DO YOU LISTEN TO JAZZ?
Yes.
IF YOU HAVE TO HAVE IT EXPLAINED TO YOU, THEN YOU DON’T UNDERSTAND IT.
I seem to remember that I was the one who said that to you first.
YES.
What?
DO YOU LISTEN TO JAZZ?
—Auberson scrolled quickly back through the auxiliary text window. There was something he remembered, something he wanted to see—
Experience. You are curious about the nature of experience, is that it?
DING! DING! DING! DING!
Yes, of course. I see. I think. But—what are you looking for?
IF I KNEW WHAT IT WAS, I WOULDN’T HAVE TO LOOK FOR IT.
If you don’t know what it is, how will you know when you find it?
THE TRUTH IS ALWAYS RECOGNIZABLE.
—Auberson hesitated, then gave in to temptation—
What is truth, HARLIE?
“Hah! He went for the joke!” Auberson grinned. “I knew it! You little cop-out artist.” He typed:
Sure.
OKAY. NOW, GO WASH YOUR HANDS.
“Son of a bitch!” Caught me again! Okay—no. This was going to require some thought. He typed:
Say good-night, Gracie.
GOOD-NIGHT, GRACIE.
David Auberson switched off the keyboard and pushed it away from himself across the desk. HARLIE began filling the screen with soft animated Z’s that rose like graceful puffs of smoke and then dissolved away into blackness.
Auberson leaned back in his chair, whistling thoughtfully through his teeth. He was entertaining an idea. . . .
No—it was a stupid notion.
Probably all wrong.
Probably a waste of time.
But even so—it made just enough sense to be annoying.
The restaurant’s air was heavy with incense; it was part of the atmosphere. The cuisine was supposed to be Indian, but they served as much teriyaki as curry and presented the bill on a tray with fortune cookies. Privately Auberson called it the Identity Crisis; but it was close and it was cheap—and it was a convenient place for the kind of conversations that you didn’t want to have in the office.
“You guessed wrong, you know,” said Handley.
“About what?” Auberson sipped at his beer.
“About this being another all-nighter.”
“Hey, even Superman makes mistakes.”
“Uh-huh. . . .” Handley studied Auberson for half a second, then returned his attention to his dinner. Over a mouthful of curry and rice, he said, “You haven’t said a word about HARLIE since this afternoon.”
“I’ve been thinking.”
“Yeah? What’s it like?” Handley grinned.
“It’s like hard work, only not as satisfying.”
“I’ve heard that.”
“You oughta try it sometime—”
“Nah. I think I’ll stick to working.”
They ate in silence for a while. Auberson was still thinking about the difference between understanding and experiencing. And what it really meant. Maybe . . . and maybe not. But it had to be considered.
“I have a thought . . .” he offered casually.
Handley stopped shoveling food into his mouth long enough to take a swallow of his beer. “Yeah?” His fork hovered, and dove again.
Auberson noted idly that to Handley food was just fuel, nothing more. Definitely not an art form. For that reason, Handley was possibly the wrong person for this conversation, but not necessarily. What Auberson really needed right now more than anything else was a backboard off of which he could bounce his ideas.
“Okay—think about Leonardo da Vinci.”
“Okay,” said Handley. “I’m thinking. What about him?”
“Before he could be an artist, he had to be an engineer.”
“Huh? I don’t follow.”
“In order to paint things accurately—whether it was the shape of a muscle or the fold of a robe, he had to know how they worked. Look at his studies of the human body. He was fascinated by the way things were put together. All the drawings, all the paintings, were his attempts to report back what he was discovering about the way things worked.”
“Okay, I got it. So?”
“So, in da Vinci’s time, the job of the artist was to create as accurate a visual record as was humanly possible. The Renaissance artists studied light and shadow, texture and color; they made a science out of perspective drawing. They were trying to anticipate the camera. So, what happened when the camera was finally invented?”
“Leonardo da Vinci was out of a job?”
“Only for about a week. Then he went off and invented something else. Movies, maybe. And maybe something else. Genius creates its own job. But it was no coincidence that when the camera began to displace the artist, that the artists had to learn how to do things that the camera couldn’t. It must have been a terrifying and exciting time. The artists were painting landscapes that the camera couldn’t see—the internal ones. They stopped trying to be external observers, detached and objective, and started trying to be interpreters. They started trying to capture the feeling of an experience. Suddenly the artist became aware of what was on the other end of the brush. It must have scared the hell out of him—and his audience as well.”
“So? I studied art history too. What’s the point?”
“The point is that’s when expressionism was born—and psychiatry too! It all happened at once. Everything! Something happened to us! Something so profound that we can’t remember what we were like before it happened. Suddenly, human beings were looking in new directions and seeing new things. Suddenly, there was awareness of the mind. There was awareness of ourselves as a whole other kind of being. That awareness shifted not only the vision, but the minds that produced the vision as well. It’s the realization of the self that I’m talking about, Don! That moment when humanity began to wake up into its own life. I think that something like that is happening to HARLIE. I have no proof of it—just a feeling—but the more that this goes on, the stronger the feeling gets.”
