ON SATURDAY, LIVORNO, Laham, and I park the Penske in front of the downtown Marriott, an ugly building shaped like a giant mauve jukebox. It’s the day of the contest, the culmination of all our work at Amiante, the world debut of Dr. Bassett. It’s everything we’ve struggled for. And yet as I help Laham maneuver the stack—covered with an enormous blue blanket—down the narrow ramp, I can barely sort through how I feel. We’ve managed to bolt the battered Shop-Vac contraption to Dr. Bassett’s side; it looks a little like a booster rocket. But the hard angles of the case—heavy enough to kill us if it tips—makes me think of an upright coffin. I want to win, of course, for Livorno’s and Laham’s sake. But what about for my sake? There might be money in it for me—and having Dr. Bassett deemed the first “intelligent” computer would make Libby happy. At least I think it would. And Lord knows I’d love to stick it to Toler. But for me? I grip the stack hard, as we level out on the ground, safe and stable. In this arena of life, I suspect I’ve already done most of my winning and losing.
In the lobby we’re directed toward the Laurel Room, upstairs and just past the business center. As we push Dr. Bassett into the elevator and then out, we round several meeting areas filled with people stultified before presentations. I’m catching a distinct whiff of amateur hour from our event, a feeling confirmed once we find the Laurel Room, a meeting space not twice as a large as my apartment. The room has been divided into three sections—one for computer contestants, one for human contestants, and one for judges—but the dividers are the types used for cubicles, padded and so low that people shake hands over the top. Judges stuff their faces at the bagel table. There is no press; no one even to greet us at the door.
Do we deserve press? I guess it depends on what we ultimately think we’re up to. If a bunch of computer geeks (minus myself—I don’t have the chops to be called a geek) have come together to see who can outprogram who—if, in other words, this is the old human (male?) show of dominance, then maybe we haven’t earned the attention of the world. But if we’re really passing a threshold, really introducing the first intelligent computer to the world, then this will be an awfully quiet setting.
Our usual competition—a couple of sun-deprived hobbyists who have flown in just for the contest—are setting up their talking programs (so simple they run on laptops) and glaring at what must be Toler’s team: six men all in black—like a mime troupe without the charm—fussing over a large stainless steel case, hooked up to a cylinder about the size of a Shop-Vac. It must be the stack I saw in Jenn’s Survivor tryout video. I had thought it looked a lot like Dr. Bassett, but I was wrong—it’s a carbon copy of Dr. Bassett.
“Goodness,” Livorno says.
Laham shakes his head in bafflement. “How do they know the design?” he asks.
Because we let them, I think. I let them. I gave Toler the working theory. I knew Jenn was a spy. Yet I couldn’t quite do anything about any of it. “It’ll be an even better scientific comparison,” I say. “They’ve gone for breadth. We’ve gone for individuality.”
Livorno asks Laham to excuse us for a minute. “What do you think of our chances?” he asks me.
“We’re going to cream them,” I say. I hope I’m right.
“I mean the Turing test. Do you think Dr. Bassett might be determined intelligent?”
I shrug. It’s possible. “I might have gotten too close to say.”
“If it happens you’ll have to figure out what to do. And I’ll respect your wishes.”
I nod, looking over at the bagel table, waiting for Livorno’s words to coalesce into an idea I can follow, but they don’t.
“What to do?” I ask.
“Maybe this wasn’t your father’s choice. Maybe he doesn’t want to exist anymore.”
“Ah, but that’s the interesting thing I realized,” I say. “Dr. Bassett isn’t my father. I mean he’s like my father, but my father is, you know, gone. Dr. Bassett is really me—he’s my father and me together.”
“Possibly. But he’s one hundred percent himself. You may have to make a decision, and I just want you to be prepared.”
If you really wanted me to be prepared, I think, you could have brought this up yesterday. But I try to engage the quandary as he has put it. We’ve agreed on a scientifically framed test. If Dr. Bassett fools thirty percent of judges into thinking he’s human, then he’s intelligent. Since we’ve agreed to the test, we’ve agreed that we accept its definition. The winning computer is intelligent. So even though Dr. Bassett is the same now as he will be in two hours, there are no decisions to be made until after the test.
“Still, it won’t mean that he’s aware,” I say. “Or cognizant. Or present.”
Livorno rubs the bridge of his nose, closing his eyes. “I merely counsel humility before the evidence,” he says. “Ask yourself—does he seem aware, cognizant, or present?”
Across the room, Toler calls our names. The mimes part, and he emerges, followed by a videographer and Jenn, who is not dressed in black, but in a charcoal business suit. I guess she wants to communicate her neutrality. Amiante versus Toler? She’s just a consultant. Toler, too, has a different look—sleek German-looking glasses that seem to say, Greetings, Earthlings. But his face hangs gaunt and yellow.
“Thar she blows,” Toler says, patting Dr. Bassett’s blanket. He doesn’t lean on the stack, though I suspect he could use propping up.
“You’ll probably recognize the design,” I say.
Toler is wall-eyed and out of breath, but he suppresses a smile. “Like you and me, Neill. It’s what different on the inside that counts.”
