The following week the Senior Common Room found itself, once again, contemplating the future.
Mr Blottisham arrived in a state of considerable excitement.
"I've been thinking about superintelligence."
Professor Quillibrace looked resigned.
"I had feared as much."
"It occurred to me..."
said Blottisham,
"...that nobody ever says what it actually does."
Professor Quillibrace lowered his teacup.
"No?"
"No."
"They merely say it will be superintelligent."
Miss Stray looked interested.
"What do you imagine it doing?"
Blottisham considered.
"I've no idea."
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"An excellent beginning."
Blottisham persisted.
"Suppose one appeared tomorrow."
"Very well."
"What happens next?"
Professor Quillibrace thought for a moment.
"I imagine someone would ask it a question."
"What sort of question?"
"Oh..."
Quillibrace reflected.
"...probably the weather."
Miss Stray laughed.
"Or where they left their car keys."
Blottisham frowned.
"That seems rather disappointing."
"Reality often is."
"But surely..."
he continued,
"...it would solve all the great problems."
Professor Quillibrace looked at him.
"Which ones?"
"The economy."
"What about it?"
"I don't know."
"Then neither, I suspect, does the superintelligence."
"Climate change."
"In what sense?"
"I hadn't thought."
"Politics."
"Whose?"
"Education."
"For whom?"
Blottisham looked increasingly uneasy.
"It suddenly seems rather complicated."
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"The world has been quietly acquiring complications for some time."
Miss Stray leaned forward.
"I wonder whether we speak of 'problems' as though they were crossword clues."
"What do you mean?"
"A crossword has one correct answer."
"Usually."
"But human problems rarely do."
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"Most important questions begin with values."
"Not facts?"
"Facts inform."
"They don't decide."
Blottisham looked puzzled.
"So even a perfect intelligence..."
"...cannot tell us what we ought to want."
Silence settled over the room.
After a while Blottisham spoke again.
"I think I understand."
"Do you?"
"If I ask..."
he hesitated,
"'What is the best way to educate children?'"
"Yes?"
"I first have to decide..."
"...what I mean by 'best.'"
Professor Quillibrace smiled.
"Exactly."
Miss Stray looked out of the window.
"The machine might know every educational study ever written."
"Indeed."
"But it cannot choose our values for us."
"No."
"It can only work with the values we give it."
Blottisham sat back.
"So intelligence answers questions."
"Frequently."
"But values choose the questions."
Professor Quillibrace raised his teacup.
"A remarkably concise summary."
The room grew quiet once more.
Outside, students crossed the quadrangle carrying books, laptops and umbrellas in roughly equal proportions.
Blottisham watched them.
"You know..."
he said,
"...most of them aren't trying to become superintelligent."
"No."
"They're trying to become doctors."
"Or historians."
"Or engineers."
"Or musicians."
"Or teachers."
Professor Quillibrace nodded.
"They are trying to become useful."
Miss Stray smiled.
"Perhaps that is a more interesting ambition."
Blottisham looked thoughtful.
"So perhaps intelligence has been receiving rather too much attention."
Professor Quillibrace laughed softly.
"I begin to suspect it has."
The college clock struck five.
Books were gathered.
Coats were collected.
As they reached the door, Blottisham asked one final question.
"Professor?"
"Yes?"
"If a machine one day becomes a thousand times more intelligent than I am..."
"Yes?"
"...should I be worried?"
Professor Quillibrace stood for a moment before answering.
"My dear Blottisham..."
he said,
"...I should become worried only when it proves capable of enjoying an afternoon's conversation, changing its mind halfway through, laughing at itself, and recognising that the most interesting question is not always the one it began by asking."
Miss Stray smiled.
"So..."
she said,
"...perhaps intelligence is only part of wisdom."
Professor Quillibrace opened the door.
"My dear Miss Stray..."
he replied,
"...I rather suspect that wisdom begins precisely where intelligence realises it is not enough."
The three of them stepped into the corridor.
The Senior Common Room fell silent once more.
On the table remained an empty teapot, four unread newspapers, a half-finished crossword, and a chessboard whose most interesting move had, as usual, never quite been played.