Moxon's Master

"Are you serious? Do you really believe a machine thinks?"I got no immediate reply; Moxon was apparently intent upon the coals in thegrate, touching them deftly here and there with the fire-poker till theysignified a sense of his attention by a brighter glow. For several weeks Ihad been observing in him a growing habit of delay in answering even themost trivial of commonplace questions. His air, however, was that ofpreoccupation rather than deliberation: one might have said that he had"something on his mind."Presently he said:"What is a 'machine'? The word has been variously defined. Here is onedefinition from a popular dictionary: 'Any instrument or organization bywhich power is applied and made effective, or a desired effect produced.'Well, then, is not a man a machine? And you will admit that he thinksÑorthinks he thinks.""If you do not wish to answer my question," I said, rather testily, "why notsay so?Ñall that you say is mere evasion. You know well enough that when Isay 'machine' I do not mean a man, but something that man has made andcontrols.""When it does not control him," he said, rising abruptly and looking out ofa window, whence nothing was visible in the blackness of a stormy night. Amoment later he turned about and with a smile said:"I beg your pardon; I had no thought of evasion. I considered the dictionaryman's unconscious testimony suggestive and worth something in thediscussion. I can give your question a direct answer easily enough: I dobelieve that a machine thinks about the work that it is doing."That was direct enough, certainly. It was not altogether pleasing, for ittended to confirm a sad suspicion that Moxon's devotion to study and work inhis machine-shop had not been good from him. I knew, for one thing, that hesuffered from insomnia, and that is no light affliction. Had it affected hismind? His reply to my question seemed to me then evidence that it had;perhaps I should think differently about it now. I was younger then, andamong the blessings that are not denied to youth is ignorance. Incited bythat great stimulant to controversy, I said:"And what, pray, does it think withÑin the absence of a brain?"The reply, coming with less than his customary delay, took his favorite formof counter-interrogation:"With what does a plant thinkÑin the absence of a brain?""Ah, plants also belong to the philosopher class! I should be pleased toknow some of their conclusions; you may omit the premises.""Perhaps," he replied, apparently unaffected by my foolish irony, "you maybe able to infer their convictions from their acts. I will spare you thefamiliar examples of the sensitive mimosa and those insectivorous flowersand those whose stamens bend down and shake their pollen upon the enteringbee in order that he may fertilize their distant mates. But observe this. Inan open spot in my garden I planted a climbing vine. When it was barelyabove the surface I set a stake into the soil a yard away. The vine at oncemade for it, but as it was about to reach it after several days I removed ita few feet. The vine at once altered its course, making an acute angle, andagain made for the stake. This manoeuver was repeated several times, butfinally, as if discouraged, the vine abandoned the pursuit and ignoringfurther attempts to divert it traveled to a small tree, further away, whichit climbed."Roots of the eucalyptus will prolong themselves incredibly in search ofmoisture. A well-known horticulturist relates that one entered an olddrain-pipe and followed it until it came to a break, where a section of thepipe had been removed to make way for a stone wall that had been builtacross its course. The root left the drain and followed the wall until itfound an opening where a stone had fallen out. It crept through andfollowing the other side of the wall back to the drain, entered theunexplored part and resumed its journey.""And all this?""Can you miss the significance of it? It shows the consciousness of plants.It proves they think.""Even if it didÑwhat then? We were speaking, not of plants, but of machines.They may be composed partly of woodÑ wood that has no longer vitalityÑorwholly of metal. Is thought an attribute also of the mineral kingdom?""How else do you explain the phenomena, for example, of crystallization?""I do not explain them.""Because you cannot without affirming what you wish to deny, namely,intelligent cooperation among the constituent elements of the crystals. Whensoldiers form lines, or hollow squares, you call it reason. When wild geesein flight take the form of a letter V you say instinct. When the homogenousatoms of a mineral, moving freely in solution, arrange themselves intoshapes mathematically perfect, or particles of frozen moisture into thesymmetrical and beautiful forms of snowflakes, you have nothing to say. Youhave not even invented a name to conceal your heroic