The Turing Test

The Turing Test

Jon Ladner

Smashwords Edition

Copyright © 2013 Jon Ladner

Cover design by Rachel Ladner

All rights reserved. No part of this book in excess of 500 words can be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without consent from the author.

For additional information, direct your inquiries to: StormCloudPress@gmail.com

For my good friend, Robert

The Turing Test

At bottom, robotics is about us. It is the discipline of emulating our lives, of wondering how we work.

-Rob Grupen

Chapter I

It was a pleasant March afternoon, in what was normally a quiet suburban neighborhood. A soft, gray row of skyscrapers lined the horizon, but they were miles away. On this street, cars seldom passed by, and the people usually kept to themselves. Nobody cared enough to listen, as an old man’s agitated tenor voice rang through his open window.

I just don't like it! You can leave it here if you absolutely must, but I still don't have to like it! the old man warbled. And I don't have to let it touch my things, either!

Dad, it's just a machine. There's nothing about it you can’t trust. So what if it's made of metal, you trust your car, don't you? The old man's son was used to exchanges like this with his father.

I trust my car. Sure, I trust my car. Want to hear a story about my car? How much I trust it? the old man inquired.

His son sighed. Sure. Tell us about it.

Well, I will! It was about fifty years ago, not long after you were born, I was driving from New Jersey back home, back to Texas, and I started hearing this grinding sound when I turned my steering wheel to the right. Turning left was fine. But anytime I turned right, even just a little bit, there was a low pitched growling, grinding sound coming from the right side of my car. It started somewhere in Missouri, I think. I wasn't bothered by it at first. I mean, it only got worse gradually. I barely even noticed it for a while.

Go on, said the younger of the two men. He was slightly taller than average, with broad shoulders and a suave, well-kept salt-and-pepper look about him. Relaxing his posture, he leaned his right elbow onto the gray laminate counter-top.

The next morning, I drove to the store to pick up some groceries and I noticed the sound again, and decided to take my car to the mechanic. Turns out, my axle was broken and if I had driven on it any farther, the tire would have right-angled out onto the highway, still attached to the car, with me still in the car. It would have been cranium and shrapnel soup all over the highway! Not my kind of soup. So of course, I left my car with the mechanic. It needed to be fixed.

Alright, Dad, I see your - his son started, but was cut off by the old man.

It made me realize just how little I knew about my convenient little death machine. Sure, they fixed it easily enough, but it could have killed me just as easily! And here I was, placing such an enormous amount of faith in the mechanic to fix things for an hourly wage. But what if the mechanic was, I don’t know, inept? Or what if the mechanic did a sloppy job in order to cut costs? I needed that car! And I certainly didn't have the time to spend learning enough about it to know the difference.

The old man's son exhaled deeply. Normally his father spoke with clean, information age regularity, but at times his diction would bend, betraying deep, Southern roots. He could always tell when his father got worked up.

It didn't stop there, either. Because the more I thought about it, the more apparent it became that we're all just fragile little meat-sacks walking around with no idea how any of it works. The best we can do is just know enough to feel safe, and not think about the rest. But the more I think about it, the more it seems... The old man paused for a moment, searching for the right words. The more it seems we've created a monster. We continue to create the monster. And every new convenience somebody thinks up only feeds the monster.

It sounds like you had a harrowing experience, resounded a semi-hollow voice with the conversational ease of a good thesaurus. A metal hand rested on the table. The serial number 'STV-866' was printed on the arm, directly above the wrist.

It was, the old man kept going. And this went on for several days – then I got my car back and....

The younger man looked up, cuing his father to finish the thought. The old man was staring at a corner of the table, overwhelmed by a feeling of something that eluded him, still.

Well, I figured it would be better not to think about it anymore. The latter part of the statement tumbled out like a pile of rocks.

Indubitably for the best, sir.

Indubit- the old man yelped, pipe down, you silly robot! Don't you get what I'm saying? Bah. Nobody's talking to you anyways. What I mean is, well, what I meant to say... my car isn't safe either. I'm just used to it well enough to give it that illusion. See? And how is that a good thing? How is that supposed to be good?

I hear you, dad, droned the old man's son, you're afraid of robots.

Now wait just a minute, began the old man, but his son cut him off.

Melissa and I will be back in a couple of weeks! I only need you to keep Steve until we get back. There's really nothing to worry about. He doesn't smoke, doesn't drink, and he definitely won't fry you with lasers or anything. He's the perfect roommate, really.

I'm not afraid! It's just... The old man looked at the machine, warily. Unnatural. It’s unnatural, is what it is. Josh, I just don't know why you keep that silly thing around anyways. The old man was born during the advent of modern robotic technology and the artificial intelligence renaissance, but had spent the last forty years or so trying to forget about it. As if to prove it, he had lined his hallway walls with bookshelves, and still vacuumed the floors by himself. He had deliberately developed a taste and snobbery for French pressed coffee, one of those rare culinary amenities that technology had left unscathed, and obscure.

