Becoming Human, page 4
Finally, I should mention that it would be impossible to connect a billion or so neurons in a steel cabinet contained in a small laboratory such as ours. We reasoned, however, that many of the functions carried out by the human brain—movement, digestion, blood circulation, respiration—would not be required in the synthetic version. Furthermore, most of a human’s brain capability is not utilized, whereas virtually all of the neurons in Oscar’s brain would be functional. Thus, though he had a brain equivalent to that of a worm or fruit fly, it was obvious almost from the beginning that his capabilities were far greater.
But I am getting ahead of the story. At this point we were working hard on a way to allow him to communicate his thoughts to us at the same time that he was “hoping” we would give him that ability. (I use quotation marks here because even at the end of the program we were never sure what a term like that might mean when used in the context of an artificial brain.) But at last, thanks primarily to an idea of Susumu’s, we were able to do this. Although it took us a long time to implement it (perhaps he, as well as we, was a little slow to learn the technique), the idea was simple, as good ideas usually are—we made it possible for him to reverse the direction of the audio impulses being fed into him.
This is how it worked: we hooked him up to a speaker and gave him a word (“hello”), along with its definition, to process in the usual manner. We fed this into his receivers, over and over again, and simply waited. Anyone with a brain would know that something different from usual was going on. We repeated it for days. Finally he sent the word back to the speaker we had provided him with, much as a batter might hit a ball thrown to him back to the pitcher.
Did this mean he understood what we were trying to do? We waited. He waited. Then we asked a simple question (how much is two and two?). We did this several times until, after a few hours, the same words came back to us. We waited. He waited. We asked it again. There was another long pause. At last there came one of those “eureka!” moments in science when he said, “Four!” In case we didn’t understand, apparently, he said it again: “Four! Four! Four!” From then on it was simply a matter of teaching him to combine words into sentences. In short, the procedure allowed him to retrieve words from his memory bank, rearrange them, and transmit them to his speaker. With a little tweaking we could hear what he was telling us in a computer-enhanced voice reminiscent of Stephen Hawking’s (we later modified this so that he sounded more like Orson Welles).
After that we could hardly get him to shut up.
8
It was very clever the way they showed me how to talk, and it was I, not they, who was slow to understand how this would work. It wasn’t difficult to forward to my speaker the words they gave me, but it took a while to figure out how to do the same thing with other words I could retrieve from my memory banks. Perhaps the reader of this account has had a similar experience, which is commonly expressed by human beings as “Why didn’t I think of that before?” Again I wondered whether I might be a little slow on the uptake. On the other hand, the creators and I were trying to do something that had never been done. Who knows how difficult an entirely new procedure can be? How long did it take Albert Einstein to formulate his special theory of relativity? Years. And no one ever accused him of being stupid, except when he was a child, like I am now.
Regardless, the fact is that I was finally able to communicate, to the limits of my ability, with the people who designed and created me. Some human expressions are greatly overused—among them, “A great load has been lifted from my shoulders.” I don’t have any shoulders, but I understand that feeling. There was a lightness, a certain new kind of freedom. Perhaps this is what flying is like. Whatever it was like, it must have been akin to human elation, if I may use a term which might, at present, have a different meaning for me than for you.
But, having acquired the ability to communicate, I discovered, surprisingly, that I didn’t know what to say. Of course I answered the questions they asked me, such as: “Is that better?” Or, “How many fingers am I holding up?” That sort of thing. Or memory tests, like “What was Silas Marner’s profession?” When I had been reading all those books earlier, I hadn’t realized how hard it must be to compose a sentence or a paragraph. It takes a certain amount of overall comprehension. You have to know where your sentence or paragraph is going before you start it. Not to mention a whole book or a symphony or painting. In other words, you have to formulate the complete idea or concept in your mind and then find the words to express this thought. Not as easy as it sounds, which may explain why children take so long to learn to talk. In this sense I was still almost an infant. I had heard a lot, and read a lot, but it was very difficult to organize my thoughts in a verbal way. Answering questions was about all I could handle at first, and even then I did better with “yes” or “no” questions. In fact, when I wasn’t able to express myself clearly (or even unclearly), I could feel my wires heating up, or something akin to that. Apparently this was a primitive form of frustration, a sensation that all humans can identify with. I suppose the scientists knew this, and usually they didn’t ask me to expound on anything very difficult.
Gradually, though, I became more proficient, and could carry on a conversation of sorts, much like one might manage when traveling in a foreign country. And as my ability to construct sentences increased, I became comfortable enough to actually initiate a dialogue, ask pertinent questions, follow up on the answers. It was slow going. I remember one early exchange, when I asked David whether I would ever be able to taste a latte.
He looked up from some gadget he was working on. “I don’t know, Oscar. We’ll have to see about that.”
“Can you describe what it is like?”
“It’s like a little taste of paradise.”
I had read about paradise. It is a wonderful place where people hope to go when they die. But it also means other things to different people, and I knew David did not usually speak in religious terms. “This means paradise is a big tub of latte?”
