6. The Elusive Information

The Senior Common Room was unusually quiet.

Rain tapped gently against the windows, and somewhere in the building a clock announced the quarter hour with excessive dignity.

Professor Quillibrace was examining a telegram.

Mr Blottisham entered carrying an envelope.

"I've brought you some information."

Quillibrace looked up.

"Have you?"

Blottisham stopped.

Then smiled.

"That was nearly disastrous."

Miss Stray looked over the top of her book.

"You've become suspicious of nouns."

"I have."

Quillibrace folded the telegram.

"A healthy development."

Blottisham sat down.

"I nearly said the envelope contained information."

"And now?"

"I'm no longer sure what that means."

The Professor smiled.

"Excellent."

Miss Stray looked intrigued.

"What does it mean?"

Blottisham opened the envelope.

"It contains a letter."

"Certainly."

"And the letter..."

He hesitated.

"...contains ink."

"Yes."

"The ink forms words."

"Quite."

"And the words..."

He looked helplessly at Quillibrace.

"...don't exactly contain meanings."

"No."

"So..."

He laughed.

"I've lost the information."

Quillibrace chuckled.

"Perhaps you've misplaced only the metaphor."

A comfortable silence settled over the room.

Miss Stray broke it.

"Professor..."

"Yes?"

"What kind of thing do people imagine information to be?"

"A splendid question."

Blottisham looked pleased.

"I knew that one was coming."

Quillibrace nodded.

"Most of our language suggests that information behaves rather like a substance."

"We store it."

"Indeed."

"We transmit it."

"Quite."

"We retrieve it."

"Excellent."

"We lose it."

"Sometimes regrettably."

Miss Stray smiled.

"And none of those expressions actually tells us what it is."

"No."

Blottisham unfolded the letter.

"If I burn this..."

He held it above the fireplace.

"...where does the information go?"

Quillibrace looked mildly alarmed.

"I should prefer that you didn't."

Blottisham lowered it again.

"But suppose I had."

"A fair question."

"The paper disappears."

"Yes."

"The ink disappears."

"Indeed."

"The words disappear."

"Quite."

"The information..."

He frowned.

"...where exactly was it?"

No one spoke for several moments.

Finally Miss Stray said,

"Perhaps that's the wrong question."

Blottisham looked at her.

"Again?"

She smiled apologetically.

"It keeps happening."

Quillibrace laughed softly.

"I'm afraid philosophy has that effect."

Miss Stray continued.

"When I receive a letter..."

"Yes?"

"...what actually changes?"

Blottisham answered immediately.

"You know something you didn't know before."

She nodded.

"So the change occurs..."

She gestured gently towards herself.

"...here?"

Quillibrace tilted his head.

"Does it?"

Blottisham looked puzzled.

"Surely."

The Professor stood.

"Suppose the letter is written in ancient Egyptian."

"Oh."

"You receive it."

"Yes."

"Has information been transmitted?"

Blottisham hesitated.

"The marks have."

"The paper?"

"Yes."

"The ink?"

"Certainly."

"The language?"

"I suppose."

"The information?"

A long pause.

Blottisham looked down at the unopened letter in his hands.

"I don't know."

Miss Stray spoke quietly.

"It seems to depend."

"Upon?"

"Whether someone can make something of it."

Quillibrace smiled.

"A promising sentence."

"Not simply read it."

"No."

"But participate in the distinctions it makes possible."

The Professor said nothing.

Blottisham looked from one to the other.

"You know..."

"What?"

"I've been thinking about our earlier conversations."

"Oh?"

"When we talked about genes..."

"Yes?"

"...I wanted information to be inside the DNA."

"And now?"

"When we talked about brains..."

"Yes?"

"...I wanted thinking to be inside the brain."

"Quite."

"And today..."

He laughed.

"...I've spent twenty minutes trying to hide information inside an envelope."

Miss Stray laughed too.

"It doesn't seem very comfortable in there."

Quillibrace's eyes twinkled.

"It has had a remarkably itinerant career."

The room relaxed into shared amusement.

After a while Blottisham became thoughtful again.

"So information isn't a thing."

"What do you mean by thing?"

Blottisham pointed a finger.

"There you are."

"There I am."

"I knew that question was coming."

"And your answer?"

Blottisham looked around the room.

"I think..."

He chose the words carefully.

"...information isn't something that exists before the relations through which it becomes significant."

Miss Stray looked delighted.

Quillibrace remained perfectly still.

After a long silence he said,

"My dear Blottisham..."

"Yes?"

"That is a considerably better sentence than the one with which you entered."

Blottisham smiled.

"I rather thought so."

The Professor poured three cups of tea.

"You have been paying attention."

"I have."

Miss Stray looked thoughtfully at the telegram lying on the table.

"I wonder..."

"What is it?"

"If information isn't a thing..."

She paused.

"...perhaps it is something that happens."

Blottisham nodded immediately.

"Like conversations."

"Yes."

"Like music."

"Indeed."

"Like thinking."

Quillibrace looked at them both with unmistakable satisfaction.

Outside, the rain had ceased entirely.

Sunlight broke unexpectedly through the clouds, illuminating the old room with startling brightness.

The Professor lifted his cup.

"To elusive things."

Blottisham smiled.

"No."

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

"No?"

Blottisham shook his head gently.

"To elusive happenings."

For perhaps the first time since these conversations had begun, Quillibrace was completely silent.

Miss Stray noticed the expression on his face.

"I believe..."

She smiled.

"...Mr Blottisham has surprised the Professor."

Quillibrace eventually inclined his head.

"It is one of the great pleasures of teaching."

Blottisham looked mildly offended.

"I thought we were simply talking."

Quillibrace's smile broadened.

"My dear Blottisham..."

"Yes?"

"So did I."

The three raised their cups.

Outside, the college bells began to ring for evening chapel.

None of them seemed in any hurry to move.