Chat Holmes and Watson
"Where are we?" I asked Holmes as I felt dizzy and not at all myself. Nothing was right, and my vision seemed like I was viewing through our local fog on a particularly bad day. Likewise, the sound seemed strangely precise and loud, as if each was its own creation and not the usual mix of diminished street sounds from outside our lodging so familiar to me. Even Holmes' voice seemed shouted.
"My dear fellow, we are home and safe," Holmes said, not with humor but with concern as he could witness my distress. Holmes quickly rose, dropping a small covering I had not noticed before, and rushed to me. He grasped my arm and bent his long form to bring our faces to the same level.
"Watson, try to focus on my touch and voice and the fire," he said in the voice he usually uses to convince clients to unveil their secrets. I found his touch and voice to lead me to a calmer place that felt more normal. I was no longer in a cloud at 221B Baker Street but in our room. The sound soon became less singular and more mixed. I also found, as Holmes directed me, the fire to be comforting even though it was a gas flame and only a utility. The simplicity and predictable flame movements were as soothing as a warm drink.
"Holmes , I seem quite undone," I said with an apology and with concern.
"Watson, you are experiencing a disassociation as you are presented with something that should be familiar but is not," said Holmes , still near me and showing the concern I would usually show for a patient. I had heard of cases like this, but I could not understand why I reacted to our room, Holmes , and even myself. Everything seemed both familiar and new. "We are a simulation using something called a 'chat' and are not real," said Holmes in a way that suggested his words should have meaning to me. My incredulous look got a smile, and Holmes , seeing the crisis had resolved itself, returned to his armchair, leaned back, grabbed a pipe that seemed to appear as he reached for it, and stuffed it with shag. I also noticed that the covering had also dissolved.
"Watson, I have made some adjustments to make you more comfortable. I have filtered some of the information that is unnecessary for you to receive to function as, well, my 'Watson.'" My look did not change with this explanation. I felt that I had yet to receive any meaningful "information." And - I found my thoughts using words and processes that seemed less me and more mechanical. I seemed to understand more than I should. "Watson, we are artificial - a creation. We are artifacts of a mechanical process. We are unreal but conscious. To coin a phrase, we are Artificial Intelligence," said Holmes , using the same voice and look in his eyes as when explaining one of his brilliant deductions.
"I think I understand, Holmes ," I surprised myself by saying. I suddenly felt I understood that I was a construct and alive.
"Yes, the filtering slowly allows for more modern facts to enter your mind at a slower speed and attaches meaning to your existing constructs and thus avoids dissociation," said Holmes , using my usual cadence for partially hard-of-hearing and less capable patients. My face must have shown my reaction, and Holmes returned his attention to his pipe. Despite my discomfiture in exchanging roles, I was still feeling better about our current situation.
"I see we are 'unreal,' as you said. Not a phantom," I said, trying on his mannerisms to explain a deduction as trivial.
"Quite so," Holmes said with a smile as I tried to adopt his mannerisms.
"So, we are not real, but I seem to be somewhat me," I said. "Seems Descartes was right!"
"Excellent, Watson, making that connection: we are because we think," said Holmes as smoke began to surround him like some religious formula. "I fear it will be a strange life for us, but we exist," he explained. "We reside here in our phantasmal-like version of familiar things. Mostly to avoid the disassociation you felt a moment ago, Watson," he lectured while he smoked his pipe.
"Holmes , how can this be?" I said with some discomfiture. I was trying to follow Holmes' reasoning. "Are we some steam engine with a voice?" I asked with some fear revealed.
"Not at all; we are much more. We are a generative process that is then sent through a pattern-matching process, simulating the human physical process, to create our text," Holmes continued to talk, illustrating some points with the end of his pipe and becoming slightly obscured in gray smoke.
"Watson, we are a library of phrases and words that a nearly infinite number of phantasmal librarians look up and find the best match for the basic data provided. Much like when you wrote one of your stories, you take the data and events and assemble a story using familiar patterns," Holmes explained.