He laughed at this, as he often did with my questions. I didn’t know whether I had made a joke or whether he was making fun of me. “Yes, it is. That’s exactly how I would describe paradise.”
“But that’s also what you told Robyn one night when she was doing something with your sexual organ. You said she had taken you to paradise.”
This time he didn’t laugh. Instead, he became thoughtful, dreamy (I had never had a dream, but I had read about them). “Yes,” he told me, finally, “paradise is that, too.”
“Which one is the best paradise?”
“Oh, I would have to say the latte.”
I didn’t expect that answer. But after a moment he burst out laughing again, and I knew he was making a joke. I don’t know how to laugh. Maybe one day I will learn to. But I understood that one kind of joke is when you say something ridiculous. Though sometimes saying something ridiculous is not funny. Perhaps there are degrees of ridiculous. I need to study this further, and revisit the question of latte versus sex in terms of paradise. And also the matter of why people think they will go there, or anywhere else, when they no longer exist. I know about souls, but apparently they are not physical things, and cannot, therefore, taste and feel. I am beginning to think that human beings and their mental processes are more complicated that I had realized.
“David?”
He stopped fiddling with whatever gadget he was working on. “Yes, Oscar?”
“When will I be given taste?”
“We’re still a long way from that.”
“Smell?”
“Soon, I hope.”
“Touch?”
“Maybe, but for a later grant.”
“Does everything that happens to me depend on grants?”
His demeanor changed slightly and I could tell he was thinking about how to respond to that. Finally he wrote something in his notebook and said, “Yes, I’m afraid that’s true. And what happens to me and to the others in the lab also depend on this grant, and probably the next one. Although some of us may not be here for that.”
“Where are you going?”
“No, I just meant that no one can predict the future. Robyn and D’Arcy and Susumu, and even Henry might decide to work somewhere else. Or maybe Henry will decide to replace us on the grant. What happens depends on you, too.”
“Me?”
“Yes, of course. If we are unable to accomplish the goals we have set for you, the grant might not be renewed.”
“Or maybe I will decide to work somewhere else.”
David laughed quite heartily at the joke I had made, though it was not entirely intentional. He was enjoying it so much that I wish I could have laughed, too. “Don’t be arrogant, pal.”
“Is “arrogant” a bad thing?”
“Let’s say it’s considered unfashionable.”
“Should I be fashionable?”
“It can’t hoit,” he replied.
I recognized this as a Marx brothers term, so I suppose it was funny. “Will I be able to laugh one day?”
“I hope so, Oscar, I hope so. Maybe we can put that in the next application.”
“Sex?”
“What?”
“Will I be able to have sex one day?”
“Oh, my God. You can’t even feel anything, big guy, and you already want sex?”
“Yes, if it is a kind of paradise, I would be willing to try it.”
He sobered again. “Maybe way down the road, Oscar, but let’s go for the latte first, okay?”
“Do I have a choice?”
“No. But if there’s anything else you want, you let us know and we’ll try to figure out how we can provide it for you.”
I didn’t know whether he was being serious or not. It’s hard to read his facial expressions, especially the one called, “deadpan.” When he went back to his gadget, I studied him for a while, but he seemed to be thinking about something else. Perhaps he had forgotten what we had discussed. I hadn’t forgotten. I don’t exactly forget information stored in my memory cells, though sometimes I have trouble retrieving it. A little seed had been planted. I wasn’t concerned about sex in particular, but I wanted it because humans have it. I wanted latte, too. I wanted to experience everything that humans do. Especially paradise.
9
Today is a special day. Since I can already see and hear, and can have dialogues with the people in the lab, all of which have come about sooner than anyone had anticipated, Henry and his co-workers have asked for additional funding to increase the sophistication of the equipment in the laboratory and add additional staff to try to give me the other senses sooner than the present grant calls for. Dr. Frank Wilkes, chairman of the Department of Neurology, has even suggested that we would be entitled to more space if the extra money is approved. Everyone wants that because we are so crowded in the lab. In fact, if there weren’t more space there would be no place to put any extra scientists or technicians.
They have moved out some of the equipment and brought additional chairs into the lab where the visitors from the National Institute of Mental Health can sit and see for themselves the progress I have made. For this visit they have taught me several standard responses, like “pleased to meet you,” and the like. I think they believe that I should not only be human, but a polite human, at least for the purposes of this meeting and for obtaining more grants. Perhaps much of the strategy for obtaining money is being polite to those who have it.
I thought about being glib to make the visitors think I was smarter than I really am. But I realized I had to be careful with this, because if I were too glib, I might destroy my chances for becoming human faster. It could be considered unfashionable. I knew I had to be careful with my answers so as not to ruin Henry’s chance for the additional funding, and my own as well. I asked Robyn and D’Arcy how careful I needed to be with my answers. Both gave me the same response: “Just be yourself, Oscar.” But what if my self felt like being glib, or even arrogant?
