by David Lodge
‘There’s nothing folksy about Henry James.’
He waves this quibble aside. ‘Folk psychology is a term we use in the trade,’ he says. ‘It means received wisdom and commonsense assumptions about human behaviour and motivation, what makes people tick. It works fine for ordinary social life – we couldn’t get along without it. And it works fine for fiction, all the way from The Wings of the Dove to Eastenders . . . but it’s not objective enough to qualify as science. If this Kate Croy were a real human being, Henry James could never presume to say how she felt about that armchair, unless she’d told him.’
‘But if Kate Croy were a real human being, your cognitive science could tell us nothing about her that we’d want to know.’
‘I wouldn’t accept “nothing”. But yes, agreed, for the time being we have to settle for knowing less about consciousness than novelists pretend to know. Here we are.’
They have reached the entrance to the Holt Belling Centre for Cognitive Science.
Sliding doors made of toughened glass, engraved with large entwined capitals, ‘HB’, open automatically at their approach and slice the air silently behind them. The foyer is filled with a bluish, submarine light, filtered through the tinted windows. From inside it can be seen that the entire building is constructed mainly of steel and glass. The offices, workrooms and other rooms splay out from a central atrium. Their curved inner walls are made of glass, so the visitor can take in at a glance the various activities going on in each segment, though most of the people visible seem to be doing much the same thing, sitting at desks staring at computer screens and occasionally fingering keyboards. The three floors of the building are connected by a lift shaft situated at the opposite side of the atrium to the entrance, but also by an open spiral staircase, constructed of stainless steel and polished wood, that coils up from the centre of the ground floor, connected to the floors above by horizontal walkways and galleries.
‘D’you notice anything unusual about the staircase?’ Ralph asks.
‘Well, it’s extremely elegant, especially the banister,’ says Helen.
‘No, not that. It’s left-handed, like the double helix of DNA. Spiral staircases usually go the other way.’
‘Ah. I wouldn’t have known.’
He shows her the accommodation on the ground floor: a general office, a small library, a lecture theatre with raked tip-up seats, postgraduate workrooms, with rows of identical computer terminals arrayed on tables, and an air-conditioned basement room which Ralph alludes to as the Brain of the building, full of computers of different shapes and sizes, humming and blinking to themselves, on whose discs and tapes most of the Centre’s work is stored. A man in a white lab coat is studying a printout from one of these machines. Ralph introduces him to Helen as Stuart Phillips, his systems administrator. Helen remarks that the machines all have names printed on white cards and attached to their casings: ‘Haddock’, ‘Thompson-One’, ‘Thompson-Two’, ‘Snowy’, etc.
Stuart Phillips says, ‘It’s easy to make mistakes if you refer to them by their technical designations – letters and numbers – so we give them nicknames.’
‘Why all from the Tintin books?’ says Helen.
‘That was Professor Messenger’s idea,’ says Stuart Phillips, turning to Ralph.
‘My kids were very fond of them,’ he says. ‘Still are, and so am I, for that matter.’
He leads her to the common room in the basement, furnished with low modem sofas and armchairs stained and threadbare from use, and a gleaming Swiss automatic drinks machine. Three young men dressed in jeans, sports shirts and trainers are chatting in a corner. Ralph introduces them to Helen as PhD students: Jim, Carl (from Germany) and Kenji (from Japan). She asks them what they are working on. Jim says robotics, Carl says affective modelling, Kenji says something indistinct that Ralph repeats for her benefit – ‘genetic algorithms.’
‘I can guess what robotics is,’ says Helen, ‘but what on earth are the others?’
Carl explains that affective modelling is computer simulation of the way emotions affect human behaviour.
‘Like grief?’ Helen says, glancing at Ralph.
‘Exactly so,’ he says. ‘Though Carl is actually working on a program for mother-love.’
‘I’d like to see it,’ says Helen.
‘I am not able to give a demonstration, I’m afraid,’ says Carl. ‘I am rewriting the program.’
