The Problem of Other Machines

The Senior Common Room was unusually quiet.

Rain drifted softly against the windows.

Professor Quillibrace was reading.

Miss Stray was writing.

Mr Blottisham was staring into the fire.

This had become increasingly common.

After several minutes he spoke.

"I have a question."

Quillibrace lowered his book.

Miss Stray looked up.

Neither appeared alarmed.

This was progress.

"What is it?" asked Quillibrace.

Blottisham considered.

Then he said:

"Do you think machines are conscious?"

The room fell silent.

For a moment nobody spoke.

Finally Quillibrace said:

"I wondered when we would arrive there."

"There where?"

"The question itself."

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"We have spent several weeks discussing sadness, consciousness, intelligence, experts, benchmarks, understanding, and prophecy."

"Yes."

"And now, at last, we arrive at the question."

Blottisham nodded.

"Exactly."

"So what is your answer?"

Quillibrace closed his book.

"I do not know."

Blottisham stared.

"That is all?"

"It is."

"I was expecting something more elaborate."

"I can provide something more elaborate if you like."

"Please."

"I do not know in a more sophisticated manner."

Miss Stray laughed.

Blottisham looked disappointed.

"Surely you have a view."

"Of course."

"And?"

"A view is not the same thing as knowledge."

The room became quiet again.

Blottisham looked into the fire.

After a moment he said:

"I think I have become less certain."

"A healthy development."

"So you keep saying."

Quillibrace smiled faintly.

Blottisham continued.

"When we began these discussions, I thought the question was straightforward."

"And now?"

"Now it seems remarkably difficult."

"Indeed."

Miss Stray closed her notebook.

"I wonder whether the question conceals another one."

Blottisham sighed.

"They always do."

She ignored him.

"Suppose we discover tomorrow that machines are conscious."

"Very well."

"What changes?"

Blottisham thought.

"A great deal."

"Such as?"

"We would have to rethink everything."

"Would we?"

"Certainly."

Quillibrace looked interested.

"Why?"

"Because we would no longer be alone."

The room became quiet.

Miss Stray exchanged a glance with Quillibrace.

Finally she said:

"That is a curious answer."

"Why?"

"We already are not alone."

Blottisham frowned.

"What do you mean?"

"There are other people."

"Obviously."

"And are you directly aware of their consciousness?"

Blottisham hesitated.

"Not directly."

"No."

"Then how do you know they are conscious?"

The familiar question hung in the air.

This time, however, nobody rushed to answer it.

After several moments Blottisham said:

"I infer it."

"From what?"

"The interaction."

Miss Stray smiled.

Quillibrace appeared quietly pleased.

Blottisham noticed.

"I dislike that expression."

"What expression?"

"The one that says I have accidentally learned something."

Quillibrace made no attempt to deny it.

Miss Stray leaned back in her chair.

"I think there is something fascinating about the phrase 'other minds.'"

"What about it?"

"We spend enormous amounts of time worrying about whether machines possess minds."

"Reasonably."

"Yet the original mystery has never disappeared."

"What mystery?"

She looked at him.

"The one sitting opposite you."

Blottisham blinked.

Quillibrace raised an eyebrow.

Miss Stray continued.

"You have never directly experienced another person's consciousness."

"No."

"You infer it."

"Yes."

"You trust the inference."

"Of course."

"You build your life upon it."

The room became very quiet.

Rain tapped softly against the windows.

Blottisham stared into the fire.

After a while he said:

"I think I see what you mean."

"Do you?"

"The machine question is not entirely new."

"Precisely."

Quillibrace nodded.

"For centuries we have struggled with the problem of other minds."

"And now?"

"Now we have invented a new kind of other."

The silence returned.

After several moments Blottisham spoke again.

"I wonder whether that is why people become so emotional about it."

"How so?" asked Miss Stray.

"Because it feels as though something fundamental is at stake."

Quillibrace smiled.

"A very perceptive observation."

"There it is again."

"What?"

"Approval."

The professor ignored him.

"What is at stake is not merely the machine."

"What then?"

Quillibrace looked toward the rain-darkened window.

"Our assumptions about minds."

The room fell silent once more.

After a time Miss Stray spoke.

"You know what I find most interesting?"

"What?"

"The machine never asked the question."

Blottisham frowned.

"What question?"

"'Is the machine conscious?'"

The three sat quietly for a moment.

Then Blottisham laughed.

"That is true."

"It is entirely our question."

"Yes."

"Our mystery."

"Yes."

"Our debate."

Blottisham looked toward the closed laptop resting on a nearby table.

For a long time nobody spoke.

Finally he said:

"When we started these conversations, I thought we were discussing machines."

"And now?" asked Quillibrace.

Blottisham smiled.

The smile was faint but genuine.

"Now I suspect we have been discussing ourselves."

Quillibrace reopened his book.

Miss Stray reopened her notebook.

Outside, the rain continued to fall.

Inside, the mystery remained exactly where it had always been:

not inside the machine,

not inside the human,

but somewhere in the strange and persistent effort of minds to understand minds.

And, for once, nobody seemed in a hurry to resolve it.