Moxon's Master

"Are youserious? Do you really believe a machine thinks?"I got noimmediate reply; Moxon was apparently intent upon the coals inthegrate, touching them deftly here and there with the fire-pokertill theysignified a sense of his attention by a brighter glow.For several weeks Ihad been observing in him a growing habit ofdelay in answering even themost trivial of commonplace questions.His air, however, was that ofpreoccupation rather thandeliberation: one might have said that he had"something onhis mind."Presently he said:"What is a 'machine'? Theword has been variously defined. Here is onedefinition from apopular dictionary: 'Any instrument or organization bywhich poweris applied and made effective, or a desired effect produced.'Well,then, is not a man a machine? And you will admit that he thinksÑorthinkshe thinks.""If you do not wish to answer my question,"I said, rather testily, "why notsay so?Ñall that you say ismere evasion. You know well enough that when Isay 'machine' I donot mean a man, but something that man has made andcontrols.""Whenit does not control him," he said, rising abruptly andlooking out ofa window, whence nothing was visible in theblackness of a stormy night. Amoment later he turned about andwith a smile said:"I beg your pardon; I had no thought ofevasion. I considered the dictionaryman's unconscious testimonysuggestive and worth something in thediscussion. I can give yourquestion a direct answer easily enough: I dobelieve that amachine thinks about the work that it is doing."That wasdirect enough, certainly. It was not altogether pleasing, forittended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon's devotion tostudy and work inhis machine-shop had not been good from him. Iknew, for one thing, that hesuffered from insomnia, and that isno light affliction. Had it affected hismind? His reply to myquestion seemed to me then evidence that it had;perhaps I shouldthink differently about it now. I was younger then, andamong theblessings that are not denied to youth is ignorance. Incitedbythat great stimulant to controversy, I said:"And what,pray, does it think withÑin the absence of a brain?"Thereply, coming with less than his customary delay, took hisfavorite formof counter-interrogation:"With what does aplant thinkÑin the absence of a brain?""Ah, plantsalso belong to the philosopher class! I should be pleased toknowsome of their conclusions; you may omit the premises.""Perhaps,"he replied, apparently unaffected by my foolish irony, "youmaybe able to infer their convictions from their acts. I willspare you thefamiliar examples of the sensitive mimosa and thoseinsectivorous flowersand those whose stamens bend down and shaketheir pollen upon the enteringbee in order that he may fertilizetheir distant mates. But observe this. Inan open spot in mygarden I planted a climbing vine. When it was barelyabove thesurface I set a stake into the soil a yard away. The vine atoncemade for it, but as it was about to reach it after severaldays I removed ita few feet. The vine at once altered its course,making an acute angle, andagain made for the stake. Thismanoeuver was repeated several times, butfinally, as ifdiscouraged, the vine abandoned the pursuit and ignoringfurtherattempts to divert it traveled to a small tree, further away,whichit climbed."Roots of the eucalyptus will prolongthemselves incredibly in search ofmoisture. A well-knownhorticulturist relates that one entered an olddrain-pipe andfollowed it until it came to a break, where a section of thepipehad been removed to make way for a stone wall that had beenbuiltacross its course. The root left the drain and followed thewall until itfound an opening where a stone had fallen out. Itcrept through andfollowing the other side of the wall back to thedrain, entered theunexplored part and resumed its journey.""Andall this?""Can you miss the significance of it? Itshows the consciousness of plants.It proves they think.""Evenif it didÑwhat then? We were speaking, not of plants, but ofmachines.They may be composed partly of woodÑ wood that has nolonger vitalityÑorwholly of metal. Is thought an attribute alsoof the mineral kingdom?""How else do you explain thephenomena, for example, of crystallization?""I do notexplain them.""Because you cannot without affirmingwhat you wish to deny, namely,intelligent cooperation among theconstituent elements of the crystals. Whensoldiers form lines, orhollow squares, you call it reason. When wild geesein flight takethe form of a letter V you say instinct. When the homogenousatomsof a mineral, moving freely in solution, arrange themselvesintoshapes mathematically perfect, or particles of frozenmoisture into thesymmetrical and beautiful forms of snowflakes,you have nothing to say. Youhave not even invented a name toconceal your heroic unreason."Moxon was speaking withunusual animation and earnestness. As he paused Iheard in anadjoining room known to me