‘Another day,’ says Ralph.
‘And genetic whatsitsnames?’ Helen enquires, turning to Kenji. The young man, whose English is not as good as Carl’s, sweats and stammers through an explanation which Ralph tactfully summarizes for Helen’s benefit: genetic algorithms are computer programs designed to replicate themselves like biological life forms. ‘The programs are all set a problem to solve and the ones that do best are allowed to reproduce themselves for the next test. In other words, they pair off and have sex together’ – so Ralph puts it, to the amusement of the students. ‘We split each program in two and swap the halves. If you do this often enough, sometimes you end up with more powerful programs than a human programmer could have designed.’
‘But they might get out of control,’ says Helen, ‘and take over the world.’
‘More likely they’d end up in common rooms discussing whether human beings are conscious or not,’ he says.
The young men laugh politely. Perhaps thinking that they ought to make some demonstration of industry and commitment to their research, they move off, leaving Ralph and Helen alone. He asks her what kind of coffee she would like and punches the appropriate buttons on the machine. He watches expectantly as she sips a cappuccino with chocolate powder sprinkled on top.
‘Mmm, excellent,’ she says. ‘Only the polystyrene cup lets it down.’
‘Ah well, the regulars have their own chinaware,’ he says, going over to a wooden board where variously decorated mugs hang from cuphooks labelled with the owners’ names. He takes a black mug with the word BOSS printed on it in white capitals, and positions it under the coffee-machine’s tap to receive a double espresso with sugar.
‘You don’t have a separate common room for staff, then?’ Helen comments. ‘Very democratic.’
‘Well, our students are all postgraduates. We don’t run undergraduate courses, much to the University’s displeasure.’
‘Why is that?’
‘I don’t want my people wasting their time and energy teaching undergraduates elementary programming.’
‘No, I mean, why is the University displeased?’
‘There’s money in student numbers. Higher education is a market nowadays, you know.’ He looks at her over his coffee mug. ‘It’s a sore point with us at the moment, actually. I could easily bore you to death on the subject.’
‘Try me,’ she says.
‘Well, briefly, this place was set up with an endowment from Holt Belling plc – the VC at that time was friendly with the Chairman of their Board. They provided the capital expenditure and half the running expenses, the University paying the other half. The agreement is renewed every five years. Next year will be the end of the second quinquennium, and Holt Belling aren’t going to renew. They’re full of admiration for what we’re doing, but they just can’t afford to support it any more. I can’t blame them. Microsoft have taken a lot of their business away, and they have a cash-flow problem. In any case it was always assumed that eventually they would drop out and leave the University to take over full responsibility for funding us. But the University is short of cash too. The new VC and his Committee of Public Safety – that’s what I call his team of administrators – tell me they can’t afford to pick up the tab for the whole operation.’
‘So what will happen?’ Helen asks.
‘In the worst-case scenario, we’ll be closed down.’ He smiles sardonically as he adds, ‘Perhaps they’ll convert this place into a Centre for Creative Writing. Jasper Richmond tells me he’s running out of space in the School of English. And Creative Writing is
very much approved of by the Committee of Public Safety.’
‘Is it?’ Helen sounds surprised.
‘Oh yes. The courses are very popular, they attract lots of applicants, undergraduate as well as postgraduate. Americans choose to do their Junior Year Abroad here because they can get credits in Creative Writing. Lots of students, lots of fees. The School of English hires impoverished writers to teach them, on temporary, short-term contracts –’
‘For peanuts,’ Helen interpolates.
‘For peanuts, exactly. Flat fees with no superannuation contributions, no sabbatical or maternity leave entitlements. The overheads of the course must be negligible. From a business point of view it’s a high-yield, low-cost operation. Whether the world really needs more novelists is a matter of opinion.’
‘Does it need more cognitive scientists?’