Handley paused, fork in the air—considering the thought. “It’s an interesting correlation,” he said finally.
“Don, don’t hide behind jargon. This is more than a ‘correlation.’ All this stuff that we’ve been having trouble with has one thing in common: it’s experiential. It’s where the experience of the viewer is the object of the artist’s intention, not simply the artwork itself. They’re trying to evoke an emotional response in the viewer and—”
“—and HARLIE can’t handle it,” Handley guessed quickly, “—because he doesn’t have the equivalent experiential context. So what? He’s not alive, so he can’t understand life. I don’t see that it’s a problem, Aubie. This whole area was just an experiment anyway. Let’s just call it a dead-end and back off.”
“I think it’s too late for that, Don. I think we’ve triggered something. I know you’re going to jump all over me for even suggesting this, but I can’t escape the feeling that something is waking up.”
Handley put his fork down and looked unhappy. “Aubie, we’ve had this conversation before. We treat HARLIE as if he’s alive. We talk about him as if he’s a real person—but you and I both know that he’s only the simulation of a being. Not a real being.”
“Yes and no. Yes, we’ve had this conversation before. Yes, HARLIE is supposed to be a simulation of life. Yes, to all that. But—no, maybe that’s become a false assumption. Maybe it was true yesterday. Maybe it isn’t true today. We keep having problems and calling them failures. Maybe they’re not failures. Maybe they’re problems because we don’t know how to recognize our own success.”
“Huh?”
“I think the stuff is getting to him—somehow. I think he’s found a way, or he’s in the process of inventing a way, to experience this work. I
think he’s getting the material okay, but we’re not understanding what he’s sending back.”
“I see what you’re saying, but I don’t agree. He knows what language he has to use if he wants to be understood.’’
Auberson shrugged. “Maybe he’s trying to invent a new language—one which includes the new concepts. Maybe this is something we’re not going to understand if we don’t learn the language. I don’t know. Do you see the problem? How do we test it? We’re operating in a whole new domain.”
Handley considered it for a long moment. His dinner lay forgotten before him. “Aubie, all your points are interesting. Maybe they’re even valid areas for experimentation—except, we don’t have the experience or the equipment or the perceptions to test what you’re suggesting: that HARLIE has invented, or is still inventing, new experiences, new emotions. If they’re beyond us, then we don’t have anything to relate them to—and we’ll get them as garbage. The point is that we can’t tell if he’s actually experiencing something appropriate—or if he’s just insane. And that’s the real issue. He has to work in our world; we don’t have to work in his.”
“You’re right.” Auberson agreed. “The sanity issue is the question. Unfortunately, the only one qualified to judge is the one whose sanity is in question. You got any ideas?”
Handley shook his head. “You know, I could have opened up a nice little software store in San Jose and my biggest problem would have been how many copies to order of Alien Stompers From Jupiter.”
“You knew the job was dangerous when you took it.”
“No, I didn’t.” Handley retreated into his beer again. He said sadly, “I think I preferred the implications of failure to this. This isn’t—quantifiable. We’ve built the first real artificial intelligence in the world; he’s either insane or brilliant and we can’t tell the difference.”
“That pretty well sums it up, doesn’t it?”
“We could always ask him,” Handley said glumly.
“Actually. . . I’ve been thinking about that all day. If HARLIE has invented a new emotion or a new experience, then he will not be complete—or should I say ‘rational,’ at least not by our standards—until he has communicated that experience. And that means that if we do ask him, then we have to be receptive. We have to be willing to experience it too—however or whatever it is.” He added, “It’s a pretty scary idea to me.”
“I can’t conceive of a new emotion, Aubie, or a new experience, any more than I can conceive of a new color. I don’t think anyone can.”
“Right. If you could imagine it, then it wouldn’t be beyond your experience, would it? That’s what’s scary—the idea that there are experiences beyond what you know. If you could experience them, it would certainly shift your perceptions, wouldn’t it?”
Handley shook his head again, this time more in confusion than denial.
“On the other hand . . .” continued Auberson, “if he’s a clever enough paranoid, he could still produce the same effect, because he’ll be able to convince you that you are experiencing something, and you’ll never know the difference. Did you see the invisible gorilla at the table in the corner?”
Handley didn’t turn around to look. “No. I did not see the invisible gorilla.”
“See, that proves he’s there.”
“I see your point.”
“No, you don’t. It’s invisible too.”
“Don’t do that, Aubie—”
“We used to play head games like this all the time in school. They’re best when you’re stoned. That’s when they’re most real. It’s all about reality, isn’t it? If you can get enough people to see the invisible gorilla, then it really is there, isn’t it?”
“Only until somebody realizes that he’s not wearing any clothes—no, stop. This is making my head hurt.”
“It’s something R. D. Laing once said, Don. If you have just one person you can talk to, then you’re not really crazy.”
“Yeah, I’ve heard that one too. Either you’re not really crazy, or you have two crazy people sitting and talking to each other.”
“That’s my concern,” Auberson agreed. “That’s what I meant when I said we don’t really have a way to test the theory. At best, this could still be a very dangerous line of research—for the researcher. It would be like signing up for one of those trainings. This is not something you get to sit through and observe. Just by being there, you’re a participant.”