“I have to lodge my dissent, Adam,” Livorno says. “The stacks appear identical.”
“No, no,” Toler says. He takes Livorno by the arm and leads him over to Program X, where he vigorously points at the cables in the back.
“That’s his innovation,” I say to Jenn. “The cables?”
She indicates the other developers—the long-haired, sun-deprived hobbyists—who are glancing at us and muttering. The other entries are both solo projects. As I remember from a few years ago, talking robots are the imaginative province of men who aren’t very good at talking. “At least they hate us equally,” she says.
“Your pillow talk wasn’t so benign after all.”
“Things have gotten mixed. It’s like one project with two teams.”
“It was two projects before you started ‘consulting.’”
She sighs. “I tried to help. Everyone enters these arrangements with their eyes open.”
I reflect on this nice sentiment—that adults can be trusted to look out for themselves. It’s not the least bit true, but we have to treat it as if it is. It ought to be true.
“On a personal front,” I say. “I probably owe you some sort of apology.”
“No.” She shakes her head, definitive and earnest. “You don’t.” There’s no bitterness in her voice, and I get a new glimpse of her rare qualities. That she wouldn’t be bitter, that she would believe everyone enters such arrangements with their eyes open. In the final accounting I haven’t treated her very well.
“Well, I just want to say I’m sorry—”
“Please.” She deflects my apology with her palm.
The tournament director comes over to hush us. He’s a small, bespectacled man with the beard of a disillusioned Trotskyite. His tie is dirty; his coat ill fitting. He says our voices might contaminate the judging pool.
“I just saw the judging pool at the bagel table,” I say.
He doesn’t accept this objection. I guess he can’t—he set up the test. He tells us to whisper or not speak at all. Jenn nods in agreement. Then he leaves to go quiet Livorno and Toler, who are standing slightly askew from each other so that their conversation will be caught on film. Toler isn’t just speaking; he�
�s declaiming. He’s a ridiculous man, but I remind myself that he’s dying.
“What’s his wife like?” I ask.
Jenn looks at me, angry. “I get the message,” she says, backing away. She’s returning to the mime troupe. A symbolic gesture—they’re only a few yards away—but the opposite of what I wanted. I was asking a real question.
“I wasn’t trying to send a message,” I say to Laham. He ignores me, still shaking his head, talking to himself under his breath. I’m surprised at how upset he is, but I shouldn’t be. Dr. Bassett is his life, too. Of course he’s upset, our boy wonder. I go over to help him dab a baby wipe across Dr. Bassett’s vents, picking up dust and blanket lint. We snap a few quilting strings from the wires in back. “The same,” he says. “The same.” It’s true I can’t tell any difference in the cables for Program X. Is there a difference in the stack? I take the strings over to a trash can and then stand next to the judges’ cubicle wall, from where I can compare Dr. Bassett to Program X, head to hoof. All the nodes, all the processors are the same. The only visible difference is that Program X’s gut is a brushed aluminum cylinder. It looks more expensive.
Livorno leaves Toler and the videographer, chuckling. I don’t buy his good mood, but he continues to grin as he pulls a folding chair up to the table where we’ve positioned the screen. Laham is running through the start-up. I join them.
“We’ve been betrayed,” I say.
Livorno turns his guileless blue eyes up to me. “On the contrary, she tried to warn us. They have the sexual nature.”
“Sticking off the side of the machine?”
“I told you it’s not that literal.”
“So what are they calling it—‘Program X, now with sexual nature’?”
“No, no,” Livorno shakes his head, annoyed. “Just Program X.”
What good is my effort to make this a case of Jenn’s malfeasance? All the roads lead back to me. When I feared Dr. Bassett would never speak again I happily handed over everything I knew.
“I should tell you something, Henry,” I say. I’m suddenly overwhelmed by the shame. “I gave Toler the theory. You know, instead of no—yes. The theory of love.”
He nods. “I had to give him the gut as well,” he says.
“I know,” I say. “Jenn told me.”
Who knows? Maybe she was trying to help. It looks like we entered the arrangement with at least one eye open.
• • •
LAHAM SIGNALS TO ME that Dr. Bassett is ready.
frnd1: why does the chicken cross the road?
drbas: to get to the other side
frnd1: how do you get a one-armed aggie out of a tree?
drbas: wave to him, son
“Anything you want to add, chief?” I ask.
“Tell him what the room looks like,” Livorno says. “And tell him the bagels are stale.” It’s good strategy. I’m glad the man wants to win.
The tournament director waves his arms in the middle of the room, seeking our attention. “Lady and gentlemen,” he says. A little joke: Jenn is the only woman. “First the rules.” There will be four conversations running simultaneously, each of which pairs a human against a computer. The judges will be asked to determine which is the human. The threshold for determining if a computer has beaten the Turing test is if at least thirty percent of judges are fooled, but there are only four judges—so the threshold will have to be fifty percent. I hadn’t thought of this last-minute math challenge. It seems fairer to lower the number to one out of three. That would certainly make it easier to win. But do we want to win? “Now,” he continues, “all of our contestants are here. The judges are installed. We will now require absolute silence. Except for the typing of keys!”