‘I think so, obviously. The future’s going to be dominated by computer science and genetic engineering. You need people who understand the fundamental problems and possibilities of those things, not just the applications. But our masters don’t seem to understand that. It’s always difficult to get money for blue skies research, in any field.’
‘But you don’t seriously think the University will close you down?’
‘No. Well, only as a last resort, anyway. We’re one of the few world-class departments in this place, rated 5 in the last research assessment exercise. It would be bad management, not to mention bad PR, if the University just pulled the plug. More likely we’ll be asked to tighten our belts, or offer undergraduate courses.’
‘Can’t you find a new sponsor?’
‘It’s tricky. You see, it was a condition of the original endowment that this building would always be known as the Holt Belling Centre. You can’t imagine a rival organization being happy with that. Even getting funding for specific projects is quite difficult, for the same reason. Our best hope at the moment is the MoD.’
‘The Ministry of Defence?’
‘They’ve shown interest in some of our work, and of course publicity is the last thing they want. Whatever happens, it’ll mean more paperwork for me. But that’s enough about boring administration problems,’ he says, picking up Helen’s empty cup and his own mug, and taking them across to the sink to dispose of the former and rinse out the latter. ‘Let me show you the Karinthy mural.’
On their way there, they encounter the postgraduate Jim in a corridor, observing a small robot, about two feet high. It has three wheels, a rotating head with lenses for eyes, and a pair of mechanical claws.
‘This is Arthur,’ says Ralph. ‘The latest addition to the Department strength. Bought off the peg.’
At that moment Arthur is motionless, facing into a corner, like a small boy who has been sent there for misbehaving in class.
‘What is it doing?’ Helen asks.
‘Mapping out the space,’ Jim says. ‘Committing it to memory.’
Abruptly, Arthur swivels round on its wheels and sets off for the other side of the corridor where it bangs rather violently into the wall.
‘Ouch,’ says Jim, frowning. ‘There must be something wrong with the program.’ Arthur backs away from the wall, and contemplates it in a stunned sort of way.
‘He looks as if he still has some way to go before he starts dating other robots,’ Helen says to Ralph.
‘Yes,’ says Ralph. ‘We shall be happy if we can teach him to pick up trash from the floor. Let’s move on.’
Ralph leads Helen to the lift. Not only are its walls made of glass, but the floor too, so that you can look down between your feet at the cables and machinery in the shaft if so inclined, though Helen clearly is not. As they ascend smoothly and silently Ralph explains that Max Karinthy was a Hungarian-American philosopher and amateur painter who spent a year at the Centre as a Research Fellow a few years ago on sabbatical from Princeton, and amused himself, with Ralph’s permission, and indeed encouragement, by decorating the second floor of the building with a mural illustrative of various well-known theories and thought experiments in cognitive science, evolutionary psychology and the philosophy of mind.
The lift stops at the second-floor gallery and its glass doors open with a mechanical sigh. ‘Goodness!’ Helen exclaims, as she steps out. The inner walls of the rooms on this floor are not made of glass like those on the two lower ones, but of solid brick and plaster, thus affording a curved painting surface, which runs around the circumference of the atrium. A series of overlapping scenes, figures, vignettes, painted in a bold, expressionist style, extend to left and right of the lift-shaft to meet at the opposite side of the gallery, making a kind of cyclorama. In contrast to the hi-tech austerity of the rest of the building, here is a riot of colours and forms.
‘Quite impressive, isn’t it,’ says Ralph, looking satisfied with her reaction. ‘Shall I give you the guided tour?’
‘Please.’
He turns to his left, and Helen follows him. The first image to catch the eye is an enormous black bat with wings spread, flying towards the viewer at eye level like a Stealth bomber, encircled by fine concentric rings.
