The Soul in the Spreadsheet

The Senior Common Room was occupied by its usual inhabitants.

Professor Quillibrace was reading.

Miss Stray was writing.

Mr Blottisham was studying a graph.

The graph appeared to be giving him immense satisfaction.

After several minutes he looked up.

"The numbers are increasing."

Quillibrace glanced over his spectacles.

"Congratulations."

"No, no. The machine's numbers."

"Ah."

"It has improved dramatically."

"Has it?"

"Look."

Blottisham crossed the room and presented a chart.

Several coloured lines climbed steadily upward.

Some climbed more enthusiastically than others.

Quillibrace studied the chart.

"Very nice."

"Very nice?"

"The lines seem happy."

"The lines are not happy."

"Then we are already making progress."

Blottisham sighed.

"It has achieved state-of-the-art performance on multiple benchmarks."

"Excellent."

"Do you know what that means?"

"I assume it means it performs well on the benchmarks."

Blottisham stared at him.

"Sometimes I suspect you do this deliberately."

Miss Stray looked up.

"He does."

"Thank you, Miss Stray."

"You're welcome."

Blottisham sat down heavily.

"The point is obvious."

"Wonderful."

"The machine is becoming more intelligent."

Quillibrace nodded.

"That seems plausible."

"More than plausible."

"Very well."

"It is measurable."

"Also plausible."

Blottisham smiled.

"Then we agree."

"On what?"

"That the machine is moving toward consciousness."

The silence that followed lasted several seconds.

Miss Stray slowly lowered her pen.

Quillibrace carefully closed his book.

"Oh dear."

"What now?" said Blottisham.

"I seem to have lost the middle."

"The middle of what?"

"The argument."

Blottisham looked offended.

"It is perfectly straightforward."

"Then perhaps you could help me locate the missing section."

"There is no missing section."

"Excellent. Then the task should be simple."

Blottisham folded his arms.

"The machine performs better."

"Yes."

"Therefore it is more intelligent."

"Perhaps."

"Not perhaps."

"Very well."

"Therefore it is moving toward consciousness."

Quillibrace waited.

Blottisham waited.

Miss Stray waited.

Eventually Quillibrace said:

"I fear the missing section remains missing."

Blottisham groaned.

"What is missing now?"

"The connection between intelligence and consciousness."

"They are obviously related."

"Are they?"

"Of course."

Quillibrace looked thoughtful.

"I know several highly intelligent people whose consciousness appears intermittent."

Miss Stray laughed.

"That is unfair."

"I have not named them."

Blottisham pressed on.

"The point is that greater intelligence brings us closer to consciousness."

"How much closer?"

"What?"

"How much?"

Blottisham blinked.

"I do not understand."

Quillibrace pointed at the graph.

"Suppose the score increases by ten percent."

"Yes."

"How much consciousness has been added?"

Blottisham stared at him.

"That is absurd."

"Why?"

"Consciousness is not measured that way."

"I agree."

"Then why ask?"

"Because you appear to be drawing conclusions from a measurement."

Miss Stray leaned forward.

"I think the difficulty is that the graph measures one thing and we are discussing another."

"Exactly," said Quillibrace.

Blottisham looked unconvinced.

"The graph measures capability."

"Very likely."

"And capability is related to consciousness."

"Possibly."

"Then what is the problem?"

Quillibrace considered.

"Suppose I become better at chess."

"Yes."

"Have I become more conscious?"

"No."

"Suppose I become better at mathematics."

"No."

"Suppose I learn three new languages."

"No."

"Suppose I improve at every benchmark known to mankind."

Blottisham frowned.

"I see your point."

"Do you?"

"A little."

Miss Stray smiled.

"That is often enough."

Quillibrace stood and walked toward the window.

"The fascinating thing about benchmarks is that they encourage a particular illusion."

"What illusion?"

"That because something can be measured, we understand its ontological significance."

Blottisham looked alarmed.

"You have used the word ontology."

"I apologise."

"It is always a bad sign."

"Usually."

Miss Stray closed her notebook.

"I wonder whether benchmarks function a little like examination results."

"What do you mean?" said Blottisham.

"They tell us something important."

"Certainly."

"But perhaps not everything."

Blottisham nodded cautiously.

She continued.

"A student may achieve excellent results."

"Indeed."

"From those results we infer various capacities."

"Reasonably."

"But we do not infer kindness."

"No."

"Courage."

"No."

"Wisdom."

"Certainly not."

"Then why do we so readily infer consciousness from increasing machine performance?"

The room became quiet.

Blottisham thought about this.

For once, he did not answer immediately.

After a time he said:

"Perhaps because consciousness sounds like the sort of thing that should increase as intelligence increases."

Quillibrace smiled.

"A very honest answer."

"I dislike it when you approve of my answers."

"Understandable."

Miss Stray looked thoughtful.

"It may be that we are dealing with two entirely different questions."

"Such as?"

"How capable is the machine?"

"And?"

"What sort of thing is the machine?"

Blottisham stared at the graph.

The ascending lines suddenly seemed less decisive than before.

At length he said:

"I had imagined the second question followed naturally from the first."

"Many people do," said Quillibrace.

"And does it not?"

"I am no longer certain."

Quillibrace reopened his book.

"An excellent outcome."

"There it is again."

"What?"

"That infernal word."

Outside, evening shadows were lengthening across the college lawns.

Inside, Mr Blottisham continued studying the graph.

The numbers remained exactly as impressive as before.

What had become slightly less obvious was what, if anything, they meant.