as his "machine-shop," whichno onebut himself was permitted to enter, a singular thumpingsound, as of someone pounding upon a table with an open hand.Moxon heard it at the samemoment and, visibly agitated, rose andhurriedly passed into the room whenceit came. I thought it oddthat any one else should be in there, and myinterest in my friendÑwithdoubtless a touch of unwarrantable curiosityÑledme to listenintently, though, I am happy to say, not at the keyhole.Therewere confused sounds, as of a struggle or scuffle; the floorshook. Idistinctly heard hard breathing and a hoarse whisperwhich said "Damn you!"Then all was silent, andpresently Moxon reappeared and said, with a rathersorry smile:"Pardonme for leaving you so abruptly, I have a machine in there thatlostits temper and cut up rough."Fixing my eyes steadilyupon his left cheek, which was traversed by fourparallelexcoriations showing blood, I said:"How would it do to trimits nails?"I could have spared myself the jest; he gave itno attention, but seatedhimself in the chair that he had left andresumed the interrupted monologueas if nothing had occurred:"Doubtlessyou do not hold with those (I need not name them to a man ofyourreading) who have taught that all matter is sentient, thatevery atom is aliving, feeling, conscious being. I do. There isno such thing as dead,inert matter: it is all alive; all instinctwith force, actual andpotential; all sensitive to the same forcesin its environment andsusceptible to the contagion of higher andsubtler ones residing in suchsuperior organisms as it may bebrought into relationship with, as those ofman when he isfashioning it into an instrument of his will. It absorbssomethingof his intelligence and purpose Ñmore of them in proportion tothecomplexity of the resulting machine and that of his work."Doyou happen to recall Herbert Spencer's definition of 'Life'? Iread itthirty years ago. He may have altered it afterward, foranything I know, butin all that time I have been unable to thinkof a single word that couldprofitably be changed or added orremoved. It seems to me not only the bestdefinition, but the onlypossible one."'Life,' he says, 'is a definite combination ofheterogeneous changes, bothsimultaneous and successive, incorrespondence with external coexistencesand sequences.'""Thatdefines the phenomenon," I said, "but gives no hint ofits cause.""That," he replied, "is all thatany definition can do. As Mill points out,we know nothing ofeffect except as a consequent. Of certain phenomena, oneneveroccurs without the other, which is dissimilar: the first in pointoftime we call the cause, the second, the effect. One who hadmany times seena rabbit pursued by a dog, and had never seenrabbits and dogs otherwise,would think the rabbit the cause ofthe dog."But I fear," he added, laughing naturallyenough, "that my rabbit isleading me a long way from thetrack of my legitimate quarry: I'm indulgingin the pleasure ofthe chase for its own sake. What I want you to observe isthat inHerbert Spenser's definition of 'life' the activity of a machineisincludedÑthere is nothing in the definition that is notapplicable to it.According to this sharpest of observers anddeepest of thinkers, if a manduring his period of activity isalive, so is a machine when in operation.As an inventor andconstructor of machines I know that to be true."Moxon wassilent for a long time, gazing absently into the fire. Itwasgrowing late and I thought it time to be going, but somehow Idid not likethe notion of leaving him in that isolated house, allalone except for thepresence of some person whose nature myconjectures could go no further thanthat it was unfriendly,perhaps malign. Leaning toward him and lookingearnestly into hiseyes while making a motion with my hand through the doorof hisworkshop, I said:"Moxon, whom do you have in there?"Somewhatto my surprise he laughed lightly and answered without hesitation:"Nobody;the incident that you have in mind was caused by my follyinleaving a machine in action with nothing to act upon, while Iundertook theinterminable task of enlightening your understanding.Do you happen to knowthat Consciousness is the creature ofRhythm?""O bother them both!" I replied, risingand laying hold of my overcoat. "I'mgoing to wish you goodnight; and I'll add the hope that the machine whichyouinadvertently left in action will have her gloves on the nexttime youthink it needful to stop her."Without waiting toobserve the effect of my shot I left the house.Rain was falling,and the darkness was intense. In the sky beyond the crestof ahill toward which I groped my way along precarious planksidewalks andacross miry, unpaved streets I could see the faintglow of the city'slights, but behind me nothing was visible but asingle window of Moxon'shouse. It glowed with what seemed to me amysterious and fateful meaning. Iknew it was an uncurtainedaperture in my friend's "machine- shop," and Ihadlittle doubt