“There, that’s the last one,” said Dr. Ziliaris, slipping in a book on the bottom shelf at the end of the aisle. He stood up and viewed the team’s work.

“Three hundred thousand volumes,” said Dr. Thavmasmos, looking across the stacks of books with wonder. His group of scribes and library assistants beamed with him, basking in the satisfaction of a great task completed. It had taken them nearly a month to process and shelve the great collection of tomes – each volume of a bright red color, and of identical dimensions and manufacture.

The librarians turned to the statue of Dr. Lampros Andras that occupied the library’s atrium. The marble face wore a look of serenity and confidence, as it had always done in life. “All printed, bound, and organized to your exact specifications, Doctor,” said Thavmasmos with reverence. “Your mind lives on forever, in this library.”

And that was true… maybe. The great Dr. Andras – the most brilliant Atlantean scientist to ever live, the inventor of the submersible vehicle, the discoverer of the infinitesimal calculus, and the author of The Foundations of Pure Logic – had ensured that, on his death, the informational content of his brain should be translated into an immense algorithm, written in a special code designed by himself. The algorithm would be so large, he predicted, that a small building would be required to contain it. And so was constructed, in the capital of Atlantis, a special library to house the great bulk of printed matter. Now the continent’s scientists could, in theory, converse with their people’s most august intelligence for all time – updating him on scientific advances, and consulting with him as their research proceeded.

Dr. Ziliaris, however, still harbored some doubt whether the library in any sense really harbored the late doctor’s consciousness.

“A job well done,” he said to the team. “And now, I think it’s time to greet my good friend’s work with a trial question.”

“A fine idea,” said Thavmasmos. “Though I must say, I believe I hear a note of eager pessimism in your voice. You’re not still nursing some old jealousies over our late colleague’s accomplishments, are you?”

“Why, not at all,” said Ziliaris. “Just experiencing some skepticism. Opinion among our peers still weighs against us, after all. It is an unproven idea, that of holding a conversation with someone after their death through manipulating a code.”

“Well, that’s true enough,” said Thavmasmos. “Did you have a question in mind?”

Ziliaris held his hands behind his back. “Nothing in particular. But I believe we should start off gently on the old fellow. How about something simple?”

Thavmasmos nodded. “Yes… I have it: ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Doctor?’”

“Yes, that will do,” said Ziliaris.

One of the scribes was already scribbling, translating the question into Andras’s algorithm. He handed his slip of paper to Thavmasmos, and the two librarians began consulting the library index to formulate the response.

* * *

Late that evening, as the two men were hard at work beside their stacks of books, Ziliaris yawned and spoke to his colleague:

“You know, my friend, I begin to tire. The hour is late… See, the assistants even now must replace the electric bulbs on the ceiling.”

“But we are almost to the answer,” said Thavmasmos. “Another hour or so, and we shall learn whether Andras’s code produces a meaningful response or not – whether all this labor has been in vain.”

Ziliaris seemed to turn glum. He sighed and glanced at a pendulum clock. “Let it wait until morning,” he said. “There is no need to rush the job. We are becoming old men and require our rest, and we might make a mistake if we keep on.”

Thavmasmos wrinkled his brow. Idly, he looked to the eyes of Andras’s statue in the atrium – eyes which, eerily, seemed almost to stare back at him. Feeling tired himself, though, Thavmasmos decided his colleague had a point. Content to let the great issue remain undecided until morning, the librarians bade the assistants good night and left for home.

* * *

“Finished, Doctor?” said Ziliaris as he met Thavmasmos in the atrium. He had arrived late, having sent a messenger to the library with some vague excuse for his tardiness, something about troubles with the domestic help. Thavmasmos, who had been at work since dawn, thought he heard a note of apprehension in his friend’s question.

“You won’t believe it,” said Thavmasmos. “It’s not possible.”

In some place deep within him, Ziliaris felt his secret hopes collapsing. “Why, what is it? What answer did the algorithm give?”

“In response to our question: ‘Is everything to your satisfaction, Doctor?’”

“Yes… well?”

Thavmasmos inhaled deeply. He looked up at the statue.

“The algorithm says: ‘Everything except the delay.’ ”

 

 

 

based on a thought experiment of Douglas Hofstadter