The rain had returned.
Professor Quillibrace regarded it with the quiet satisfaction of a man who believed that thinking was best conducted indoors.
Mr Blottisham arrived carrying a newspaper.
"It says here that artificial intelligence has surpassed human intelligence on another benchmark."
Professor Quillibrace looked up.
"Another one?"
"It would appear so."
"How many benchmarks remain?"
"I've no idea."
"Neither, I suspect, does the newspaper."
Miss Stray poured the tea.
"What exactly is a benchmark?"
Blottisham looked confident.
"It's a test."
"Of what?"
"Intelligence."
Professor Quillibrace folded his hands.
"And how does one test intelligence?"
Blottisham looked surprised.
"By asking questions."
"I see."
"And seeing whether people get them right."
"I see."
"And then..."
He paused.
"...you know how intelligent they are."
Quillibrace nodded gravely.
"A remarkably efficient system."
"You think so?"
"No."
Miss Stray smiled.
"Suppose I ask you to identify every bird in the college garden."
"I couldn't."
"And Professor Quillibrace?"
"He probably could."
"I certainly could not."
Blottisham looked puzzled.
"You couldn't?"
"I can distinguish a robin from a pigeon."
"That seems enough."
"For many purposes."
Miss Stray continued.
"Suppose instead I ask you to repair the boiler."
Blottisham laughed.
"I'd flood the college."
"And the porter?"
"He'd probably fix it."
"So who is more intelligent?"
Blottisham hesitated.
"Well..."
He looked from one to the other.
"...it depends."
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"A dangerous admission."
"It depends on what we're asking."
"Exactly."
Miss Stray looked thoughtful.
"Perhaps intelligence resembles a toolbox."
Blottisham nodded.
"Some people have bigger toolboxes."
"Perhaps."
"But they don't always possess the tool that's needed."
Professor Quillibrace rose and walked to the old umbrella stand.
He withdrew three umbrellas.
"I dislike metaphors."
"So do I," said Miss Stray.
"But they keep arriving."
He held up the first umbrella.
"Suppose intelligence were height."
"Simple enough."
"The taller the better."
He picked up the second.
"Suppose instead it were like an orchestra."
Blottisham frowned.
"I don't follow."
"A violin is not a better instrument than a trumpet."
"No."
"They do different things."
"And the conductor?"
"Coordinates them."
Quillibrace nodded.
"Quite."
He replaced the umbrella.
"I increasingly suspect intelligence resembles an orchestra."
Blottisham considered this.
"So memory isn't reasoning."
"No."
"Reasoning isn't imagination."
"No."
"Imagination isn't judgement."
"No."
"Judgement isn't creativity."
"No."
"They're all different?"
"So it would seem."
Miss Stray looked into the fire.
"And perhaps they improve one another."
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"A violin may play beautifully."
"Yes."
"But without the rest of the orchestra..."
"It is no longer a symphony."
Blottisham looked troubled.
"So if someone says a machine is 'more intelligent'..."
"What should we ask?"
He thought for a moment.
"'More intelligent at what?'"
Professor Quillibrace looked quietly pleased.
"I had hoped someone would ask."
The rain beat steadily against the windows.
Blottisham picked up the newspaper again.
"It says the machine scored higher than humans."
"On what?"
"It doesn't say."
"How unfortunate."
Miss Stray laughed.
"It's rather like announcing that someone is the world's greatest athlete."
"Indeed."
"Without mentioning the sport."
Blottisham brightened.
"Oh!"
"I know what you mean."
"Do you?"
"Usain Bolt would make a terrible pole vaulter."
"Probably."
"A champion weightlifter would lose the marathon."
"Likely."
"So there isn't really such a thing as 'the best athlete.'"
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"Only the best at particular kinds of performance."
Blottisham fell silent.
Then he asked quietly,
"Do you think intelligence is like that?"
Professor Quillibrace did not answer immediately.
At length he said,
"I think..."
He chose his words carefully.
"...we may have mistaken convenience for truth."
Nobody spoke.
The rain filled the room with a gentle rhythm.
Miss Stray finally broke the silence.
"Numbers are comforting."
"They are."
"They make comparison easy."
"They do."
"But reality does not always cooperate."
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"No."
"It rarely has."
The clock struck five.
Books were gathered.
The newspaper disappeared beneath Mr Blottisham's arm.
As they reached the door he stopped once more.
"Professor?"
"Yes?"
"If intelligence is really an orchestra..."
"What then?"
"Perhaps asking who is the most intelligent..."
He hesitated.
"...is rather like asking whether the violin is better than the trumpet."
Professor Quillibrace reached for his coat.
"My dear Blottisham..."
he said,
"...I rather think you've just committed an act of philosophy."
Miss Stray smiled.
"And fortunately..."
she added,
"...no licence is required."
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