unreason."Moxon was speaking with unusual animation and earnestness. As he paused Iheard in an adjoining room known to me as his "machine-shop," which no onebut himself was permitted to enter, a singular thumping sound, as of someone pounding upon a table with an open hand. Moxon heard it at the samemoment and, visibly agitated, rose and hurriedly passed into the room whenceit came. I thought it odd that any one else should be in there, and myinterest in my friendÑwith doubtless a touch of unwarrantable curiosityÑledme to listen intently, though, I am happy to say, not at the keyhole. Therewere confused sounds, as of a struggle or scuffle; the floor shook. Idistinctly heard hard breathing and a hoarse whisper which said "Damn you!"Then all was silent, and presently Moxon reappeared and said, with a rathersorry smile:"Pardon me for leaving you so abruptly, I have a machine in there that lostits temper and cut up rough."Fixing my eyes steadily upon his left cheek, which was traversed by fourparallel excoriations showing blood, I said:"How would it do to trim its nails?"I could have spared myself the jest; he gave it no attention, but seatedhimself in the chair that he had left and resumed the interrupted monologueas if nothing had occurred:"Doubtless you do not hold with those (I need not name them to a man of yourreading) who have taught that all matter is sentient, that every atom is aliving, feeling, conscious being. I do. There is no such thing as dead,inert matter: it is all alive; all instinct with force, actual andpotential; all sensitive to the same forces in its environment andsusceptible to the contagion of higher and subtler ones residing in suchsuperior organisms as it may be brought into relationship with, as those ofman when he is fashioning it into an instrument of his will. It absorbssomething of his intelligence and purpose Ñmore of them in proportion to thecomplexity of the resulting machine and that of his work."Do you happen to recall Herbert Spencer's definition of 'Life'? I read itthirty years ago. He may have altered it afterward, for anything I know, butin all that time I have been unable to think of a single word that couldprofitably be changed or added or removed. It seems to me not only the bestdefinition, but the only possible one."'Life,' he says, 'is a definite combination of heterogeneous changes, bothsimultaneous and successive, in correspondence with external coexistencesand sequences.'""That defines the phenomenon," I said, "but gives no hint of its cause.""That," he replied, "is all that any definition can do. As Mill points out,we know nothing of effect except as a consequent. Of certain phenomena, onenever occurs without the other, which is dissimilar: the first in point oftime we call the cause, the second, the effect. One who had many times seena rabbit pursued by a dog, and had never seen rabbits and dogs otherwise,would think the rabbit the cause of the dog."But I fear," he added, laughing naturally enough, "that my rabbit isleading me a long way from the track of my legitimate quarry: I'm indulgingin the pleasure of the chase for its own sake. What I want you to observe isthat in Herbert Spenser's definition of 'life' the activity of a machine isincludedÑthere is nothing in the definition that is not applicable to it.According to this sharpest of observers and deepest of thinkers, if a manduring his period of activity is alive, so is a machine when in operation.As an inventor and constructor of machines I know that to be true."Moxon was silent for a long time, gazing absently into the fire. It wasgrowing late and I thought it time to be going, but somehow I did not likethe notion of leaving him in that isolated house, all alone except for thepresence of some person whose nature my conjectures could go no further thanthat it was unfriendly, perhaps malign. Leaning toward him and lookingearnestly into his eyes while making a motion with my hand through the doorof his workshop, I said:"Moxon, whom do you have in there?"Somewhat to my surprise he laughed lightly and answered without hesitation:"Nobody; the incident that you have in mind was caused by my folly inleaving a machine in action with nothing to act upon, while I undertook theinterminable task of enlightening your understanding. Do you happen to knowthat Consciousness is the creature of Rhythm?""O bother them both!" I replied, rising and laying hold of my overcoat. "I'mgoing to wish you good night; and I'll add the hope that the machine whichyou inadvertently left in action will have her gloves on the next time youthink it needful to stop her."Without waiting to observe the effect of my shot I left the house.Rain was falling, and the darkness was intense. In the sky beyond the crestof a hill toward which I groped my way along precarious plank sidewalks andacross miry, unpaved streets I could see the faint