His son, on the other hand, embraced the modern world as quickly as possible, despite being discouraged from pursuing what his father deemed 'flashy and unnecessary' all through adolescence. Josh currently worked as the head of botanical engineering for United Moon Corps. His department was responsible for genetically manipulating every species of plant that his company planned to transplant to the lunar colony. They hoped to finish creating a suitable environment for permanent colonization within the next two years, before sending a population of colonist families that were currently undergoing rigorous training and preparations.

Look, just... The robot's owner sighed. We'll see you in two weeks. Have a nice time with Steve. He's really quite pleasant, you know. You can help him with his vocabulary, if you get bored. He enjoys that. Josh winked at his robot.

The old man let out a long sigh.

Josh, I hope your stay in Rome will be magnificent, said Steve, his expressionless face betraying far less emotion than his verbiage.

I'll see you in two weeks, said Josh, as he walked out the door.

Why couldn't one of your kids look after this thing? the old man yelled out the door as the cab was driving off. He wouldn't refuse his son's request to look after the robot, but he wanted to make sure Josh knew his distaste for it.

Josh and Melissa rarely failed in their thirty-one years of marriage to take one family vacation per year. Now that their two kids were both out of the house, their vacations began to become even more extravagant. As the head of the botanical engineering department, United Moon Corps was happy to offset some of their excursion costs. They would want him back at work replenished and rejuvenated, ready to continue leading the charge into the future.

Bah, the old man muttered, pulling his head back inside and shutting the door. The breeze outside was cut off, and the stagnant air fell down around the old man. He stared at the robot for a minute. What do you know about hope? he asked, snidely.

Hope. To look forward to with desire and reasonable confidence. Why? Steve replied.

I know you know what it means. But you don't hope. You're a thing. A machine. There's nothing inside – nothing that's worth anything, at least.

I see, said Steve. I told Josh that I hope his stay will be magnificent. You are not incorrect. I have no context for the human experience of hope. I simply made the best approximation that I could to the appropriate response.

The appropriate response, huh? Look, how about the appropriate response for you right now is to just sit over in that corner until I come get you? Right there. Perfect.

Steve squeezed himself into the corner of the living room the old man pointed at, and waited while the old man went into the kitchen to fix himself a cup of tea.

The room was not small, but cozy, well suited for an old widower in his aging but not yet despondent years. The furniture dated itself, and the television was at least a decade behind the latest trends in entertainment technology. It was difficult to say whether the house was messy or tidy. The kitchen sink was clean except the dirty dishes from multiple meals were left sitting in it, and the counter tops were clear, except for a bag of coffee beans and some other often used items strewn across part of it. A pile of books and old newspapers commandeered the coffee table, but it was a neat-looking pile. There was no trash anywhere, except in an over-filled trash can. It was all as if the old man frequently put off doing things, but when he said he would 'do it later,' he followed through.

In the living room, Steve's bulky frame filled the corner, crouching like a gargoyle. It was the only way he could fit. Despite the fact that Steve was seven and a half feet tall with the girth of a tank, there was nothing frightening about his size. Rather, it conjured up images of early computers: the size could only be associated with the clumsiness inherent of being one of the first of his kind. He sat motionless, as he was asked to do, with nothing but a faint glimmer from his eyes to remind one that he was indeed animate, or as much so as a machine could be.

The old man made his tea. Loose leaf Earl Grey with a little honey stirred in was his usual choice. He paused in the doorway for a moment, while continuing to stir in his honey. Normally he would have sat in his recliner to read for a while, but after careful consideration decided it would be better to sit out on the porch than to be peered at by those lifeless, glowing heat sensors staring from the welded pile of metal. He picked up his book and left the room, slowly and deliberately, as if to silently remind the robot that even though he was going out onto the porch, it was, in fact, still his house.

A cool breeze stroked the old man's face, gently pilfering his beard. He set down his book and cup of tea, and stood behind the porch railing to drink in the fresh air. Spring had begun, and the volatile Texas climate struggled to adjust itself. It was the most unpredictable time of year, characterized by sharp temperature changes over the course of a single day. Late afternoon was the perfect time to sit outdoors, and to breathe deeply. Rainclouds crept along off in the distance.

The old man lived in a suburb thirty miles outside the city, where the air was less polluted, and life moved at a slower pace. Instead of a constant drone of city noise, the cars on the busiest nearby streets made only periodic whooshes. The old man could pretend it was only the wind.

The backyard was spacious, though mostly unused. There was a large patch of dirt to his right where he used to grow his own vegetables some years back, and every year since then he considered replanting his garden. But every year,