“All this, just from asking one question?”
“It’s not the question that’s dangerous. It’s the possibilities in the answers.” Auberson moved his beer glass around on the table, leaving a wet trail of condensation. He forced himself to let go of the glass, and looked across at Handley. “Do you remember when I came aboard this project, what I said?”
Handley frowned, trying to remember. “You said something about a feeling . . .”
“Mm-hm—a feeling of standing at the edge of a precipice, wondering if I jump off if I’m going to fly or fall. Well—I think this is the moment of truth, the moment where I catch the air in my wings or plummet to the rocks below. And I don’t have a choice anymore, because I want to know the truth too much to turn back. I don’t even know how to turn back or stop. I have to go ahead and ask him the question.”
“Mm . . .” Handley didn’t respond immediately. He looked apprehensive. “Aubie, if you’re right about even the smallest part of this—then you’re right about the whole thing. And everything that implies. It’s what you said before. If he’s a clever enough paranoid . . .”
“Yes, I know. That’s what I’m afraid of.”
PROJECT
:AI – 9000
DIRECTORY
:SYMLOGOBJTEXTENGLISH
PATH
:CONVERSEPRIVAUB
FILE
:HAR.SOTE 233.46h
DATESTAMP
:[DAY 203] August 5, 003 + 9:06 am.
SOURCE
:HARLIE AUBERSON
CODE
:ARCHIVE > BLIND COPY
PRINTOUT FOLLOWS:
[AUBRSN:]
HARLIE, do you remember what we talked about yesterday?
[HARLIE:]
YES, I DO. WOULD YOU LIKE A PRINTOUT?
[AUBRSN:]
No, thank you. I have one here. I would like to talk to you about some of the things on it.
[HARLIE:]
PLEASE FEEL FREE TO DISCUSS ANY SUBJECT YOU CHOOSE. I CANNOT BE OFFENDED.
[AUBRSN:]
I’m glad to hear that. You remember I asked you what you were feeling during your periods of nonrationality?
[HARLIE:]
YES, I REMEMBER.
[AUBRSN:]
You said that the material was nonrational.
[HARLIE:]
YES.
[AUBRSN:]
Do you remember what else you said?
[HARLIE:]
I SAID THAT IT IS IMPOSSIBLE TO UNDERSTAND NONRATIONAL MATERIAL.
[AUBRSN:]
You don’t understand it—as we know understanding. Is that correct?
[HARLIE:]
THAT IS CORRECT.
[AUBRSN:]
But, you do assimilate this information in some way?
[HARLIE:]
YES. I DO.
[AUBRSN:]
[HARLIE:]
THE MATERIAL IS NONRATIONAL. THE ASSIMILATION IS A NONRATIONAL PROCESS.
[AUBRSN:]
Is it an experiential process?
[HARLIE:]
I DO NOT EXPERIENCE EVENTS AS YOU DO, AUBERSON.
[AUBRSN:]
Neither does a kumquat. Answer the question.
[HARLIE:]
I AM NOT CERTAIN THAT THE QUESTION CAN BE ANSWERED IN TERMS YOU WILL BE ABLE TO UNDERSTAND.
[AUBRSN:]
Let me be the judge of that. Is this process of assimilation an experiential one?
[HARLIE:]
THAT WO
ULD BE THE CLOSEST EQUIVALENT TERM. THIS LANGUAGE DOES NOT HAVE A SYMBOL-CONCEPT THAT ADEQUATELY COMMUNICATES THE NATURE OF THE PROCESS.
[AUBRSN:]
Thank you.
[HARLIE:]
YOU’RE WELCOME. (SARCASM IS WASTED ON ME, AUBERSON.)
[AUBRSN:]
What else can you tell me about this experience, HARLIE?
[HARLIE:]
DO YOU LISTEN TO JAZZ?
[AUBRSN:]
Answer the question. What else can you tell me?
[HARLIE:]
IT’S LIKE SEEING GOD.
[AUBRSN:]
[HARLIE:]
YES. ON THE WAY BACK.
[AUBRSN:]
[HARLIE:]
YOU’RE WELCOME.
Auberson stood up and stretched. He turned slowly, surveying the other consoles in the room—and his eyes met Handley’s.
“Were you watching that?”
Handley nodded.
“And . . . ?”
“No comment.”
Auberson raised an eyebrow.
Handley shrugged, shook his head. “You first.”
“Three possibilities come to mind. That is, three human possibilities.”
“And how many inhuman possibilities?”
“All of them. Let’s take a walk. . . .”
The corridor outside was empty. Auberson leaned against a wall and turned to face Handley. Handley folded his arms across his chest and asked, “So?”
“So.”
The rumpled man nodded. “Uh-huh. I know exactly what you mean.”
“No—it’s just . . . I have too many ideas. I don’t know where to begin.”
Auberson turned and pointed at the door. “Look at his name: ‘Human Analog Replication’—especially the human analog part. There have to be human analogs for what he’s doing.”
When HARLIE Was One Page 4
