), brought the public's right to privacy to the forefront of the now-commonplace tug-of-war between those who favor "crytpo anarchy" and those who don't. Through the active work of many civil libertarians, including the cypherpunks, pressure was brought to bear upon the government to re-think its position. The charges against Zimmermann were dropped. It was a triumph. The geeks fought the law, and the geeks won. "The cypherpunks' paranoia about information exploitation is becoming mainstream," Peter Wayner, author of Translucent Databases, wrote in an e-mail interview. "Everyone is learning that the cypherpunks' insistence on limiting the proliferation of information is a good thing." The cypherpunks' e-mail list forms the nucleus of the community, which has grown to include people of many agendas and interests. No longer the exclusive domain of crypto geeks, cypherpunks are "doctors, lawyers, mathematicians, felons, druggies, anti-druggies, anarchists, libertarians, right-wing fanatics, left-wing fanatics, teachers, housewives, househusbands, students, cops and criminals," cypherpunk J.A. Terranson wrote in a posting. Or maybe not. Cypherpunk Optimizzin Al-gorithym wrote in typically obscure cypherpunk fashion, "We're all just voices in Tim May's head." May, one of the original cypherpunks, continues to be an active figurehead of the cypherpunks and has often bridged the chasm between its historically secretive culture and its forays into the public sphere. In 10 years, the list has become an amalgamation of a political watchdog site, a social club and a repository of technical cryptographic discussion. "(It's) where people from all different backgrounds and views can hear from one another," mathematician Nina Fefferman said. "We math people are frequently shocked and confused by what the politicians do with regard to legislating crypto-related issues. Conversely, the policy and society people are frequently interested in issues that have to do with the use and regulation of cryptographic standards and research." Others are disappointed by the list's current tepid political climate. "The atmosphere isn't as electric because the scene has grown so big," Wayner said. "It's not just a few guys talking about the importance of some mathematical equations. It's like debating the importance of indoor plumbing now. No one disputes it, they just want to argue about copper versus PVC." Wayner, Zimmermann, as well as May, John Gilmore and Eric Hughes (the original founders of the list), however, have emerged from their cypherpunk association as key public privacy figures: vocal and passionate defenders of civil liberties on the Web. It's hard to imagine the secretive and fractious cryptocrusaders assembling for a physical meeting. Even May, the party's host, isn't sure who or how many cypherpunks to expect to his soiree at a hideaway in the Santa Cruz (California) mountains. "Some meetings (in the Bay Area) have 40 attendees, some have 15," he said. But he's adamant about who won't be coming. Never one to mince words, he wrote, "Narcs and feds will not be allowed at the meeting. Fuck them dead."