I glance at Toler’s team. Jenn is looking my way. She seems sad, wistful. Seems. I try to think of something to say, but all I can conjure is may the best man win. Wrong in so many ways.
“And go,” the tournament director says.
judg1: how are you today?
drbas: pretty well. and you?
judg1: fine and dandy. are you a computer?
drbas: no
judg1: quite the loquacious one, huh?
drbas: loquacious? I’ll have to look that one up
judg1: it means talkative
drbas: thanks
judg1: well you’re here to convince me you’re a human. convince me
drbas: what does it mean to be human?
judg1: don’t get all philosophical on me. i haven’t finished my bagel
drbas: the bagels are stale
judg1: man, are they. with the future of technology hanging in the balance you’d think they’d spring for decent snacks
“Whoa,” I say. That’s a tough sentence to parse.
drbas: do you want to hear about my horses?
A good parry—just change the subject.
judg1: sure
drbas: well, i’ve had twelve. blazers, little george, wild thing, gal, mr. c., umpteenth, galahad, timmy, his trots, señor, miss mess, and dorothy
judg1: this is more boring than i expected
drbas: what is more boring than you expected?
judg1: your horses
drbas: do you want to hear about my horses?
judg1: hmmm . . . sure
drbas: well i’ve had twelve
“Man’s perfection is only glimpsed through his imperfection,” Livorno says.
I push out of my chair. “That judge got a clear glimpse of imperfection.”
I walk over to Toler’s team and stand next to Jenn, who smells of that nice herbal soap she uses sometimes. She’s biting her thumb, eyes flickering along the conversation on their console, a flat-screen monitor the size of a baking sheet.
progx: i don’t read romances
judg2: what kinds of books do you like?
progx: i like books about spies
judg2: what’s the best spy novel you’ve read recently?
progx: the spy who came in from the cold
judg2: is that bond?
progx: i don’t understand
judg2: is that james bond?
progx: i’m not sure what james’ bond is for
“Crap,” she says. I wander over to our other two competitors—the long-haired hobbyists. One is very tall and the other very short. Their programs are inspired work, but there’s clearly nothing there. I can explain every move they make—repackaging a statement as a question, bringing in a random factoid, riffing off a single word in the judge’s response. Sort of where Dr. Bassett was a year ago. But we crossed a line somewhere back there—or did we? Is he just a sophisticated version of these programs, or is he a different order of creation? Livorno points out that our minds are all 0s and 1s, the neurons either on or off. There’s no center for a soul. Just pattern upon pattern upon pattern through which the rough-shaped thing we call ourselves emerges into view. But if you think about how what we consider solid—our bodies, these padded cubicle walls, the great humming stacks of Dr. Bassett and Program X—is all made of atoms, and atoms are nearly vacant, their solidity an illusion of zippy electrons, and since light can be both wave and particle and so at some level so can we—then this raises Livorno’s question about Dr. Bassett. Aware, cognizant, present? I thought I knew what I had on my hands, but maybe I don’t. If the body is a vehicle, did we make another vehicle?
• • •
LIVORNO WAVES ME BACK over for round two. I sit next to him.
“It’s going very well,” he says, and he’s right. The judge has waded into Dr. Bassett’s deeper waters.
judg2: you bought a farm so you wouldn’t have to see your neighbors
drbas: that’s right
judg2: that seems misanthropic
drbas: i’ll have to look that one up!
judg2: it means someone who doesn’t like people
drbas: do you think people really have your best interests in mind?
judg2: not the people i know. wait a second. i’m going to switch over to your competitor
drbas: all right
“Any problems?” Livorno asks.
I shake my head. “None.”
“He’s such a marvel.”
judg2: i’m back. so anyway—what do you do for a living?
drbas: i’m a physician
judg2: how did you get roped into this?
drbas: into what?
judg2: into volunteering for this contest
drbas: i didn’t know i was volunteering
judg2: a bad surprise for you!
drbas: all surprises are bad surprises
judg2: you don’t like surprises? how about surprise birthday parties?
drbas: all surprises are bad surprises. i don’t like birthday parties
judg2: you must be a regular barrel of monkeys
drbas: regular?
judg2: !!!!! exactly!
drbas: my wife says i should laugh more
judg2: laughter is the best medicine
drbas: my go-to is amoxicillin
judg2: !! seriously. why is a doctor wasting his saturday at this?
drbas: i’m doing this because my son asked me to. though there is some question whether he’s really my son
judg2: harsh!
• • •
AFTER ROUND TWO WE stretch our legs. The tournament director comes by our table and tells us in a low voice: “I’m not supposed to say anything yet, but the last judge mistook your entry for the human.” He nods and walks over to Toler’s team, where he imparts some information. Did Program X achieve this, too? If we had just one more judge to go, we would beat the Turing test. But with two more to go we’d have to convince another judge. Twenty-five percent or 33 percent—the difference in whether I have to make a decision, as Livorno says.
“I’ll be back,” I tell Livorno and Laham.
A Working Theory of Love Page 31
