The reading room of the Institute contained, once again, a new device.
This one was surprisingly small. It was a simple wooden box with a hinged lid and a narrow slot on the front. A brass label had been carefully affixed to the top.
Miss Elowen Stray leaned over to read it.
THE INFORMATION BOX
Mr Blottisham stood nearby, looking deeply satisfied.
“What does it do?” Elowen asked.
Blottisham folded his arms.
“It stores information.”
Elowen lifted the lid and peered inside.
The box was empty.
“Where is the information?” she asked.
Blottisham pointed to the slot.
“You put it in there.”
At that moment Professor Quillibrace entered the room with his customary teacup.
He glanced at the box.
“Ah,” he said. “A container.”
Blottisham nodded.
“For information.”
Quillibrace set his cup down.
“And what sort of information does it contain?”
Blottisham held up a slip of paper and slid it into the slot.
“There.”
Elowen waited.
Nothing happened.
“Has the information arrived?” she asked.
Blottisham nodded confidently.
“Yes.”
Quillibrace examined the box.
“And what information did you place inside?”
Blottisham shrugged.
“A message.”
“What message?”
Blottisham thought for a moment.
“It says: The meeting begins at three.”
Elowen tilted her head.
“So the box now contains that information.”
“Exactly.”
Quillibrace considered this.
“My dear Blottisham,” he said gently, “may I ask a small question?”
Blottisham sighed.
“You’re about to tell me the box doesn’t contain information.”
“Not necessarily.”
“Go on then.”
Quillibrace gestured toward the slot.
“What exactly entered the box?”
Blottisham frowned.
“The message.”
“In what form?”
“A piece of paper.”
“And on the paper?”
“Words.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“Marks arranged in particular patterns.”
Blottisham crossed his arms.
“Yes.”
Elowen spoke thoughtfully.
“But the marks only count as a message if someone can read them.”
Quillibrace smiled.
“A promising observation.”
Blottisham waved a hand.
“Of course someone can read them.”
Quillibrace tilted his head.
“Suppose the box were opened by a person who does not know the language.”
Blottisham paused.
“Well… then they wouldn’t understand it.”
Elowen nodded slowly.
“So the information wouldn’t be available to them.”
Quillibrace lifted his teacup.
“Precisely.”
Blottisham frowned at the box.
“But the information is still inside.”
Quillibrace considered this.
“What exactly would be inside?”
Blottisham hesitated.
“The message.”
Elowen spoke gently.
“Or perhaps just the marks.”
Blottisham stared at the slot.
“So information isn’t quite the same thing as the marks that carry it.”
Quillibrace nodded.
“A crucial distinction.”
Elowen leaned forward.
“So information only appears when someone interprets the marks.”
“Exactly.”
Blottisham rubbed his chin.
“That’s inconvenient.”
Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.
“In what way?”
Blottisham gestured at the box.
“I was hoping the information could simply sit there.”
Elowen laughed softly.
“But without an interpreter, it’s just a pattern.”
Quillibrace nodded approvingly.
“A pattern capable of being construed.”
Blottisham looked thoughtfully at the brass label.
“So the box doesn’t really contain information.”
“No,” said Quillibrace kindly.
“It contains marks that can become information when someone interprets them.”
Blottisham sighed.
“That’s much less satisfying.”
Quillibrace smiled faintly.
“Perhaps.”
Elowen closed the lid of the box.
“So when people say information is stored in a computer…”
“Yes?”
“They really mean patterns are stored that someone—or something—can interpret.”
Quillibrace inclined his head.
“A most accurate formulation.”
Blottisham picked up the label and examined it critically.
“Well,” he said at last, “perhaps the name needs adjusting.”
“Oh?”
Blottisham scribbled a note and read it aloud.
THE BOX OF INTERPRETABLE PATTERNS
Quillibrace nodded approvingly.
“Admirably precise.”
Blottisham looked at the long phrase and sighed.
“It’s not nearly as catchy.”
Quillibrace lifted his teacup.
“My dear Blottisham,” he said gently, “precision rarely is.”
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