AM SORRY IF I OFFEND YOU IN ANY WAY .
YOU TALK TOO MUCH .
I AM SORRY .
HAVE AN EGGPLANT .
Richards watched with interest. Saint George had no background for eggplants. But he disliked cucumbers and bananas.
NO THANK YOU .
DON’T YOU LIKE EGGPLANT?
NOT VERY MUCH .
HERE HAVE ANOTHER ONE .
NO THANK YOU .
I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT .
NO THANK YOU .
GO ON AND TAKE IT .
NO THANK YOU .
I INSIST .
NO THANK YOU .
“What’s happened to Saint George?” Richards asked. “His responses are too much the same.”
“That’s what’s bothering me.”
“What’s he cycling through on the program?”
“I was looking for it when you came in.”
I INSIST THAT YOU HAVE A CUCUMBER .
I REFUSE .
“George!” Richards said, almost without thinking.
THEN HAVE A BANANA .
NO .
“George is breaking down,” Richards said. “He’s not a saint any more.”
THEN HAVE BOTH A BANANA AND A CUCUMBER .
NO THANK YOU .
I INSIST .
GO TO HELL I WILL KILL YOU : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
The screen was filled with white dots. “What does that mean, unprintable response?” Richards said.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before tonight.”
“How many times has this program been run?” Richards asked.
“One hundred and ten, against Martha.”
“Any learning erasures?”
“No.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” Richards said. “He’s getting to be a short-tempered saint.” He grinned. “We can write this one up.”
Gerhard nodded and went back to the print-out. In theory, what was happening was not puzzling. Both George and Martha were programmed to learn from experience. Like the checkers-playing programs—where the machine got better each time it played a game—this program was established so that the machine would “learn” new responses to things. After one hundred and ten sets of experience, Saint George had abruptly stopped being a saint. He was learning not to be a saint around Martha—even though he had been programmed for saintliness.
“I know just how he feels,” Richards said, and switched the machine off. Then he joined Gerhard, looking for the programming error that had made it happen.
THURSDAY,
MARCH 11, 1971:
Interfacing
1
J ANET R OSS SAT IN THE EMPTY ROOM AND glanced at the wall clock. It was 9 a.m. She looked down at the desk in front of her, which was bare except for a vase of flowers and a notepad. She looked at the chair opposite her. Then, aloud, she said, “How’re we doing?”
There was a mechanical click and Gerhard’s voice came through the speaker mounted in the ceiling. “We need a few minutes for the sound levels. The light is okay. You want to talk a minute?”
She nodded, and glanced over her shoulder at the one-way mirror behind her. She saw only her reflection, but she knew Gerhard, with his equipment, was behind, watching her. “You sound tired,” she said.
“Trouble with Saint George last night,” Gerhard said.
“I’m tired, too,” she said. “I was having trouble with somebody who isn’t a saint.” She laughed. She was just talking so they could get a sound level for the room; she hadn’t really paid attention to what she was saying. But it was true: Arthur was no saint. He was also no great discovery, though she’d thought he might be a few weeks ago when she first met him. She hadbeen, in fact, a little infatuated with him. (“Infatuated? Hmm? Is that what you’d call it?” She could hear Dr. Ramos now.) Arthur had been born handsome and wealthy. He had a yellow Ferrari, a lot of dash, and a lot of charm. She was able to feel feminine and frivolous around him. He did madcap, dashing things like flying her to Mexico City for dinner because he knew a little restaurant where they made the best tacos in the world. She knew it was all silly, but she enjoyed it. And in a
YOU TALK TOO MUCH .
I AM SORRY .
HAVE AN EGGPLANT .
Richards watched with interest. Saint George had no background for eggplants. But he disliked cucumbers and bananas.
NO THANK YOU .
DON’T YOU LIKE EGGPLANT?
NOT VERY MUCH .
HERE HAVE ANOTHER ONE .
NO THANK YOU .
I WANT YOU TO HAVE IT .
NO THANK YOU .
GO ON AND TAKE IT .
NO THANK YOU .
I INSIST .
NO THANK YOU .
“What’s happened to Saint George?” Richards asked. “His responses are too much the same.”
“That’s what’s bothering me.”
“What’s he cycling through on the program?”
“I was looking for it when you came in.”
I INSIST THAT YOU HAVE A CUCUMBER .
I REFUSE .
“George!” Richards said, almost without thinking.
THEN HAVE A BANANA .
NO .
“George is breaking down,” Richards said. “He’s not a saint any more.”
THEN HAVE BOTH A BANANA AND A CUCUMBER .
NO THANK YOU .
I INSIST .
GO TO HELL I WILL KILL YOU : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
: : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : : :
The screen was filled with white dots. “What does that mean, unprintable response?” Richards said.
“I don’t know. I’ve never seen it before tonight.”
“How many times has this program been run?” Richards asked.
“One hundred and ten, against Martha.”
“Any learning erasures?”
“No.”
“I’ll be goddamned,” Richards said. “He’s getting to be a short-tempered saint.” He grinned. “We can write this one up.”
Gerhard nodded and went back to the print-out. In theory, what was happening was not puzzling. Both George and Martha were programmed to learn from experience. Like the checkers-playing programs—where the machine got better each time it played a game—this program was established so that the machine would “learn” new responses to things. After one hundred and ten sets of experience, Saint George had abruptly stopped being a saint. He was learning not to be a saint around Martha—even though he had been programmed for saintliness.
“I know just how he feels,” Richards said, and switched the machine off. Then he joined Gerhard, looking for the programming error that had made it happen.
THURSDAY,
MARCH 11, 1971:
Interfacing
1
J ANET R OSS SAT IN THE EMPTY ROOM AND glanced at the wall clock. It was 9 a.m. She looked down at the desk in front of her, which was bare except for a vase of flowers and a notepad. She looked at the chair opposite her. Then, aloud, she said, “How’re we doing?”
There was a mechanical click and Gerhard’s voice came through the speaker mounted in the ceiling. “We need a few minutes for the sound levels. The light is okay. You want to talk a minute?”
She nodded, and glanced over her shoulder at the one-way mirror behind her. She saw only her reflection, but she knew Gerhard, with his equipment, was behind, watching her. “You sound tired,” she said.
“Trouble with Saint George last night,” Gerhard said.
“I’m tired, too,” she said. “I was having trouble with somebody who isn’t a saint.” She laughed. She was just talking so they could get a sound level for the room; she hadn’t really paid attention to what she was saying. But it was true: Arthur was no saint. He was also no great discovery, though she’d thought he might be a few weeks ago when she first met him. She hadbeen, in fact, a little infatuated with him. (“Infatuated? Hmm? Is that what you’d call it?” She could hear Dr. Ramos now.) Arthur had been born handsome and wealthy. He had a yellow Ferrari, a lot of dash, and a lot of charm. She was able to feel feminine and frivolous around him. He did madcap, dashing things like flying her to Mexico City for dinner because he knew a little restaurant where they made the best tacos in the world. She knew it was all silly, but she enjoyed it. And in a
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