that he had resumed the studies interrupted by hisdutiesas my instructor in mechanical consciousness and thefatherhood of Rhythm.Odd, and in some degree humorous, as hisconvictions seemed to me at thattime, I could not wholly divestmyself of the feeling that they had sometragic relation to hislife and characterÑperhaps to his destinyÑalthough Ino longerentertained the notion that they were the vagaries of adisorderedmind. Whatever might be thought of his views, hisexposition of them was toological for that. Over and over, hislast words came back to me:"Consciousness is the creature ofRhythm." Bald and terse as the statementwas, I now found itinfinitely alluring. At each recurrence it broadened inmeaningand deepened in suggestion. Why, here (I thought) is somethinguponwhich to found a philosophy. If consciousness is the productof rhythm allthings are conscious, for all have motion, and allmotion is rhythmic. Iwondered if Moxon knew the significance andbreadth of his thoughtÑthe scopeof this momentousgeneralization; or had he arrived at his philosophic faithby thetortuous and uncertain road of observation?That faith was thennew to me, and all Moxon's expounding had failed to makeme aconvert; but now it seemed as if a great light shone about me,likethat which fell upon Saul of Tarsus; and out there in thestorm and darknessand solitude I experienced what Lewes calls"The endless variety andexcitement of philosophic thought."I exulted in a new sense of knowledge, anew pride of reason. Myfeet seemed hardly to touch the earth; it was as ifI wereuplifted and borne through the air by invisible wings.Yielding toan impulse to seek further light from him whom I now recognizedasmy master and guide, I had unconsciously turned about, and almostbeforeI was aware of having done so found myself again at Moxon'sdoor. I wasdrenched with rain, but felt no discomfort. Unable inmy excitement to findthe doorbell I instinctively tried the knob.It turned and, entering, Imounted the stairs to the room that Ihad so recently left. All was dark andsilent; Moxon, as I hadsupposed, was in the adjoining roomÑthe "machineshop."Groping along the wall until I found the communicating door Iknockedloudly several times, but got no response, which Iattributed to the uproaroutside, for the wind was blowing a galeand dashing the rain against thethin walls in sheets. Thedrumming upon the shingle roof spanning theunceiled room was loudand incessant.I had never been invited into the machine-shopÑhad,indeed, been deniedadmittance, as had all others, with oneexception, a skilled metal worker,of whom no one knew anythingexcept that his name was Haley and his habitsilence. But in myspiritual exaltation, discretion and civility were alikeforgottenand I opened the door. What I saw took allphilosophicalspeculation out of me in short order.Moxon satfacing me at the farther side of a small table upon which asinglecandle made all the light that was in the room. Oppositehim, his backtoward me, sat another person. On the table betweenthe two was achessboard; the men were playing. I knew littleabout chess, but as only afew pieces were on the board it wasobvious that the game was near itsclose. Moxon was intenselyinterestedÑnot so much, it seemed to me, in thegame as in hisantagonist, upon whom he had fixed so intent a look that,standingthough I did directly in the line of his vision, I wasaltogetherunobserved. His face was ghastly white, and his eyesglittered likediamonds. Of his antagonist I had only a back view,but that was sufficient;I should not have cared to see his face.Hewas apparently not more than five feet in height, withproportionssuggesting those of a gorillaÑtremendous breadth ofshoulders, thick, shortneck and broad, squat head, which had atangled growth of black hair and wastopped by a crimson fez. Atunic of the same color, belted tightly to thewaist, reached theseatÑapparently a boxÑupon which he sat; his legs andfeet werenot seen. His left forearm appeared to rest in his lap; hemovedhis pieces with his right hand, which seemeddisproportionately long.I had shrunk back and now stood a littleto one side of the doorway and inshadow. If Moxon had lookedfarther than the face of his opponent he couldhave observednothing now, excepting that the door was open. Somethingforbademe either to enter or retire, a feelingÑI know not how it cameÑthatIwas in the presence of imminent tragedy and might serve my friendbyremaining. With a scarcely conscious rebellion against theindelicacy of theact I remained.The play was rapid. Moxon hardlyglanced at the board before making hismoves, and to my unskilledeye seemed to move the piece most convenient tohis hand, hismotions in doing so being quick, nervous and lacking inprecision.The response of his antagonist, while equally prompt intheinception, was made with a slow, uniform, mechanical and, Ithought,somewhat theatrical movement of the arm, that was a soretrial to