“And AI, how would you even keep it under control?”
Donnie comes down the stairs, and he must have heard us talking because he says, “Asimov.”
“Asimov?” Xavier says.
“Isaac Asimov. The Three Laws of Robotics.”
Xavier stares at him blankly. I’m at just as much of a loss as my friend is.
Donnie looks more than just a little shocked. “You never read Asimov?”
Xavier shakes his head.
“I mean, maybe in school. I don’t really recall,” I tell him. “The Three Laws of Robotics. Is that one of his books?”
Now it’s his turn to shake his head, but he’s doing so out of exasperation. “Okay, listen, these are really famous, anyone who knows anything about robots knows them — or at least they should. Seriously, you guys never heard of ’em?” He helps himself to some coffee, and even though he’s only thirteen, it doesn’t really surprise me.
“You know, now that I think about it, I might have,” Xavier acknowledges. “But I’m not sure what they are.” For all he knows about killer robots and doomsday scenarios, I’m surprised he’s not more familiar with these three robot laws, whatever they are.
Donnie takes a deep breath and shuffles off to the other room, obviously still more than just a little sleepy. A moment later he returns carrying a book. “I don’t know ’em by heart,” he explains.
“That a classic?” Xavier asks.
He’s paging through the novel. I can’t see the title, but it must be one of Asimov’s. “Depends on your definition,” he mumbles. “Let’s see… Okay. Sure. Here it is: ‘(1) A robot may not injure a human being or, through inaction, allow a human being to come to harm. (2) A robot must obey the orders given to it by human beings, except where such orders would conflict with the First Law. (3) A robot must protect its own existence as long as such protection does not conflict with the First or Second Laws.’”
Donnie goes back to flipping through the book. “He added one more later, but instead of calling it the fourth one it was like a prequel. He called it the zeroth law.” Finally, Donnie finds what he’s looking for. “‘Zero: A robot may not harm humanity, or, by inaction, allow humanity to come to harm.’ So it broadens it to relating to the human race.”
“Can you read through them again?” Xavier asks.
“Sure.” He does. “These laws appeared throughout Asimov’s stories with some variations, you know, but the general meaning never changed.” But then he qualifies that. “Well, at least not in the stories I’ve read.”
To me, the laws seem like a pretty good place to start in this whole discussion about robotics and autonomous machines. “They sound like they might not be that bad a set of laws for people to follow.”
“No kidding,” agrees Xavier.
Donnie sips at his coffee, then joins us at the table. “Ever think about what would happen when a computer passes the Turing test and Searle’s Chinese room scenario?”
“What are those?” I ask.
Another look of surprise. This boy is obviously more well versed in killer robot theory than either Xavier or me.
“Different tests for artificial intelligence.” He leaves it at that, and I get the sense that he isn’t really interested in elaborating to a couple of neophytes like us.
“You seem to know a lot about all of this.”
“I like science fiction, and this stuff comes up all the time. I mean, think about it, what happens when strong AI appears and a machine says it’s alive, and that it deserves to be granted the same rights as we have — you know, the rights to life, liberty, the pursuit of happiness, all that? How’ll we argue with it without undermining our very premise that it’s not alive? After all, you don’t argue with something that isn’t alive, trying to convince it that it isn’t.”
Not a bad point. “I hadn’t thought of it quite like that.”
Our conversation shifts back to what makes humans unique, and I hear light footsteps descending the stairs. A moment later Mandie appears, carrying Furman. “What are you talking about?”
“How robots are different from people,” Donnie answers.
“Oh.” She positions Furman on a chair so he can watch her eat breakfast. “That’s easy.”
Xavier looks at her questioningly. “Really?”
“Mm-hmm. They can’t smile and mean it. Can you make some more chocolate chip pancakes today?”
“Um… Let me clear that with your mom first.”
That satisfies her for the time being.
Robots can’t smile and mean it. That’s a better answer than I could have come up with, and that from a five-year-old.
Maybe someday in the future they will be able to smile and mean it. What would be the essential difference then?
That’s definitely more than I’m ready to process at this time of day.
Over the next few minutes Fionna and the rest of her family join us, and Charlene comes down and pours coffee into a travel mug.
“I think I’ll come along today.” I grab a to-go cup of my own. “To church. Jeans okay?”
“Jeans are fine.”
She grabs a Bible, we hop into the DB9 and take off.
Roses and Thorns
The auditorium at Charlene’s church is larger than the theater at the Arête. I’m guessing there are maybe twelve hundred people here.
We sing four songs — I wouldn’t call them hymns exactly. They have more of a college rock feel to them, and there’s no organ, just a band on the stage. The guy on lead guitar isn’t bad. They jam a little bit and it’s nice, definitely not your grandmother’s church service.
There are some announcements, and then the head pastor comes onstage to introduce the guest speaker for today, a missionary doctor on furlough from his work in the slums and leprosy colonies of India. He’s white-haired and slow to take the stage and looks like he’s in his late sixties.
After some opening comments, he tells us the story of his first visit to India.
“It was about fifteen years ago, and I was doing some work in an AIDS clinic. The man who organized my trip worked with a number of ministries and programs to help societal outcasts. He invited me to visit with some street workers — prostitutes — who were being trained as peer counselors to other prostitutes. They would teach them how to avoid AIDS, what to do if someone got violent, and so on.”
It seems like this man knows his audience. There’s no way to be sure, but I can guess that most of the people in the auditorium who’ve lived in Vegas for any length of time have met prostitutes.
“We arrived in a dingy building that served as an AIDS hospital for them. The women greeted us joyfully, handing us roses to welcome us. It was tragic and beautiful. While talking with them we asked if any of them had hope that they could do something different, and in that small room packed with fifty street workers, not a single hand went up. All at once my host stood and offered to buy sewing machines for the center and to hire someone to come in and teach sewing. ‘If you’ll come for three months once a week and can make me a shirt when it’s over, I’ll buy you your own sewing machine and you can start a business as a seamstress.’ You should have seen the smiles and nods in the room.”
His story grips me, and when I glance around I can see that I’m not the only one. Hardly anyone around me is stirring.
“Well, afterward I asked my friend, who wasn’t by any means rich, how he would pay for it. ‘The money will come in,’ he said simply. ‘God will provide.’ I didn’t know what to say. I didn’t have a lot of money with me, but I offered him a hundred dollars. ‘Here,’ I said, ‘use this to help with the expenses.’ And he took my hand and looked me directly in the eye and said, ‘You just bought two sewing machines. You just saved two women’s lives.’”