“It hardly matters at this point, Harold.”
“I know. But he still feels bitter about Woodrow Wilson. And it doesn’t make him happy that the only thing anybody knows about him now is that he got involved in what he calls that idiot monkey trial.”
Charlie grinned. “What else did he have to say?”
“Oh, the usual things. He attacked big business and worried about the general moral decline. He had all the right answers.” My shoulders began to ache. “For a while I thought I had him. The real Bryan…”
We ordered another round of rum and cokes, and I sat quietly thinking about the old Populist. Of all the great figures of the American experience, I think I admire him most: champion of lost causes, defender of things we wish had been true. “I am as certain,” Bryan said to me at one point, “that there is another life as I am that I live today.” And he was just a voice in a computer.
“Where did it go wrong?”
“This Bryan claims to have read The Origin of Species. Says he thinks Darwin may have hold of something after all.”
Charlie sighed. “Last month, you had an Oliver Wendell Holmes who thought that freeing the slaves might have been shortsighted. Before that, Teddy Roosevelt took a stand for gun control. Harold—.” He hesitated. “You’ve never asked my opinion on any of this, but I don’t think it can be done. You can’t put people on punch cards.”
“We don’t use punch cards any more, Charlie.”
“Doesn’t matter. You still can’t do it.” His skin was ruddy in the smoky light. Across the room, four or five guys with beers and potbellies were arguing about the Eagles.
Our drinks came, but I just stared at mine.
“For one thing,” he continued, “you can’t get enough data.”
“I don’t need much, Charlie. Just a few key pieces. The system extrapolates the rest. Personalities aren’t as complex as people like to think. At least not once you’ve got the pattern. Read Cumberland. Or Boltmaier. It’s like building a complete animal out of a shinbone.”
“Only a few pieces,” he said. “What was the source of your Lincoln data?”
Ah. Lincoln. It had taken almost a week to invalidate him. He’d talked a lot about powderkegs, the impossibility of leaving the mouth of the Mississippi in the hands of a foreign power—“Illinois and Minnesota would never stand for it”—, how he didn’t sleep much at night. How he had bad dreams. Stuff like that. Then I asked how he’d reacted to Chickamauga.
“I didn’t think much about it,” he’d said. “It happened about the time I got interested in horses.”
Horses.
“His papers mostly,” I said. “Some eye-witness accounts, journals, letters, contemporary newspapers. And Carl Sandburg, of course.”
“Of course.”
“Sandburg understood him as no one else did.”
Charlie peered at me over the rim of his glass. “And you wonder why your Lincoln is a halfwit. Sandburg deals in metaphors. And symbolism. Harold, all that stuff is inaccurate at best. Exaggerated. Overplayed. Most of it is biased one way or another. You think the real Lincoln can be found in old copies of The New York Times? Or in poetry?”
“What kind of source would you suggest?”
“Something accurate. A precise record of a man’s character and abilities. Something that can be expressed mathematically. Something beyond any possibility of misinterpretation.”
“There is no such record,” I said. “It’s not possible that there could be.”
Charlie smiled. “Not for Lincoln. Or Bryan. But how about a physicist? Or a mathematician? Somebody who works with numbers?”
“Einstein?”
“Why not?”
“I’d have to learn the physics. You ever try to figure out what this quantum mechanics is about?”
“Not really.” He finished his drink and looked toward the door. It was getting late. “There must be something else that blends precision with the psyche.”
“Damned if I can think of anything.”
The check arrived. We split it down the middle, dropped tips on the table, and got up. “Chess,” he said. “You play chess, don’t you?”
And that’s how it happened that, on a cold, snowswept evening a few weeks later, I held a conversation with Paul Morphy. Now if you know anything about old chessplayers, you’ll wonder why I chose Morphy, who’s best known for two things: he was easily the strongest player of his time (and those who know about such matters maintain that no better natural player ever lived), and he swore off the game at twenty-one. Bitter that the reigning champion, Britain’s Howard Staunton, successfully, and cravenly, avoided a title match, Paul retired to his native New Orleans in 1859, eventually to lead the existence of a recluse.
I was of course worried about the Morphy persona. Even if I got him right, I might have to worry about emotional problems. On the other hand, a casual glance at the other chess immortals suggests that a man who simply dropped from public view and who committed no documented irrationalities worse than refusing to discuss the game looked downright ordinary.
I instructed Paul’s persona that it was located at the scene of some of his most dazzling victories: the Café de la Regénce in Paris, during the early autumn of 1858. Morphy was at the time in the midst of a triumphant European tour, undertaken in pursuit of the elusive Staunton.
Bringing a persona on-line is a sobering event. I was resuscitating a citizen of another age. Eventually, it might become possible to argue military strategy with Charles XII, discuss life and death with Socrates, and talk theology with St. Augustine.
The potential benefits from reconstructing perfect computer simulations of historical personages was enormous, and I knew it could be done. But I wondered whether Charlie might be right, whether the reality of, say, Plato’s psyche was too deeply buried beneath the rubble of history to be recoverable.
