Factoring Humanity

“No? It’s been over a decade since anyone anywhere exploded a nuclear bomb — which at least in part is because of the efforts of people who continued Josh’s work in Greenpeace. People like that believe you can put the genie back.”

Heather nodded. “For a computer scientist, you make a pretty good psychologist.”

“Hey, I didn’t spend a quarter-century with you for nothing.” He paused. “Josh killed himself in nineteen ninety-four. Roger Penrose’s second book on the quantum nature of consciousness was available, and Shor had just published his algorithm for allowing a hypothetical quantum computer to factor very large numbers. You said Josh loved to talk about the future; maybe he saw the relationship between quantum computing and quantum consciousness before anyone else did. But I bet he also knew that humanity never heeds warnings about things that won’t show their dangerous consequences for years — if we did, there never would have been an ecological crisis for Josh to be up in arms about. No, I’m sure Josh thought he was making certain the message got out just when we would most need to hear it. In fact, I bet he was naïve enough to think that the government wouldn’t hush up an undecoded message. Indeed, he probably suspected it would be the first thing ever decrypted by a quantum computer, in a big public demonstration. What a show it would have made! Just at the point at which humanity would be getting close to the breakthrough that would allow true artificial intelligence, the message from the stars would be unveiled, plain as day, big as life itself: Don’t do it.”

Heather frowned slightly.

Kyle went on. “It was the perfect scenario for a fan of Alan Turing. Not only was encrypting the alien message the kind of thing Turing himself might have enjoyed doing — he cracked the Nazis’ Enigma machine, you know — but the Turing test reinforces what the beings on Epsilon Eridani were trying to get across. Turing’s definition of artificial intelligence demands that thinking computers have all the same failings and pettinesses that real, live, flesh-and-blood life forms are prone to; otherwise, their responses would be easy to distinguish from those made by a real human.”

Heather thought for a moment. “What are you going to tell Cheetah?”

Kyle considered. “The truth. I think that down deep — if any part of Cheetah can be said to be down deep — he knew anyway. ‘Intruders,’ he said, ‘is the perfect word.’ ” Kyle shook his head. “Computers might develop consciousness — but never conscience.” He thought of the beggars on Queen Street. “At least, not any more conscience than we ever did.”

36

After lunch, Heather headed back across campus to continue her work in her construct. Meanwhile, Kyle and Becky told Cheetah what Heather had learned about the Huneker message. The APE was as phlegmatic as always.

Becky had been using the large construct just before lunch, so it was now Kyle’s turn again. He left Cheetah running while, with his daughter’s help, he got back into the construct to deal with a final outstanding issue in psychospace.

Kyle had had it all planned out in his mind — every detail of how it would go down. He’d wait in the alley off Lawrence Avenue West; he’d driven by the building enough times now to know its external layout well. He knew that Lydia Gurdjieff worked until nine or so each evening. He’d wait for her to leave the old converted house and start down the alley on its east side. And then Kyle would step from the shadows.

“Ms. Gurdjieff?” he’d say.

Gurdjieff would look up, startled. “Yes?”

“Lydia Gurdjieff?” Kyle would repeat, as if there could be any doubt.

“That’s me.”

“My name is Kyle Graves. I’m Mary and Becky’s father.”

Gurdjieff would start to back away. “Leave me alone,” she’d say. “I’ll call the police.”

“By all means, please do so,” Kyle would reply. “And even though you’re not licensed, let’s get the Ontario Psychiatric Association and the Ontario Medical Board down here, too.”

Gurdjieff would continue to back away. She’d look over her shoulder and see another figure silhouetted at the end of the alley.

Kyle would keep his eyes on Gurdjieff. “That’s my wife Heather,” he’d say offhandedly. “I think perhaps you’ve met her once before.”

“M-Miss Davis?” Gurdjieff would stammer, if she could recall the name and face of the one time they’d met before. Then: “I’ve got a rape whistle.”

Kyle would nod, almost nonchalantly. He’d keep his voice absolutely even. “And no doubt you’d be willing to use it even when no rape was occurring.”

Heather would speak up at this point: “Just as you were willing to indict my father for abusing me, even though he died before I was born.”

Gurdjieff would hesitate.