Ted Chiang - Seventy-Two Letters

“Your epithets for dexterity enable a golem to sculpt another, thereby reproducing itself. A name capable of creating a being that is, in turn, capable of creation would bring us closer to God than we have ever been before.”

“I’m afraid you’re mistaken about my work, although you aren’t the first to fall under this misapprehension. The ability to manipulate molds does not render an automaton able to reproduce itself. There would be many other skills required.”

The kabbalist nodded. “I am well aware of that. I myself, in the course of my studies, have developed an epithet designating certain other skills necessary.”

Stratton leaned forward with sudden interest. After casting a body, the next step would be to animate the body with a name. “Your epithet endows an automaton with the ability to write?” His own automaton could grasp a pencil easily enough, but it couldn’t inscribe even the simplest mark. “How is it that your automata possess the dexterity required for scrivening, but not that for manipulating molds?”

Roth shook his head modestly. “My epithet does not endow writing ability, or general manual dexterity. It simply enables a golem to write out the name that animates it, and nothing else.”

“Ah, I see.” So it didn’t provide an aptitude for learning a category of skills; it granted a single innate skill. Stratton tried to imagine the nomenclatoral contortions needed to make an automaton instinctively write out a particular sequence of letters. “Very interesting, but I imagine it doesn’t have broad application, does it?”

Roth gave a pained smile; Stratton realized he had committed a faux pas, and the man was trying to meet it with good humor.

“That is one way to view it,” admitted Roth, “but we have a different perspective. To us the value of this epithet, like any other, lies not in the usefulness it imparts to a golem, but in the ecstatic state it allows us to achieve.”

“Of course, of course. And your interest in my epithets for dexterity is the same?”

“Yes. I am hoping that you will share your epithets with us.”

Stratton had never heard of a kabbalist making such a request before, and clearly Roth did not relish being the first. He paused to consider. “Must a kabbalist reach a certain rank in order to meditate upon the most powerful ones?”

“Yes, very definitely.”

“So you restrict the availability of the names.”

“Oh no; my apologies for misunderstanding you. The ecstatic state offered by a name is achievable only after one has mastered the necessary meditative techniques, and it’s these techniques that are closely guarded. Without the proper training, attempts to use these techniques could result in madness. But the names themselves, even the most powerful ones, have no ecstatic value to a novice; they can animate clay, nothing more.”

“Nothing more,” agreed Stratton, thinking how truly different their perspectives were. “In that case, I’m afraid I cannot grant you use of my names.”

Roth nodded glumly, as if he’d been expecting that answer. “You desire payment of royalties.”

Now it was Stratton who had to overlook the other man’s faux pas. “Money is not my objective. However, I have specific intentions for my dexterous automata which require that I retain control over the patent. I cannot jeopardize those plans by releasing the names indiscriminately.” Granted, he had shared them with the nomenclators working under Lord Fieldhurst, but they were all gentlemen sworn to an even greater secrecy. He was less confident about mystics.

“I can assure you that we would not use your name for anything other than ecstatic practices.”

“I apologize; I believe you are sincere, but the risk is too great. The most I can do is remind you that the patent has a limited duration; once it has expired, you’ll be free to use the name however you like.”

“But that will take years!”

“Surely you appreciate that there are others whose interests must be taken into account.”

“What I see is that commercial considerations are posing an obstacle to spiritual awakening. The error was mine in expecting anything different.”

“You are hardly being fair,” protested Stratton.

“Fair?” Roth made a visible effort to restrain his anger. “You ‘nomenclators’ steal techniques meant to honor God and use them to aggrandize yourselves. Your entire industry prostitutes the techniques of yezirah. You are in no position to speak of fairness.”

“Now see here—”

“Thank you for speaking with me.” With that, Roth took his leave.

Stratton sighed.

Peering through the eyepiece of the microscope, Stratton turned the manipulator’s adjustment wheel until the needle pressed against the side of the ovum. There was a sudden enfolding, like the retraction of a mollusc’s foot when prodded, transforming the sphere into a tiny foetus. Stratton withdrew the needle from the slide, unclamped it from the framework, and inserted a new one. Next he transferred the slide into the warmth of the incubator and placed another slide, bearing an untouched human ovum, beneath the microscope. Once again he leaned toward the microscope to repeat the process of impression.

Recently, the nomenclators had developed a name capable of inducing a form indistinguishable from a human foetus. The forms did not quicken, however: they remained immobile and unresponsive to stimuli. The consensus was that the name did not accurately describe the non-physical traits of a human being. Accordingly, Stratton and his colleagues had been diligently compiling descriptions of human uniqueness, trying to distill a set of epithets both expressive enough to denote these qualities, and succinct enough to be integrated with the physical epithets into a seventy-two-lettered name.

Stratton transferred the final slide to the incubator and made the appropriate notations in the logbook. At the moment he had no more names drawn in needle form, and it would be a day before the new foetuses were mature enough to test for quickening. He decided to pass the rest of the evening in the drawing room upstairs.

Upon entering the walnut paneled room, he found Fieldhurst and Ashbourne seated in its leather chairs, smoking cigars and sipping brandy. “Ah, Stratton,” said Ashbourne. “Do join us.”

“I believe I will,” said Stratton, heading for the liquor cabinet. He poured himself some brandy from a crystal decanter and seated himself with the others.

“Just up from the laboratory, Stratton?” inquired Fieldhurst.

Stratton nodded. “A few minutes ago I made impressions with my most recent set of names. I feel that my latest permutations are leading in the right direction.”

“You are not alone in feeling optimistic; Dr. Ashbourne and I were just discussing how much the outlook has improved since this endeavor began. It now appears that we will have a euonym comfortably in advance of the final generation.” Fieldhurst puffed on his cigar and leaned back in his chair until his head rested against the antimacassar. “This disaster may ultimately turn out to be a boon.”

“A boon? How so?”

“Why, once we have human reproduction under our control, we will have a means of preventing the poor from having such large families as so many of them persist in having right now.”

Stratton was startled, but tried not to show it. “I had not considered that,” he said carefully.

Ashbourne also seemed mildly surprised. “I wasn’t aware that you intended such a policy.”

“I considered it premature to mention it earlier,” said Fieldhurst. “Counting one’s chickens before they’re hatched, as they say.”

“Of course.”

“You must agree that the potential is enormous. By exercising some judgment when choosing who may bear children or not, our government could preserve the nation’s racial stock.”