Complete Atopia Chronicles

The smog hadn’t been the only reason, however. My parents had used the Big Smoke as their own smoke screen to accompany me to my new school. I’d just been accepted as the first female faculty member of the new Computer Laboratory of Manchester University, and there’d been a terrible row when my father had refused to allow me to leave and live on my own. When Gran’s asthma had practically killed her in the intense smog just before Christmas, it had given my dad the perfect opportunity to make everyone happy.

My sisters had all been married off by then, and despite an endless procession of suitors provided by Mother, I’d remained steadfast and aloof, and alone. I just wasn’t interested. Only one passion burned in my soul.

“Come on Alan, snap out of it. Don’t listen to that small minded lout,” I laughed, pulling him into me and giving him a little kiss. He smiled sadly and we began walking off towards the Green Man. “Tell me again why it’s different.”

“We’re just speaking about two completely different things,” he replied finally, his mind snapping back to our discussion. “My idea is that if you speak to something inside a black box, and everyone agrees that it responds to them just as a human would, then the only conclusion is that something intelligent and aware, human or otherwise, is inside.”

“Then why not an equivalent test for reality?”

“So you’re suggesting that if, somehow, we could present a simulated reality to humans…”

“…to a conscious observer…” I interjected.

“…to a conscious observer,” he continued with a nod, “if that conscious observer couldn’t distinguish the difference between the simulated and the real world, then the simulated reality becomes an actual reality in some way?”

“Yes, exactly!” I exclaimed. “That’s exactly what I’m suggesting.”

He shook his head.

“Why not? Doesn’t it make a certain sense when all of modern physics requires a conscious observer to make it work for some reason?”

“You can’t just create something from nothing,” he said after some contemplation.

“Why not?”

“And just responding ‘why not’ does not constitute a defense, my dear,” he laughed.

We’d arrived at the pub and we stopped outside. With one hand he combed back his hair, parting it neatly to one side, and smiled at me with a soft look in his eyes. Even at 41 years of age, he still had a boyish charm, perhaps aided by ears that stuck out just a little too far. I laughed back, looking at him.

“What about the Big Bang then? That’s a whole universe from nothing!” I retorted. I had a steady stream of correspondence going on with some colleagues at Cambridge. They had just minted the idea.

“Ah yes, my bright little flower, you are clever aren’t you?”

“I am,” I giggled. “Come on, let’s get that drink.”

We wandered in under the bowing doorframe, across worn granite flagstone floors and into the warm bustle of the dimly lit pub.

“The usual, Mr. Turing?” asked the bartender brightly as we arrived at the bar. He nodded at her.

“Two of those,” I added.

For one luminous yet terribly short year, I had the great privilege of having Mr. Alan Turing, the father of all computer science and artificial intelligence, as my PhD professor. His own hardship had been my gain.

After convictions for homosexual acts, still a criminal offence in England of 1950’s, he’d been ostracized by his faculty and the academic world. Even most of his graduate students had abandoned him, and it was the only reason someone of his stature and position would have accepted a female student at the time.

In the end, I had almost an entire year of Alan to myself, an incredible experience that would inspire and shape my thinking for the rest of my life. Sadly, though, Alan had taken his own life at the end of that year, and the world was a lesser place without him.

“All right then,” said Alan after a pause, “I’ll allow that. Explain to me exactly what you’re thinking then.”

The bartender had returned with our pints of cider. After digging into his pockets again, Alan came up with a handful of change that he left on the counter, mumbling his thanks while we collected our drinks. We made our way off to a quiet part of the pub, near a fireplace that glowed warmly with coals of coke.

“All realities are not created equal,” I explained as we decided on a small wooden table tucked into the corner. The benches around it had obviously been recycled, or stolen, from a local parish church somewhere. Mismatched and threadbare carpets covered floorboards that creaked as we sat down in the pews. “If there is only one observer of a universe, then that reality is weak.”

“And the more observers that share a reality, the stronger it becomes?” he continued for me.

“Exactly!”

I’d been very excited that night, filled with visions of ideas newly inspired by Alan.

Just then a ping arrived from Nancy. Its loud chime drowned out the background noise of the pub.

“Go ahead and answer,” encouraged Alan, picking up his glass of cider to take a sip.