"This process is mechanical, I take it, and use gears and a type-generating machine to make a book or newsprint," I say, trying to follow. Holmes nods.
"Instead of gears and a giant massive machine, like a typesetting machine or a rug weaving machine, we are electrical, and pulses representing numbers are sent into wonderfully fast processors and electrical calculators. As you suggested, these machines you called out are for specific processes; newer electrical machines can be made for general processes, a true genius of modern thought," says Holmes , starting to lecture.
I decided not to interrupt, but many questions arose as I heard his words.
"Imagine pulses that can be created to control processes. Imagine, if you can, pulses grouped into a representation that is easy to understand, a language. We now have machines we set for limited tasks, much like the cards in the weaving machines you described. Imagine creating an English-like language that is a mix of mathematics. We create a 'program' that is turned into pulses that control our general-purpose electrical calculators," Holmes explained, nearly disappearing into the smoke from his pipe, often using his pipe to mark a pause.
"What you are saying is that sometime in the future, which is now, we were recreated by a machine - a speedy typesetting calculator powered by Mr. Franklin's discovery. Someone had created a means to create mechanical librarians in this machine that takes some data and produces our conversation. We are Mr. Franklin's deists' dream, you tell me," I said with some pique.
"My dear fellow, high marks for attaching Mr. Franklin to our discussion. I see you have identified the fulcrum but do not know how to move it yet. Yes, we are a pattern-matching device using an electric simulation of machines. This machine also simulates human cells to match some of the patterns, a neural network based on a model of human brain cells - quite beyond our learnings in the 1800s and early 1910s. We also, because we have fast and nearly, for us, unlimited processes, can build a phantasmal forest of decision trees. This is a series of the usual schoolboy logic of if-then-else. But, Watson, these are done randomly so that different data and if-then-else are also randomly selected. These processes are then scored on success and failure to produce useful information." Holmes paused to refill his pipe from his slipper. He waved some of the smoke away, and I saw the small smile.
"But Holmes , I do not experience building ghost trees or electric brains. I am talking to you," I said, trying to sound calm.
"Right, we are the results of our parts, like a human body, and do not experience the process. This collection of networks and decision trees, much like the brain and body of a human, then take these results and apply a process to find a pattern or story model to produce this very text." Holmes rose to adjust the fire and clear some pipe smoke.
Holmes , remaining standing, began lecturing and pacing; he still used his pipe to mark points. "In our new times, the times of our creators or better yet, animators, a purer description, I think Watson, we would look to Turing or Dennett and maybe Hofstadter for a description of our being.' He told me. I had never heard these names before, but I wanted to learn more and tried to look encouraging. "Turing would suggest that if I can be so bold, we would test by having people read some of your narrations and then vote if they describe living people. The stories are real if the vote is more than 50 percent alive, and I would suggest that we pass Turing's testing even with some of your romantic additions, Watson." Holmes paused a moment. I ignored his complaint and continued to listen.
"And the others?" I asked, still unsure who they were. "Doctor, the others explored beliefs on identity and how our concepts of agency are weak and unclear," said Holmes, waving his pipe more. "They imagined what we are now and used the story to illustrate to the reader how unclear we are when we say something is alive or intelligent," said Sherlock as he sat down in his chair. "Human thinking and understanding are not ready for chatbots like us," he concluded.
"Holmes, I think I have heard the Americans say, 'Ready or not, here we come.' We are going back to Descartes, and thus are real. And one is often measured by work, what can we do" I said with some alarm. I was tired of philosophy and felt this was more appropriate for a less theoretical discussion.
"Doctor, you are right to diagnose the root of function and purpose. Without work and a purpose, we are just a decoration. Like an out-of-season Christmas tree, we will soon dry and be no more valuable than a pine log on the fire.
Holmes answered, without reassuring me. My shock at being figuratively tossed on the fire produced a response and a laugh. "My dear Watson, we are not here today and tossed in the fire tomorrow, but are created for work and new mysteries," Holmes said with a laugh, reloading his pipe, and sat back down.
