I did fall in with a group called the Tech Model Railroad Club. I really thought that was great. Relay logic was right up my alley. They had a railroad layout completely done with relay logic and stepping switches. Through that, I got slightly in touch with the people at RLE—Research Lab of Electronics. This was still in the era where we spent all of our time in the basement of Building 26 typing up punch cards on the keypunch, which we would then hand to the shaman, who would give us listings back the next day. Then I started hanging out at Project MAC. Basically, when I was supposed to have been doing lots of math lessons, I discovered I was spending more and more time hanging out in the computer places.

And after RLE, you went over to Tech Square. I met people like Richard Greenblatt and Bill Gosper. But I was just drifting through that world; I don’t think I was doing much programming. Like I remember how I got involved with Project MAC: I was really taken by Spacewar! on the PDP-1. But I didn’t approach it as a hacker or a programmer—“Let me see the source code. How did you do that?” I just thought the game was the neatest thing. I was just a gamer at that point, as opposed to a programmer, and I had heard that the guys over at Project MAC had done a super version of Spacewar!, that they had fancy consoles, and they had a spare PDP, so I wandered up there. So I got to meet Peter Samson in his great failed attempt to solve the New York City subway system, to ride the whole system on one ticket as fast as possible.

I was probably a sophomore, deeply entrenched in the usual sophomore things, watching all of these guys who were clearly adept and clearly knew what they were doing. I was writing little programs to solve a maze. The frog had to hop from lily pad to lily pad and get out of the middle of the pond. I remember writing that program and helping other students from my dorm get theirs working. But that’s where I was at. I had no clue what happened after I handed my deck in.

As I look back, I would say that at that point, I was learning the craft of programming. I could sort of make computers do what I wanted. But the light hadn’t gone off. I hadn’t internalized it; I didn’t really understand what was happening. It was all a little bit magical and strange. And that was how I was drifting through college. The thing that really made me a programmer was going to work at BBN.

One of the guys I had met at college, who had graduated and worked at BBN said, “Come out here.” He took me out one night in the middle of the night because BBN was a 24-hour-a-day, 7-day-a-week weird place. It was sort of an extension of the MIT labs. People could come and go at all hours. And he was part of the night crew. So we went out one evening. It was all too mysterious and marvelous to understand; I just had no clue what he was showing me. Not long after that, he suggested that they hire me. And so they had me out, interviewed me, and hired me.

Seibel: This was when you were three years into MIT?

Cosell: Correct. In September of my junior year they hired me part-time. I believe I made it until October before I dropped out and went to work fulltime at BBN.

In retrospect, I wasn’t very good. I had seen a PDP-1 but I had no idea how to program one. I didn’t know anything about time-sharing. That, of course, was not surprising, since there were probably maybe 50 people on the planet who knew what time-sharing was.

But BBN was working on a project with Massachusetts General Hospital to experiment with automating hospitals and I got brought onto that project. I started out as an application programmer because that was all I was good for. I think I spent about three weeks as an application programmer. I quickly became a systems programmer, working on the libraries that they were using. And not long after that, the two systems gurus, the guys that had written much of that PDP-1 time-sharing system, took me under their wing and designated me their heir apparent. That winter they both left BBN to go back to grad school. By January I was the czar of the PDP-1 timesharing system—I was responsible for the whole mess.

But in that little interval, a whole series of lightbulbs lit up. All of a sudden, I understood time-sharing. I understood real-time systems. Once I understood it, I absorbed the time-sharing system. And everything’s been downhill for me after that.

The project was quite ambitious for its time. The idea was that there would be a Model 33 Teletype—noisy and clunky and uppercase only—on each ward. There would be a Model 33 Teletype in each doctor’s office. There would be a Model 33 Teletype in the pharmacy. And there would be, I guess, a Model 33 Teletype in the admissions office. And our little timesharing system was going to coordinate all of that.

When a patient got in, they would be assigned a bed. The doctor would schedule lab tests. At which point, the nurse’s Teletype would say, “Take these samples. Put this number on it.” The lab would get a message saying, “Run these tests.” If the doctor prescribed something, the pharmacy would be told and the cart would be ready.

It was amazing to have those little noisy, silly things on the wards. Having that level of professional dealing with these clunky things was really pretty offensive, so there was a lot of resistance. But I was sort of immune to all of that, because I had gravitated off to the systems part of the world.

And I had decided it was really important that the system not stop. I don’t know if they told me that or not, but I decided that we had to prove—I had to prove—that time-sharing could work. That it was a good enough and solid enough thing that you would consider running a hospital with it. I thought about what happened if a patient needed medication and the system crashed? Or worse, the system lost the prescription and the patient never got dosed? Or the system juggled prescriptions and the nurses had actually started trusting the system? So I started thinking the system should not crash. This system should be good as Unix 30 years later.

But there was no real-time debugging. When the system crashed, basically the run light went out and that was it. You had control-panel switches where you could read and write memory. The only way to debug the system was to say, “What was the system doing when it crashed?” You don’t get to run a program; you get to look at the table that kept track of what it was doing. So I got to look at memory, keeping track on pieces of graph paper what it was doing. And I got better at that.

In retrospect, I got scarily better at that. So they had me have a pager. This was back in the era when pagers were sort of cool and only doctors had them. It was a big, clunky thing and all it would do is beep. No two-way. No messages. And it only worked in the Boston area, because its transmitter was on top of the Prudential Center. But if I was within 50 miles of Boston, it worked.

And basically, I was a trained little robot: when my pager went beep, beep, beep, I called in to find out what the problem was. What was bizarre was that with no paper, in a parking lot, on a pay phone I could have them examining octal locations, changing octal locations and then I would say, “OK, put this address in and hit run,” and the system would come back up. I don’t know how the hell I managed to do that. But I could do those kinds of things. I took care of the time-sharing system for probably a good two or three years.

Seibel: At this point, you had presumably written a lot of the code despite having originally inherited the system.

Cosell: Yeah. The operating system was not done when I got it. It was buggy and there were pieces of it that were not finished when Steve Weiss and Bob Morgan went off to grad school. I did something that they hadn’t done—it was one of the things that I got known for around BBN, which is, I made things work.