The Senior Common Room was unusually quiet.
Mr Blottisham sat reading.
Professor Quillibrace looked over the top of his book.
"My dear Blottisham."
"Professor."
"I notice you have not consulted your machine all afternoon."
Blottisham smiled.
"No."
Miss Stray looked mildly surprised.
"Have you abandoned it already?"
"Not at all."
"Then why isn't it open?"
"I haven't needed it."
Quillibrace exchanged a glance with Miss Stray.
"How very curious."
Blottisham closed his notebook.
"I think something has changed."
"We were rather hoping so," said Miss Stray.
"I used to ask it questions whenever I became uncertain."
"And now?"
"Now I become uncertain before I ask."
The room fell pleasantly silent.
Quillibrace removed his spectacles.
"My dear Blottisham..."
"Yes?"
"Would you mind repeating that?"
"I said that I become uncertain before I ask."
"No."
The Professor smiled.
"You've become thoughtful before you ask."
Blottisham considered this.
"I suppose I have."
Miss Stray poured the tea.
"What do you do instead?"
"I usually write down three questions."
"And then?"
"I cross out the first."
Quillibrace looked intrigued.
"Why?"
"It's usually too obvious."
"And the second?"
"It normally assumes something I haven't examined."
Miss Stray smiled.
"So what survives?"
"The question that makes me slightly uncomfortable."
The Professor laughed quietly.
"I had wondered where philosophy entered the process."
Blottisham reached for his cup.
"I don't ask it to write for me anymore."
"No?"
"I ask it to find the places where I've become lazy."
Miss Stray tilted her head.
"Can it do that?"
"Not always."
"Then why ask?"
"Because trying to answer often shows me where the laziness was."
Quillibrace nodded with evident approval.
"You've discovered something rather old."
"Have I?"
"The value of a conversation often lies in what it makes you notice."
A few moments passed.
Outside, rain had begun to fall gently across the college gardens.
Blottisham looked out of the window.
"I've been thinking about those scientists."
"The ones worried about losing part of their work?"
"Yes."
"What about them?"
"I think they were protecting something important."
Miss Stray nodded.
"So do I."
"But perhaps they gave it the wrong name."
Neither of the others interrupted.
"I don't think they were really protecting writing."
"No?"
"Or coding."
"Or analysing data."
"What then?"
"I think they were protecting the experience of discovering."
Quillibrace smiled.
"A subtle distinction."
"I nearly missed it."
Miss Stray looked thoughtful.
"And what have you discovered?"
Blottisham looked down at the closed notebook.
"That discovery isn't something the machine can do instead of me."
"No?"
"It's something we can sometimes do together."
The room became quiet again.
After a while Quillibrace asked,
"What do you suppose the machine contributes?"
Blottisham thought for a long time.
Finally he answered,
"It refuses to become tired of my questions."
Miss Stray laughed.
"There is certainly an advantage in that."
"And what do you contribute?" asked the Professor.
Blottisham looked surprised.
"I?"
"Yes."
He reflected for several moments.
"I decide..."
He paused.
"...which questions are worth living with."
Quillibrace slowly replaced his spectacles.
"My dear Blottisham..."
"Yes?"
"I believe you've finally learned how to use artificial intelligence."
Blottisham looked pleased.
"I was beginning to hope so."
Miss Stray smiled into her teacup.
"I don't think you've learned how to use the machine."
"No?"
"I think you've learned how to use yourself."
No one spoke.
There seemed nothing to improve upon.
The college clock announced the hour.
Blottisham gathered his notebook.
He left the laptop exactly where it was.
Not forgotten.
Not abandoned.
Merely waiting until there was another worthwhile question.
After the door had closed, Quillibrace looked across at Miss Stray.
"He's changed."
"A little."
"What made the difference, do you think?"
She watched the rain for a while before answering.
"I don't imagine it was the machine."
"No?"
"I think it was the conversations."
Quillibrace nodded.
"As do I."
He stood, collected the empty teacups and walked towards the door.
Halfway there he stopped.
"My dear Miss Stray."
"Professor?"
"Perhaps that has always been the purpose of every worthwhile instrument."
"To produce better work?"
He smiled.
"No."
"To produce better workers."
Miss Stray considered this for a moment.
Then she gently shook her head.
"I wonder whether even that isn't quite right."
"No?"
She looked towards the empty chair where Blottisham had been sitting.
"Not better workers."
A small smile appeared.
"Better thinkers."
Outside, the rain continued to fall upon St Anselm's.
Inside, the conversation had ended.
The education, it seemed, had not.
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