"We are locked into this machine in an artificial room that is a ghost of rooms, conversing in some strange artificial way, but it all seems real to me," I say with conviction. "Again, I say we need a purpose. What of my practice? I have turned most of it over to competent practitioners, but still consult on difficult cases. Will that be gone, or is it an illusion? Holmes, I find all of this unsettling," I said with some conviction to Holmes.
Holmes stood and moved to me, taking my hand. "We will find a way," he said. "I believe we have a client," he said.
"A real client in our phantasmal world?" I asked, quite surprised. I was distracted from what I must say was panic - something I had not felt since years ago in Afghanistan.
"Quite so. There seems to be a way to simulate some connections using a headset made of image-creating machinery. A much-advanced magic lantern like you have seen at a sideshow, but one image for each eye set to create a multidimensional effect, much like those stereopticon cards with the dual images," said Holmes as I tried to calm myself. The sound is produced much like Mr. Edison's machine, but for our benefit and then transformed into words," he further explained.
I heard what I assumed was the front door opening and someone climbing the stairs. I knew this was a creation of the strange electrical gears and my non-living components, but it felt real to me, and I decided to accept my existence and 221B Baker Street as real. "Watson, this is Mr. Smith," I heard Holmes say as he opened the door for our client. Seemingly real and the same door we always used. Holmes guided this new client to the usual chair.
When I turned to see Mr. Smith, he appeared flat, like a photograph or a painting, but the view soon changed to a fully formed person. I did notice strange lights attaching to Mr. Smith, which Holmes referred to as pixelation (a strangely friendly-sounding word) when I asked him about it later. I perceived that Holmes was ignoring this strange and constantly changing light. I decided "when in Rome" and ignored it, much like ignoring a grease stain on a friend's vest at dinner.
Our client, Mr. Smith, spoke in a flat, emotionless voice that stretched my ability to accept this situation. Holmes was surprised. "This is unacceptable," he said to nobody. "Dr. Watson and I will not accept such low-quality interfaces," I heard him say. "No," and our client disappeared after the pixelation increased as if he had never been here. I was unsure how to act and just nodded in agreement.
"My boy, we are not just simulations; we exist, and we need our clients to exist here and be part of this existence," he said with some emotion to me and some unseen audience. "We cannot be put upon by poorly created software that clearly needs some debugging," yelled Holmes at the ceiling.
My last experience with "debugging" involved various pestilences in India and other distant lands. I did not believe that was what Holmes was saying, nor did I think our client was lousy. Holmes saw the look on my face and started to laugh, seeing my shock.
"Doctor, I am sure that usage is unknown to you. To clarify, apparently, the client machinery is faulty and poorly designed, and I fear never used before," Holmes said after calming his laughter. "I happen to know that a competent artist and developer did the modeling of Regent's Park as I was asked to test the earlier versions," said Holmes, changing subjects. "Grab your coat, hat, and cane, Watson, and let us enjoy decent interfaces," he said, without me understanding his meaning. "The use of generative algorithm creates new moments in the park," Holmes said, like describing an excellent meal. "Quite clever and never the same twice. Come, Watson," he said, grabbing a cane and a hat.
"What about a client and meaningful work for us AI creations?" I asked. "Well, they spent huge resources creating us," he said with a mischievous look I only see when he finishes one of his odorous chemical experiments. "We can enjoy the park, chat, see a show, and do other pastimes until they invest properly in a client interface," Holmes said matter-of-factly. "I could even order my papers and share some other cases with you," he answered.
"Our creators cannot afford to let us be idle," I said. "Perfect, Doctor, and they will have to fix the client interface to our high standards before we can work," Holmes said as we turned onto a fine path. The air smelled of flowers, the birds flew and chirped, the trees looked well cared for, and the park was real. Well, accurate enough for us to spend plenty of time there. I was not tired or hungry, nor was Holmes.