But Bryan, I knew, would not have given up. So I put together a new Paul Morphy. It took awhile, but eventually I had him. He expressed Morphy’s opinions, described his difficult life, and asked whether he could join the Masters’ Club.
That’s the way it started. I was able to listen to the low hum of power as we talked about music, about Parisian cafés, and about French women. He was bred, I noticed, with moderately puritanical inclinations. He loved Verdi and the theater, and he remarked that first evening that he wanted to attend Racine’s Brittanicus during the weekend, if I could arrange it.
How real it all seemed! I feel now as if I actually sat among the flickering candles and the polished tabletops of the Regénce. Paul related conversations with Henry Bird and Adolf Anderssen, and admitted to being puzzled by Paul Cezanne’s early work. Don’t misunderstand: I never forgot what he—it—was. But the illusion was unsettling.
During the days that followed, he described baroque theaters, strolls along cobblestone streets, and garrulous patrons of art galleries. And, I thought, by now those theaters had been demolished, the streets replaced by boulevards, and the patrons sent to a happier world.
For the first time during the years I’d worked on the project, I acquired a genuine sense of looking into another century.
Beyond the philosophical considerations, I saw a chance to pick up some cash, and do a public relations coup while I was at it. “Paul,” I asked, “how would you like to play in the U.S. Open?”
“What’s that?” he asked. “Will Staunton be there?”
I hesitated. “No,” I said. “I don’t think so.”
“Pity.”
“There’s a lot of money to be made. I suspect it would be easy for you.”
I became conscious of the steady hum of power which began intensifying in the mainframe. “No,” he said.
“I’d be happy to take care of the details.” I was beginning to realize that in the course of analyzing Morphy’s chess I hadn’t paid enough attention to his character.
“Playing for money is crass,” he said.
“But you’ve done it all yo
ur life. You’ve competed for stakes and cash prizes.”
“Only during the last two years.” He sounded vaguely annoyed. “And only when it was necessary to get the match I wanted. Even then I usually found a way to return the money. No, only the depraved or the desperate play chess for profit.”
So Paul, at least in his own mind, saved me from depravity. But he was still untested, which meant that I had to pay someone to come in. I settled on Emma Monroe, the Pennsylvania state champion, for a six-game weekend match. “Who?” asked Paul. “Where’s Staunton? Give me Staunton, and then I’ll be happy to take on these amateurs.”
“Do it for me,” I said. “Meanwhile, I’ll see if I can arrange something.”
The game board was tied directly into the computer so Paul could move his pieces and track his opponent’s responses.
Emma had White for game one. She opened with the English, and got to about the eighth move before Paul blew it apart. She staggered along for a while, drinking coffee furiously and alternately glaring at me and the computer. Then she resigned.
Things continued downhill for her. During the second game, which was played that evening, Paul opened files and diagonals effortlessly and crushed her with careless ease. The stunned champion took her losses with grace, but anger blazed in her eyes. “Where’d he come from?” On Saturday she didn’t show up.
Paul grew moody. For long periods of time he sat coiled within the mainframe, refusing to speak. Sometimes, at night, I woke to Tchaikovsky and Saint-Saens. He began playing the Danse Macabre over and over.
One morning, approximately a week after Emma walked out on us, he locked me out of the system and seized the mainframe for about two hours. There was nothing I could do except pace the workroom demanding that he stop the nonsense.
Finally, without a word, he returned control to me. But I knew he’d had access to everything in the memory banks. Including Lincoln. Including the fact that he was a construct. That it was more than a hundred years later than he thought it was.
“Why did you do that?” I asked. “The others never tried to take over the unit.”
“I suspect,” Paul said, “that they were satisfied with your misrepresentations.” The voice was strained. Had it belonged to a human being, I would have thought I detected fear.
“And you’re not?”
Silence.
“Paul, you’ve wrecked the experiment.”
“I’m sorry.”
“It doesn’t matter. This whole thing was misconceived from the beginning.”
“I never got to play Staunton, did I?”
“No, Paul.”
“Wonderful.” His voice sounded very far away. “You have any idea how painful this experience has been?”
“In what way?”
“I have some bad news for you, Harold.” He gave my name a peculiar emphasis.
“What’s that?”
“You don’t really exist, you know. Nor this computer. Nor tomorrow. You are as you think I am: just a set of electrical pulses and a data net. Nothing more. It is you who are the experiment.”
I started to laugh, but the sound bounced around the room. It was a ridiculous notion. The threadbare furniture was, God knew, solid enough. And the work table. And the mainframe.
“Probably,” he continued, “I’ve invalidated the experiment by telling you.”
I held onto the tabletop.
And then he was the one who laughed.
“I’m sorry,” I said.
“It’s all right. But you might want to give some serious thought to the ethics of what you’re doing.”
“I’m sorry.”
“You said that. Your project won’t work, you know. The information is simply not there. Alexander’s dead.”
“Except chessplayers. Paul, are you an accurate reproduction of—the other one?”
“I don’t know much about him.” My insides were churning. “I mean, I understand about me, but I can’t be sure about him.”
“Is there anything I can do to make things easier?”