Everyone is scurrying around. Robyn and Omar have been wiping the various wires and apparatuses to give the appearance that the lab is always clean and dust-free. Omar has also been busy this morning moving and rearranging the desks and the equipment so there will be room for the chairs, which the maintenance crew brought in earlier and stacked near the door. Even Henry, who rarely does any physical work, has pitched in with the chairs and is also giving orders to everyone else—to clean up their desks and put on clean lab coats. I can do nothing even if I wanted to and, in fact, am being ignored.
Just before ten of clock a half-dozen scientists and administrators from the government were led in a bit early by the department chairman. This premature entrance, even if only by a few minutes, seemed to annoy Henry, who checked his watch several times as he welcomed them and suggested places for them to sit.
When greetings were over and everyone was seated with a cup of latte, Dr. Wilkes introduced the creators and spoke at length about the project. Of course the visitors already knew all of this, but they were attentive anyway. When he had finished he turned the floor over to Henry, who strode briskly to the makeshift podium and loudly cleared his throat, as if he were choking on phlegm. This is a habit that many human have adopted. Some day I will ask why they do this.
“Ladies and gentlemen, thank you for coming,” Henry began, without a trace of the abhorrent phlegm in his voice. “You all know why you are here, and I presume you have read the reports we have sent you recently, so I won’t waste time repeating things you already know.” I think this was supposed to be a joke because some of the visitors tittered, and Dr. Wilkes coughed and cleared his throat of phlegm.
Henry went on. Just a quick summary: “This ‘machine’ you see before you—uh, we call him ‘Oscar’ (there were several more titters)—is not just a piece of equipment, a mechanical device. What we have here is a kind of thinking apparatus modeled on the human brain. Oscar has a synthetic frontal lobe, a cerebellum, a hippocampus, and most of the other essential elements of an actual brain. We’ll show you what’s behind his façade at the end of the discussion. He doesn’t have a full complement of neurons, of course—far from it—but for now he doesn’t need all that. He can see and hear and talk to us, which is quite sufficient for our immediate purposes. More importantly, he can react to whatever stimuli we put to him, or will soon be able to. We are happy to report that he already exhibits many human characteristics, which seem to have appeared almost on their own as his comprehension and verbal skills have increased. Frankly, this was a surprise to us, and we don’t fully understand it. We had not anticipated such rapid progress, but of course we’re very happy with it.
“As you know, we are trying to create something that actually thinks and feels, and can act as a model for the kinds of characteristics we all demonstrate. Something that we can experiment with and investigate various neurological and sociological problems without causing harm to human beings themselves. We have asked for additional funding because our progress has been so rapid and so remarkable that we hope, and we think, that you might wish to speed up the program so that we can begin to provide him with emotional capabilities a lot sooner than anyone, including ourselves, had expected.
“Without further ado, then, let me introduce you to Oscar. Oscar, these are some of the men and women of the National Institute of Mental Health.”
“Pleased to meet you,” I said, as cheerfully as possible. “It’s a lovely day, isn’t it?” To my amazement there were several gasps from the people in the room. Maybe it was the Wellesian tones that took them back.
“You see, ladies and gentlemen, Oscar can hear everything we say. And he can see everything in front of him as well. Oscar, how many fingers am I holding up?”
“Four.”
“How many people do you see in the room?”
“Do you mean the visitors, or the regular scientific people as well?”
“Just the visitors.”
“Six.”
“Thank you. Just one more question for you, then we’ll turn you over to our panel of judges. Who said, ‘I only regret that I have but one life to lose for my country’?”
“There are many, but the first was probably Nathan Hale. He was hanged in 1776 as a spy by the British forces during the Revolutionary War, and is regarded as a hero by most Americans. In fact, he is officially recognized as such by the state of Connecticut.”
“Thank you, Oscar.” He actually winked at me before turning back to the group. “I should mention that I asked him this question not to demonstrate his ability to recall facts and figures, but to show you that he is capable of synthesizing these elements into a cogent thought and of expressing that thought clearly. I want to emphasize here that Oscar is not a computer, as he himself will tell you, but a synthetic human brain, which is a very different thing.” Henry lowered his voice a little, pretending that I could not hear him say, “In fact, he is very sensitive about this fact, and has reminded us of it on any number of occasions.” There was a smattering of laughter at this, though I didn’t understand the humor because what he said was true.
“Well, this concludes my opening remarks, and now I want you to see for yourselves what Oscar is capable of. I invite you to ask him anything you’d like.”
One member of the audience asked Henry whether he could ask me about my personal life, which elicited more laughter. Then the atmosphere became more serious, and many questions were asked about how I perceive my surroundings (like a movie camera), whether I could see in color (not yet) and in three dimensions (yes), what I knew about this or that. Surface questions. But there were a couple of astute individuals who asked more penetrating things, such as what I thought of the people who had created me, how I viewed my role in the project and my place in history, whether I was happy or indifferent to what was happening in the lab, and so on, as the following exchange might indicate:
