Harry Harrison - The Turing Option

“Forced him? I don’t understand.”

There was no warmth in Bociort’s smile. “You would understand, young man, if you had lived through the Ceausescu years in my motherland. Since I was convinced from the very beginning that what I was doing was illegal I took certain steps to guarantee my own safety. I left a program running in the university’s computer. A virus really. If I did not have a code telephoned to it once a month it was programmed to relay a coded message to Interpol. Beckworth was not pleased when I gave him a copy of the message and described the arrangement. Of course without revealing where the computer was. In the end he reluctantly understood that alive I was no threat to them. When I discovered that he was leaving I insisted that he make arrangements for my dropping from sight as well. I now live quietly, taken care of by my cousins who are happy to also live in Swiss luxury. Only the great wrong that had been done you disturbed me: therefore my message. I wanted to meet you — and your AI of course.”

“MI,” Sven said. “Machine intelligence is not artificial.”

“I stand corrected and do apologize. As for you, Brian, I want to give you the little information I have about the conspiracy.”

“You know who was behind all this?”

“Alas, no. I have but a single clue of any importance. I listened to all of Beckworth’s telephone calls. That was the first task your AI undertook, tapping every phone that Beckworth might use. He was very circumspect and only once did he slip up and use his phone to speak with his coconspirators. This was when he discovered that you were still alive, that an attempt on your life had failed. You were still a threat that had to be removed. The telephone number he called was disconnected next day, so all I can tell you is that it was located in Canada. But the man Beckworth spoke with was not a Canadian.”

“How do you know?”

“My dear sir! I know in the same way that I knew it was you calling me at this number. Your voice gave you away, a native of southern Ireland who grew up in the United States. Every word that you spoke was clear identification. I was led into AI research through my work in linguistics. My magister in philology was gained in the University of Copenhagen, where I followed in the footsteps of the great Otto Jespersen. Therefore you must believe me that the man was no Canadian. I have listened to the recording many times and am absolutely sure.”

Bociort paused for dramatic effect, touched the water to his lips but did not drink. Put the glass down again before speaking.

“The individual in question had a very marked Oxbridge accent, signifying that he had been a student at either Oxford or Cambridge University. There is a possibility that he went to Eton as well. He had worked very hard during his school years to lose his regional accent — but the traces were clear to me. Yorkshire, possibly Leeds, that’s where he came from.”

“You are sure of this?”

“Positive. Now that I have answered all of your questions fully and truthfully please have your MI remove its clothing. How I look forward to seeing what you have accomplished. I was most unhappy when I discovered that your stolen AI was, how should I say, a brontosaurus.”

“What do you mean?”

“It was not obvious at first, but as I worked through your notes and the stages of development I was forced to the reluctant conclusion that your work was not proceeding along the correct branch of the evolution of intelligence. Your AI was a good dinosaur, but it could never develop the true intelligence that you were seeking. It was an excellent brontosaurus indeed. But somewhere you had taken a wrong turning. No matter how much the brontosaurus was improved — it would still be a dinosaur. Never a human. I could never discover where you went wrong, and of course never told my employers of my discovery. I sincerely hope that you found your error.”

“I have — and corrected it. My MI is now functional and complete. Strip down, Sven, and have a chat with the doctor. After what he has done for me he deserves a complete Turing test.”

“Which hopefully I will pass,” Bociort said, smiling.

Brian enjoyed his week’s stay in St. Moritz. It was the first time that he had really been alone since the attack in the laboratory. Since then it had been hospital, recovery, work and people. Now he didn’t even have Sven around to talk to: he relished the solitude and anonymity. Nor was anyone in a hurry. Dr. Bociort was understandably grateful for these days of interfacing with the MI.

The cold dry air seemed to have alleviated all the symptoms of his cold, and with his restored sense of taste he explored the many restaurants of the city. When Sven-2 had first mentioned the possibility of the phone number in St. Moritz, Brian had, as a simple precaution, downloaded a German dictionary and language course. He accessed this now and with the days of constant practice was speaking fair German by week’s end.

He also had the leisure to plan for the future, to think about it calmly, to weigh the various options that were open to him. In this Dr. Bociort was his confidant, a wise man and a cultured European. On the last day of his stay Brian walked, as he usually did, the three kilometers to Bociort’s home, and rang the bell. Dimitrie led him to Bociort’s study.

“Brian, come in. I want you to admire Sven’s new traveling persona.”

The MI was not in sight — but a handsome, brassbound leather trunk stood in the middle of the room.

“Good morning, Brian,” the trunk said. “This is a most agreeable arrangement. Specially fitted for comfort, optic pickups on every side for maximum visibility…”

“Microphone and loudspeaker connections as well. You’re looking good, Sven.”

Dr. Bociort shifted in his chair and smiled happily at them. “I cannot begin to tell you what pleasure these few days have given me. To see the simple AI that I worked on raised to this power of perfection is an intellectual banquet that I am sure you both will understand. In addition, my dear Brian — at the risk of appearing an emotional old man — I have enjoyed your companionship.”

Brian did not answer, shifted uneasily and ran his fingers along the edge of the trunk.

“Be kinder to yourself,” Bociort said, reaching out and touching Brian lightly on the knee: pretending not to notice the shiver and quick movement away. “The intellectual life is a good one, to use one’s brain, to uncover the secrets of reality, that is a gift granted to very few. But to enjoy one’s humanity is an equal pleasure—”

“I don’t wish to have this discussion.”

“Nor do I. It is only because of the trust, the understanding, that has grown between us, that I permit myself such a breach of tact. You have been hurt badly and you have grown bitter. Understandable. I ask for no response, I just request you to be kinder to yourself, to find some way to enjoy the physical and emotional pleasures that life can bring.”

The silence lengthened. Dr. Bociort shrugged, so slightly that it might not have been a shrug at all, turned and lifted his hand.

“For you, a few small gifts as tokens of appreciation. If you please, Dimitrie.”

The servant brought in a silver tray with a glistening leather wallet on it.

“Yours, Brian,” the old man said. “It contains a first-class ticket on this afternoon’s flight to Sweden. Your hotel reservations are there, as is the passport I spoke to you about. A perfectly legitimate Rumanian one. I still have close friends in my homeland — in high places. It is not a forgery but is quite authentic and issued by the government. I am sure that you won’t mind being Ioan Ghica for a few days — it is a proud name to bear. And this as well for the Baltic winter.”