ROBBY the robot did it. So did HAL, the murderous computer from 2001: A
Space Odyssey, and C3PO, the golden fool from Star Wars. Even
C3PO鈥檚 vacuum cleaner-like sidekick R2D2 managed it, as did Gort, the towering
automaton from The Day the Earth Stood Still鈥攖hough they both hid
their lights under bushels.
The 鈥渋t鈥� in all this is the ability to understand language, a sophisticated
brain function that, some cognitive scientists say, lifts humanity above lesser
creatures.
If you hadn鈥檛 noticed that these robots were so sophisticated, it could be
because they were all given the strangest of vocal mannerisms. Robby, who
appeared first in Forbidden Planet, spoke in very artificial tones, HAL
sounded constantly surprised and C3PO could not stop its stream of hysterical
nonsense. R2D2 communicated in whistles and burps while Gort failed to utter a
single word.
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Which is all rather strange in such advanced machines: each of them was at
some time entrusted with caring for human life (in Gort鈥檚 case, only the voice
command 鈥淕ort! Klaatu barada nikto!鈥� stopped it destroying all life on Earth).
Let鈥檚 face it, with the right interface, it seems likely that all of them would
have passed the ultimate test of computer smarts鈥攖he Turing test. That is,
they would all have given human-like answers to any questions a human might
ask.
Things are rather different outside Hollywood, where computerised machines
are still struggling to understand even the simplest verbal communication. And
so, the instant IBM promised it was possible to 鈥渃ompute your way through the
day with just your voice and VoiceType鈥�, its speech-recognition software, I
bought the program, primed for intelligent conversation with my computer.
Intelligent, that is, after I had been properly trained. Even human
linguistic ability can be stymied by our wild variety of accents and rhythms.
Rather than accommodate this diversity, VoiceType tries to regularise human
delivery. It taught me to speak 鈥渋solated word speech鈥� into its microphone,
saying each鈥� word鈥� with鈥� a鈥� definite鈥� and鈥� perceptible鈥� pause鈥�
afterwards. By the time I graduated from speech-recognition boot camp, I was
droning out words in approved robotic style.
Talking like Robby the Robot was just fine when I used VoiceType for brief
commands such as 鈥淕o to Media Player鈥�, which brought up that function on the
computer screen. But a measured delivery was harder to sustain while dictating
longer passages to create a text document. Still, as I repeated that famous
alphabetical incantation, 鈥淭he quick brown fox jumped over the lazy sleeping
dog,鈥� the words appeared on the screen just as spoken.
All well and good. Then I began wondering whether the computer could fathom
speech characteristic of humans rather than machines鈥攖he allusive,
rhythmic language of poetry. Not wanting to blow the computer鈥檚 mind, I started
it at the low or doggerel end. First, I recited a childhood favourite: 鈥淩oses
are red, violets are blue, with a face like yours, I鈥檇 live in the zoo.鈥�
VoiceType handled it well, although changing 鈥渧iolets鈥� to 鈥渧iolence鈥� was a bit
of a slip.
But then hubris set in. Like Frankenstein, I violated the natural order: I
deliberately introduced poems both romantic and mystical, the very antithesis of
machine style, into my computer鈥檚 silicon brain. I really felt the difference as
I recited works by William Blake and Samuel Taylor Coleridge, for it was a
struggle to keep from breaking out of the required robotic delivery and into the
powerful rhythms the poets had intended.
The visionary poet and artist William Blake was no great fan of science. In
1795, he made a print showing a naked Isaac Newton imposing a distasteful
rationality on the world. But science has now got its revenge鈥攊n what
VoiceType did to Blake鈥檚 The Tyger. The original reads:
Tyger Tyger, burning bright,
In the forests of the night;
What immortal hand or eye,
Could frame thy fearful symmetry?
IBM鈥檚 version鈥攃are of my voice鈥攔uns somewhat differently:
Tiger, tiger, turning right
In the virus of the night
What immortal and worldwide
Could flame thy fearful salmon tried.
Giving credit where it鈥檚 due, I must say that 鈥渧irus of the night鈥� could be a
dark metaphor for disease, more poetic than what most would-be poets declaim at
the local coffee shop. But what on earth is that 鈥渢urning right鈥� business? Could
it be a conservative political message? And try as I might, I can鈥檛 connect a
nervous fish or 鈥渇earful salmon鈥� with the unutterable power of God鈥檚 creation.
So, despite that one viral image, I awarded the program a C-minus in
comprehension.
Still, I couldn鈥檛 give up just yet. So I tried another mystical work.
Coleridge wrote Kubla Khan while immersed in the vestiges of an opium
dream. And the poem does suggest an altered state of consciousness. It begins
like this:
In Xanadu did Kubla Khan
A stately pleasure-dome decree:
Where Alph, the sacred river, ran
Through caverns measureless to man
Down to a sunless sea.
That wondrous name, 鈥淴anadu鈥�, totally baffled VoiceType. In different
readings, the computer turned it into 鈥� seventy-two鈥� or 鈥渟almon do鈥�,
mysteriously rediscovering the fish theme from The Tyger.
Nor could VoiceType get a handle on the name 鈥淜ubla Khan鈥�, rendering it as
鈥渕obile bond鈥� or 鈥済lobal kind鈥�. So the first line was ruined, and that evocative
river Alph also fared badly, becoming 鈥渁lcohol鈥�, 鈥渉ealth鈥� or 鈥淎lvin鈥�. A sacred
river of health or alcohol makes a kind of demented sense, but on my list of
exotic names, 鈥淎lvin鈥� scores pretty low. VoiceType鈥檚 efforts here earned only a
D-minus.
All this reminds me of science-fiction tale about a human explorer who
crashes on a hostile planet. He finds a shelter with food, air, even
entertainment, but it was built by and for an alien race, and is harmful to him.
Facing certain death, the explorer falls unconscious, only to be roused by the
delicious smell of cooking, while he breathes fresh air and hears lovely music.
Has the shelter changed to accommodate him? No. When he looks down at his body
he sees the automated refuge has transmuted him into the alien form it was meant
to serve.
The Turing test is, after all, a two-way street. As I represented humankind
by reciting poetry, the computer represented machinekind by making me talk like
a robot. So while I enhanced its humanity, it diminished mine. And heaven help
us, I suspect that long before my PC types 鈥淭yger Tyger, burning bright鈥�, I鈥檒l
have come to understand just what it means when it says 鈥淚n seventy-two did
global kind a steeply pleasure-dome decree鈥�.