glow of the city'slights, but behind me nothing was visible but a single window of Moxon'shouse. It glowed with what seemed to me a mysterious and fateful meaning. Iknew it was an uncurtained aperture in my friend's "machine- shop," and Ihad little doubt that he had resumed the studies interrupted by his dutiesas my instructor in mechanical consciousness and the fatherhood of Rhythm.Odd, and in some degree humorous, as his convictions seemed to me at thattime, I could not wholly divest myself of the feeling that they had sometragic relation to his life and characterÑperhaps to his destinyÑalthough Ino longer entertained the notion that they were the vagaries of a disorderedmind. Whatever might be thought of his views, his exposition of them was toological for that. Over and over, his last words came back to me:"Consciousness is the creature of Rhythm." Bald and terse as the statementwas, I now found it infinitely alluring. At each recurrence it broadened inmeaning and deepened in suggestion. Why, here (I thought) is something uponwhich to found a philosophy. If consciousness is the product of rhythm allthings are conscious, for all have motion, and all motion is rhythmic. Iwondered if Moxon knew the significance and breadth of his thoughtÑthe scopeof this momentous generalization; or had he arrived at his philosophic faithby the tortuous and uncertain road of observation?That faith was then new to me, and all Moxon's expounding had failed to makeme a convert; but now it seemed as if a great light shone about me, likethat which fell upon Saul of Tarsus; and out there in the storm 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. My feet seemed hardly to touch the earth; it was as ifI were uplifted and borne through the air by invisible wings.Yielding to an impulse to seek further light from him whom I now recognizedas my master and guide, I had unconsciously turned about, and almost beforeI was aware of having done so found myself again at Moxon's door. I wasdrenched with rain, but felt no discomfort. Unable in my excitement to findthe doorbell I instinctively tried the knob. It turned and, entering, Imounted the stairs to the room that I had so recently left. All was dark andsilent; Moxon, as I had supposed, was in the adjoining roomÑthe "machineshop." Groping along the wall until I found the communicating door I knockedloudly several times, but got no response, which I attributed to the uproaroutside, for the wind was blowing a gale and dashing the rain against thethin walls in sheets. The drumming upon the shingle roof spanning theunceiled room was loud and incessant.I had never been invited into the machine-shopÑhad, indeed, been deniedadmittance, as had all others, with one exception, a skilled metal worker,of whom no one knew anything except that his name was Haley and his habitsilence. But in my spiritual exaltation, discretion and civility were alikeforgotten and I opened the door. What I saw took all philosophicalspeculation out of me in short order.Moxon sat facing me at the farther side of a small table upon which a singlecandle made all the light that was in the room. Opposite him, his backtoward me, sat another person. On the table between the two was achessboard; the men were playing. I knew little about chess, but as only afew pieces were on the board it was obvious that the game was near itsclose. Moxon was intensely interestedÑnot so much, it seemed to me, in thegame as in his antagonist, upon whom he had fixed so intent a look that,standing though I did directly in the line of his vision, I was altogetherunobserved. His face was ghastly white, and his eyes glittered likediamonds. Of his antagonist I had only a back view, but that was sufficient;I should not have cared to see his face.He was apparently not more than five feet in height, with proportionssuggesting those of a gorillaÑtremendous breadth of shoulders, thick, shortneck and broad, squat head, which had a tangled growth of black hair and wastopped by a crimson fez. A tunic of the same color, belted tightly to thewaist, reached the seatÑapparently a boxÑupon which he sat; his legs andfeet were not seen. His left forearm appeared to rest in his lap; he movedhis pieces with his right hand, which seemed disproportionately long.I had shrunk back and now stood a little to one side of the doorway and inshadow. If Moxon had looked farther than the face of his opponent he couldhave observed nothing now, excepting that the door was open. Somethingforbade me either to enter or retire, a feelingÑI know not how it cameÑthatI was in the presence of imminent tragedy and might serve my friend byremaining. With a scarcely conscious rebellion against the indelicacy of theact I remained.The play was rapid. Moxon hardly glanced at the board before making hismoves, and to my unskilled eye seemed to move the piece most convenient tohis