‘In the early seventies a philosopher called Thomas Nagel wrote a famous paper called “What is it Like to be a Bat?”’ Ralph explains. ‘His argument was that there is absolutely no way we can ever know what it is like to be a bat – the only way to know is to be a bat. Ergo qualia are ineffable, ergo the scientific investigation of consciousness is impossible. A very simplistic argument, in my opinion, but it’s had a surprisingly good run for its money. The choice of a bat for the thought experiment was inspired, though – they’re such weird creatures. You know they navigate by echolocation, like radar?’ He points to the concentric rings. ‘When one of the guys who discovered this first described it at a scientific conference, some old prof came up afterwards and practically assaulted him, he thought the idea was so ridiculous.’
‘What are those two bats doing in the background?’ Helen asks, pointing to a pair of the creatures who seem to be kissing each other in some Disneylike parody of human courtship.
‘They’re vampire bats. One of them is regurgitating blood down the throat of the other.’
‘Ugh! I wish I hadn’t asked.’
‘Apparently, when vampire bats come back from a night out, the ones that struck lucky will sometimes share their takeaway dinners with ones who didn’t.’
‘What’s that got to do with the problem of consciousness?’ Helen asks.
‘It’s got something to do with motivation. It looks like altruism at first glance, but a lucky bat will only share its blood with another bat with which it has a reciprocal arrangement should circumstances be reversed, so it’s really a form of enlightened self-interest. The same is true of human beings – as the Prisoner’s Dilemma illustrates.’
Ralph points to a picture of two men dressed in comic-book striped prison uniforms, sitting in two cells at each end of a row of empty ones, staring glumly through the bars. A warder stands guard between them. ‘The situation is that they’re both accused of a crime and they’re both being invited to give evidence against each other. Note that they’ve been isolated and can’t communicate. If each man betrays the other, they will both go down for a long sentence. If only one turns King’s evidence, he will escape scot-free. If they both remain silent they may get lighter sentences for lack of evidence. It’s a choice between cooperating and defecting. It can be applied to all kinds of situations: economics, politics, fishing rights, the school playground, whatever. The whole of life can be seen as a series of choices between cooperating and defecting.’
‘Really?’ says Helen.
‘Take the University’s latest cost-cutting exercise. Heads of Schools and Departments are faced with a choice between voting to spread the cuts as thinly as possible over the whole University – equal misery for all – or voting for drastic cuts in other Departments before somebody does it to them. Cooperate or defect. Mathematicians have spent thousands of hours trying to work out the most ad
vantageous way to play the game. Whole conferences have been devoted to the subject. There was an international competition to devise the most effective strategy. Know what it turned out to be?’
‘What?’
‘Tit for tat. T.F.T. You cooperate with the other player unless and until they fail to cooperate with you, and then next time you defect. Only, as long as the other player knows that’s what you’ll do, you won’t need to. That’s what holds society together. That’s the sum of human morality.’
‘Hmm,’ Helen murmurs, as if she might dispute this assertion, but chooses not to. She moves on to another section of the mural. ‘And what is this?’ She nods at a picture of a man seated at a desk which bears an In-tray and Out-tray, and a pile of books. The room in which he sits is otherwise bare and has no windows. The trays are filled with scrolls of paper inscribed with ideograms, and similar scrolls of paper are falling through a flap in the door.
‘That’s Searle’s Chinese Room, a very famous thought experiment. The idea is that this guy is receiving questions in Chinese, a language he doesn’t speak or read, and he has a kind of rule book containing logical procedures that enable him to answer them in Chinese. He sits there all day receiving questions and giving out correct answers, but he doesn’t understand a single word. Is he conscious of what he’s doing?’
‘He’d be conscious of doing an incredibly boring job.’
‘Good point,’ says Ralph. ‘But it’s not Searle’s. He argues that the man can’t be conscious of the information he’s processing, and inasmuch as he’s acting like a computer program, neither can a computer program be conscious of the information it’s processing. Therefore Artificial Intelligence must fail.’
‘I presume you don’t agree.’
‘No, I don’t. Because, even in a thought experiment, it’s impossible to conceive of a computer program that would work as this one is supposed to work. Or if it could, then it would be conscious by any ordinary criteria.’
