The reading room of the Institute had acquired a device that looked suspiciously medical.
It consisted of a slender glass tube mounted on a small brass stand. A scale ran up the side of the tube, marked with careful graduations from Unconscious at the bottom to Fully Conscious at the top.
Mr Blottisham stood beside it, holding a laptop.
Miss Elowen Stray examined the scale with interest.
“What does it measure?” she asked.
Blottisham gestured proudly.
“Consciousness.”
Elowen blinked.
“You mean… awareness?”
“Exactly.”
She looked again at the tube.
“And the device can detect it?”
Blottisham nodded.
“It’s a Consciousness Thermometer.”
At that moment Professor Quillibrace entered, carrying his teacup.
He paused, studying the instrument.
“My word,” he said mildly. “We appear to have entered the clinic.”
Blottisham grinned.
“Very funny.”
Quillibrace set his cup down.
“And whose consciousness are we measuring today?”
Blottisham held up the laptop.
“Artificial intelligence.”
Elowen leaned forward.
“How does the thermometer work?”
Blottisham pointed to the sensor attached to the base.
“You connect the system, ask it some questions, and measure the responses.”
“And the scale rises if the answers sound conscious?”
“Precisely.”
Quillibrace tilted his head.
“Sound conscious?”
“Yes.”
Blottisham tapped the laptop.
“These systems can talk about feelings, experiences, even their own thoughts.”
Elowen nodded slowly.
“So the more convincingly they do that…”
“…the higher the reading,” Blottisham finished.
Quillibrace examined the scale.
“How convenient.”
Blottisham connected the laptop and typed a prompt.
A small indicator on the thermometer twitched and climbed slightly up the scale.
Elowen leaned closer.
“What does it say?”
Blottisham read the marking.
“Moderately conscious.”
Quillibrace nodded gravely.
“A remarkable development.”
Blottisham crossed his arms.
“You see? The machine might actually be aware.”
Quillibrace folded his hands.
“My dear Blottisham, may I ask a small question?”
Blottisham sighed.
“You’re about to tell me the thermometer doesn’t measure consciousness.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Go on then.”
Quillibrace gestured toward the glass tube.
“What exactly does the instrument detect?”
Blottisham shrugged.
“Responses that indicate awareness.”
Elowen spoke thoughtfully.
“But the system produces those responses using language patterns.”
“Yes.”
“And the thermometer judges how convincing the patterns are.”
Blottisham nodded.
“That’s the idea.”
Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.
“So the instrument measures the appearance of consciousness.”
Blottisham frowned.
“Well… yes.”
Elowen tilted her head.
“But appearance and experience are not quite the same thing.”
Quillibrace lifted his teacup.
“A subtle but crucial distinction.”
Blottisham looked at the scale again.
“But if something behaves exactly like a conscious being…”
“Yes?”
“…isn’t that evidence of consciousness?”
Quillibrace considered the question.
“It is evidence of behaviour associated with consciousness.”
Elowen nodded slowly.
“But the thermometer still cannot observe experience itself.”
“Exactly.”
Blottisham stared at the glass tube.
“So it’s really measuring how well the system imitates conscious language.”
Quillibrace inclined his head.
“A very accurate description.”
Blottisham sighed.
“That’s less dramatic.”
Quillibrace smiled faintly.
“Perhaps.”
Elowen looked thoughtfully at the scale.
“So when people argue about whether AI is conscious…”
“Yes?”
“They are often debating what counts as evidence.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“A most perceptive observation.”
Blottisham leaned on the table.
“So the thermometer doesn’t actually detect consciousness.”
“No.”
“It detects patterns that resemble the way conscious beings talk.”
“Precisely.”
Blottisham examined the label on the stand.
“Well,” he said slowly, “perhaps the name needs adjusting.”
“Oh?”
Blottisham picked up a pencil and scribbled a note.
Then he read it aloud.
THE THERMOMETER OF CONVINCINGLY CONSCIOUS-SOUNDING RESPONSES
Quillibrace nodded approvingly.
“Admirably precise.”
Blottisham looked at the length of the phrase and sighed.
“It’s not nearly as impressive.”
Quillibrace lifted his teacup.
“My dear Blottisham,” he said gently, “precision seldom is.”
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