A classic story from Usenet, about a true programming Mozart.
Real Programmers write in Fortran.
Maybe they do now, in this decadent
era of Lite beer, hand calculators and
"user-friendly" software but back in
the Good Old Days, when the term
"software" sounded funny and Real
Computers were made out of drums and
vacuum tubes, Real Programmers wrote
in machine code. Not Fortran. Not
RATFOR. Not, even, assembly language.
Machine Code. Raw, unadorned,
inscrutable hexadecimal numbers.
Directly.
Lest a whole new generation of
programmers grow up in ignorance of
this glorious past, I feel duty-bound
to describe, as best I can through the
generation gap, how a Real Programmer
wrote code. I'll call him Mel, because
that was his name.
I first met Mel when I went to work
for Royal McBee Computer Corp., a
now-defunct subsidiary of the
typewriter company. The firm
manufactured the LGP-30, a small,
cheap (by the standards of the day)
drum-memory computer, and had just
started to manufacture the RPC-4000, a
much-improved, bigger, better, faster
-- drum-memory computer. Cores cost too much, and weren't here to stay,
anyway. (That's why you haven't heard
of the company, or the computer.)
I had been hired to write a Fortran
compiler for this new marvel and Mel
was my guide to its wonders. Mel
didn't approve of compilers.
"If a program can't rewrite its own
code," he asked, "what good is it?"
Mel had written, in hexadecimal, the
most popular computer program the
company owned. It ran on the LGP-30
and played blackjack with potential
customers at computer shows. Its
effect was always dramatic. The LGP-30
booth was packed at every show, and
the IBM salesmen stood around talking
to each other. Whether or not this
actually sold computers was a question
we never discussed.
Mel's job was to re-write the
blackjack program for the RPC-4000.
(Port? What does that mean?) The new
computer had a one-plus-one addressing
scheme, in which each machine
instruction, in addition to the
operation code and the address of the
needed operand, had a second address
that indicated where, on the revolving
drum, the next instruction was
located. In modern parlance, every
single instruction was followed by a
GO TO! Put that in Pascal's pipe and
smoke it.
Mel loved the RPC-4000 because he
could optimize his code: that is,
locate instructions on the drum so
that just as one finished its job, the
next would be just arriving at the
"read head" and available for
immediate execution. There was a
program to do that job, an "optimizing
assembler", but Mel refused to use it.
"You never know where it's going to
put things", he explained, "so you'd
have to use separate constants".
It was a long time before I understood
that remark. Since Mel knew the
numerical value of every operation
code, and assigned his own drum
addresses, every instruction he wrote
could also be considered a numerical
constant. He could pick up an earlier
"add" instruction, say, and multiply
by it, if it had the right numeric
value. His code was not easy for
someone else to modify.
I compared Mel's hand-optimized
programs with the same code massaged
by the optimizing assembler program,
and Mel's always ran faster. That was
because the "top-down" method of
program design hadn't been invented
yet, and Mel wouldn't have used it
anyway. He wrote the innermost parts
of his program loops first, so they
would get first choice of the optimum
address locations on the drum. The
optimizing assembler wasn't smart
enough to do it that way.
Mel never wrote time-delay loops,
either, even when the balky
Flexowriter required a delay between
output characters to work right. He
just located instructions on the drum
so each successive one was just past
the read head when it was needed; the
drum had to execute another complete
revolution to find the next
instruction. He coined an
unforgettable term for this procedure.
Although "optimum" is an absolute
term, like "unique", it became common
verbal practice to make it relative:
"not quite optimum" or "less optimum"
or "not very optimum". Mel called the
maximum time-delay locations the "most
pessimum".
After he finished the blackjack
program and got it to run, ("Even the
initializer is optimized", he said
proudly) he got a Change Request from
the sales department. The program used
an elegant (optimized) random number
generator to shuffle the "cards" and
deal from the "deck", and some of the
salesmen felt it was too fair, since
sometimes the customers lost. They
wanted Mel to modify the program so,
at the setting of a sense switch on
the console, they could change the
odds and let the customer win.
Mel balked. He felt this was patently
dishonest, which it was, and that it
impinged on his personal integrity as
a programmer, which it did, so he
refused to do it. The Head Salesman
talked to Mel, as did the Big Boss
and, at the boss's urging, a few
Fellow Programmers. Mel finally gave
in and wrote the code, but he got the
test backwards, and, when the sense
switch was turned on, the program
would cheat, winning every time. Mel
was delighted with this, claiming his
subconscious was uncontrollably
ethical, and adamantly refused to fix
it.
After Mel had left the company for
greener pa$ture$, the Big Boss asked
me to look at the code and see if I
could find the test and reverse it.
Somewhat reluctantly, I agreed to
look. Tracking Mel's code was a real
adventure.
I have often felt that programming is
an art form, whose real value can only
be appreciated by another versed in
the same arcane art; there are lovely
gems and brilliant coups hidden from
human view and admiration, sometimes
forever, by the very nature of the
process. You can learn a lot about an
individual just by reading through his
code, even in hexadecimal. Mel was, I
think, an unsung genius.
Perhaps my greatest shock came when I
found an innocent loop that had no
test in it. No test. None. Common
sense said it had to be a closed loop,
where the program would circle,
forever, endlessly. Program control
passed right through it, however, and
safely out the other side. It took me
two weeks to figure it out.
The RPC-4000 computer had a really
modern facility called an index
register. It allowed the programmer to
write a program loop that used an
indexed instruction inside; each time
through, the number in the index
register was added to the address of
that instruction, so it would refer to
the next datum in a series. He had
only to increment the index register
each time through. Mel never used it.
Instead, he would pull the instruction
into a machine register, add one to
its address, and store it back. He
would then execute the modified
instruction right from the register.
The loop was written so this
additional execution time was taken
into account -- just as this
instruction finished, the next one was
right under the drum's read head,
ready to go. But the loop had no test
in it.
The vital clue came when I noticed the
index register bit, the bit that lay
between the address and the operation
code in the instruction word, was
turned on-- yet Mel never used the
index register, leaving it zero all
the time. When the light went on it
nearly blinded me.
He had located the data he was working
on near the top of memory -- the
largest locations the instructions
could address -- so, after the last
datum was handled, incrementing the
instruction address would make it
overflow. The carry would add one to
the operation code, changing it to the
next one in the instruction set: a
jump instruction. Sure enough, the
next program instruction was in
address location zero, and the program
went happily on its way.
I haven't kept in touch with Mel, so I
don't know if he ever gave in to the
flood of change that has washed over
programming techniques since those
long-gone days. I like to think he
didn't. In any event, I was impressed
enough that I quit looking for the
offending test, telling the Big Boss I
couldn't find it. He didn't seem
surprised.
When I left the company, the blackjack
program would still cheat if you
turned on the right sense switch, and
I think that's how it should be. I
didn't feel comfortable hacking up the
code of a Real Programmer.