His electronic laugh rattled the room. “Don’t pull the plug.”
“I never do.”
“Good. And there’s one other thing.”
“What’s that?”
“Get me the match with Staunton.”
It was the least I could do. Bryan would have known how to handle the reluctant Emglishman, would simply have announced he was dead, and declared himself champion, thinking no more about the matter. I considered mixing the blend a little, giving Paul some of Bryan’s fire; but although I believed I could do it, the result would have been an artificial intelligence that was no longer a true Paul Morphy.
Unfortunately, Howard Staunton wasn’t the sort of person you wanted around. If you read books, or the column that ran thirty years ago in the Illustrated London News, you discover he is arrogant and overbearing and generally obnoxious. He did not hesitate to let his readers know he thought them blockheads. Ditto for his opponents. He listened to no one. On the rare occasions when someone beat him, he made excuses. Usually cited weariness. He made it clear that, given a good night’s sleep, he could take anybody.
Curiously, despite his aggressive personality, Staunton’s chess showed its strength in defense. He specialized in building impregnable positions, then either wearing an opponent down, or awaiting a blunder.
The prospect of him and Morphy in the same memory bank was disquieting. But I was out of options. I established him in 1847 London, when he was at the peak of his career, which was well before anyone had heard of Paul. On a bitter, hard, bright day in January, I finished the task. But before I loaded him, I asked Paul if he were sure. He was absorbed in Beethoven’s Missa Solemni.
“Yes,” he said. “Of course.”
“But why?” I asked him. “It’s a long time ago.”
“He kept promising a match, kept insulting me. He always smiled and found a reason he could not be available.”
“The historical Morphy,” I said, “had reason to hate him. You seem to feel the same way.”
“I would be happy to destroy him.”
“Why?” I asked again. “Why does it matter?”
“Because I was the best in the world, an ordinary man with a supreme gift! And I never got the chance to prove it. My God, Harold, I wasted it. Threw it away.” He lapsed into silence. Then, finally: “Do you know why?”
“Yes,” I said. “I know.”
“Staunton laughed at me,” he continued, breathless, as if I’d said nothing. “He laughed at me, ridiculed me in the journals, drove me out of Europe.”
“You? That was someone else. It was a human being, and it happened in the nineteenth century. You’re a simulation, Paul. A construct. A bit of software.”
“Am I?”
And so, with supreme reluctance, I gave Howard Staunton a set of synapses, perhaps awareness, maybe life.
“I understand,” I said to Staunton, “that you are the finest chessplayer in the world.”
“I would not go so far,” he said. “But I must confess to a facility for the game.” I had provided Staunton with the voice of a local weatherman, added a British accent, and it seemed to fit perfectly.
“I wonder,” I said, “if I could interest you in a brief match? I have a friend who believes himself skilled, but who stands in need of some instruction in humility.”
Staunton took a moment to respond. “When and at what stake, sir?”
“Perhaps,” I said, “you would consider ten games, starting this evening, at a hundred pounds sterling. Winner take all.” Was that an appropriate amount? I hadn’t thought to research that aspect of the negotiation.
“What is your friend’s name?” He sounded bored.
“Morphy,” I said.
“Doubtless he will wish odds of knight and move?”
“I think he would be willing to play you even, sir.”
“I see.” Another pause. “He thinks rather highly of himself.”
“Yes. He needs to confront reality.”
“Indeed. Well, certainly. I would be happy to oblige.”
“Very good.”
“When would we start?”
“At any convenient time.”
I set up the board and pieces and activated Paul.
We had discussed how he was to behave. Paul had been, during his brief career, a perfect gentleman, never glared at an opponent, didn’t light up when he spotted a blunder, never gloated, never taunted. He pronounced himself pleased to meet Mr. Staunton, and talked as if there were no history between them. For Staunton, of course, there was no history.
The Englishman was convivial, almost garrulous, during the introductions. Paul said little. He was, in fact, barely civil. But his opponent seemed not to notice.
The game was not timed. Chess clocks were a later invention. But there was no need. Once Paul, playing White, pushed his king pawn forward, things went quickly.
Staunton defended with Philidor’s, a system well-suited to anyone who likes to play defense. It was difficult to storm, but generally led to cramped positions for Black. I’d expected Paul to simply run his opponent out of the game, but it didn’t happen. The Englishman built a position which looked impregnable, and he even established a strong knight outpost in the center of Paul’s lines. For a time I thought they were headed for a stalemate.
But the end came with seductive suddenness. Staunton had castled behind a solid screen of pawns. His king’s knight kept watch over the formation. But a rook swept in and took off the knight, both bishops plowed into the cluster, and the wheels came off. In a voice I could hardly hear, Staunton announced his resignation. “Very good,” he said. “You play quite well for an amateur, Mr. Morphy. I shall take you seriously next time.”
“Thank you,” said Paul. “It was an honor. Shall we continue in the morning?”
“I wish I could oblige.” Staunton replied. “Unfortunately, my dear young fellow, I’m rather busy just now. Working hard on my treatise.”
A Voice in the Night Page 6