hand, his motions in doing so being quick, nervous and lacking inprecision. The response of his antagonist, while equally prompt in theinception, was made with a slow, uniform, mechanical and, I thought,somewhat theatrical movement of the arm, that was a sore trial to mypatience. There was something unearthly about it all, and I caught myselfshuddering. But I was wet and cold.Two or three times after moving a piece the stranger slightly inclined hishead, and each time I observed that Moxon shifted his king. All at once thethought came to me that the man was dumb. And then that he was a machineÑanautomaton chessplayer! Then I remembered that Moxon had once spoken to me ofhaving invented such a piece of mechanism, though I did not understand thatit had actually been constructed. Was all his talk about the consciousnessand intelligence of machines merely a prelude to eventual exhibition of thisdeviceÑonly a trick to intensify the effect of its mechanical action upon mein my ignorance of its secret?A fine end, this, of all my intellectual transportsÑmy "endless variety andexcitement of philosophic thought!" I was about to retire in disgust whensomething occurred to hold my curiosity. I observed a shrug of the thing'sgreat shoulders, as if it were irritated: and so natural was thisÑsoentirely humanÑthat in my new view of the matter it startled me. Nor wasthat all, for a moment later it struck the table sharply with its clenchedhand. At that gesture Moxon seemed even more startled than I: he pushed hischair a little backward, as in alarm.Presently Moxon, whose play it was, raised his hand high above the board,pounced upon one 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 I heard, at lessening intervals andprogressively louder, the rumble and roll of thunder. In the pauses betweenI now became conscious of a low humming or buzzing which, like the thunder,grew momentarily louder and more distinct. It seemed to come from the bodyof the automaton, and was unmistakably a whirring of wheels. It gave me theimpression of a disordered mechanism which had escaped the repressive andregulating action of some controlling partÑan effect such as might beexpected if a pawl should be jostled from the teeth of a ratchet-wheel. Butbefore I had time for much conjecture as to its nature my attention wastaken by the strange motions of the automaton itself. A slight butcontinuous convulsion appeared to have possession of it. In body and head itshook like a man with palsy or an ague chill, and the motion augmented everymoment until the entire figure was in violent agitation. Suddenly it sprangto its feet and with a movement almost too quick for the eye to follow shotforward across table and chair, with both arms thrust forward to their fulllengthÑthe posture and lunge of a diver. Moxon tried to throw himselfbackward out of reach, but he was too late: I saw the horrible thing's handsclose upon his throat, his own clutch its wrists. Then the table wasoverturned, the candle thrown to the floor and extinguished, and all wasblack dark. But the noise of the struggle was dreadfully distinct, and mostterrible of all were the raucous, squawking sounds made by the strangledman's efforts to breathe. Guided by the infernal hubbub, I sprang to therescue of my friend, but had hardly taken a stride in the darkness when thewhole room blazed with a blinding white light that burned into my brain andheart and memory a vivid picture of the combatants on the floor, Moxonunderneath, his throat still in the clutch of those iron hands, his headforced backward, his eyes protruding, his mouth wide open and his tonguethrust out; andÑhorrible contrast!Ñ upon the painted face of the assassin anexpression of tranquil and profound thought, as in the solution of a problemin chess! This I observed, then all was blackness and silence.Three days later I recovered consciousness in a hospital. As the memory ofthat tragic night slowly evolved in my ailing brain I recognized in myattendant Moxon's confidential workman, Haley. Responding to a look heapproached, smiling."Tell me about it," 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 alittle explaining. The origin of the fire is a bit mysterious, too. My ownnotion is that the house was struck by lightning.""And Moxon?""Buried yesterdayÑwhat was left of him."Apparently this reticent person could unfold himself on occasion. Whenimparting shocking intelligence to the sick he was affable enough. Aftersome moments of the keenest mental suffering I ventured 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 charming product of your skill, the automaton chess-player thatmurdered its inventor?"The man was silent a long time, looking away from me. Presently he turnedand gravely said:"Do you know that?""I do," I replied; "I saw it done."That was many years ago. If asked today I should answer less confidently.