mypatience. There was something unearthly about it all,and I caught myselfshuddering. But I was wet and cold.Two orthree times after moving a piece the stranger slightly inclinedhishead, and each time I observed that Moxon shifted his king.All at once thethought came to me that the man was dumb. And thenthat he was a machineÑanautomaton chessplayer! Then I rememberedthat Moxon had once spoken to me ofhaving invented such a pieceof mechanism, though I did not understand thatit had actuallybeen constructed. Was all his talk about the consciousnessandintelligence of machines merely a prelude to eventual exhibitionof thisdeviceÑonly a trick to intensify the effect of itsmechanical action upon mein my ignorance of its secret?A fineend, this, of all my intellectual transportsÑmy "endlessvariety andexcitement of philosophic thought!" I was aboutto retire in disgust whensomething occurred to hold my curiosity.I observed a shrug of the thing'sgreat shoulders, as if it wereirritated: and so natural was thisÑsoentirely humanÑthat in mynew view of the matter it startled me. Nor wasthat all, for amoment later it struck the table sharply with its clenchedhand.At that gesture Moxon seemed even more startled than I: he pushedhischair a little backward, as in alarm.Presently Moxon, whoseplay it was, raised his hand high above the board,pounced uponone of his pieces like a sparrowhawk and with an exclamation"checkmate!"rose quickly to his feet and stepped behind his chair.Theautomaton sat motionless.The wind had now gone down, but Iheard, at lessening intervals andprogressively louder, the rumbleand roll of thunder. In the pauses betweenI now became consciousof a low humming or buzzing which, like the thunder,grewmomentarily louder and more distinct. It seemed to come from thebodyof the automaton, and was unmistakably a whirring of wheels.It gave me theimpression of a disordered mechanism which hadescaped the repressive andregulating action of some controllingpartÑan effect such as might beexpected if a pawl should bejostled from the teeth of a ratchet-wheel. Butbefore I had timefor much conjecture as to its nature my attention wastaken by thestrange motions of the automaton itself. A slight butcontinuousconvulsion appeared to have possession of it. In body and headitshook like a man with palsy or an ague chill, and the motionaugmented everymoment until the entire figure was in violentagitation. Suddenly it sprangto its feet and with a movementalmost too quick for the eye to follow shotforward across tableand chair, with both arms thrust forward to their fulllengthÑtheposture and lunge of a diver. Moxon tried to throwhimselfbackward out of reach, but he was too late: I saw thehorrible thing's handsclose upon his throat, his own clutch itswrists. Then the table wasoverturned, the candle thrown to thefloor and extinguished, and all wasblack dark. But the noise ofthe struggle was dreadfully distinct, and mostterrible of allwere the raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangledman'sefforts to breathe. Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang totherescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in thedarkness when thewhole room blazed with a blinding white lightthat burned into my brain andheart and memory a vivid picture ofthe combatants on the floor, Moxonunderneath, his throat still inthe clutch of those iron hands, his headforced backward, his eyesprotruding, his mouth wide open and his tonguethrust out; andÑhorriblecontrast!Ñ upon the painted face of the assassin anexpression oftranquil and profound thought, as in the solution of a probleminchess! This I observed, then all was blackness and silence.Threedays later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the memoryofthat tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain Irecognized in myattendant Moxon's confidential workman, Haley.Responding to a look heapproached, smiling."Tell me aboutit," I managed to say, faintlyÑ"all about it.""Certainly,"he said; "you were carried unconscious from a burninghouseÑMoxon's.Nobody knows how you came to be there. You may have to do alittleexplaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. Myownnotion is that the house was struck by lightning.""AndMoxon?""Buried yesterdayÑwhat was left of him."Apparentlythis reticent person could unfold himself on occasion.Whenimparting shocking intelligence to the sick he was affableenough. Aftersome moments of the keenest mental suffering Iventured to ask anotherquestion:"Who rescued me?""Well,if that interests youÑI did.""Thank you, Mr. Haley,and may God bless you for it. Did you rescue, also,that charmingproduct of your skill, the automaton chess-player thatmurderedits inventor?"The man was silent a long time, looking awayfrom me. Presently he turnedand gravely said:"Do you knowthat?""I do," I replied; "I saw it done."Thatwas many years ago. If asked today I should answer lessconfidently.