The Three Intelligences Poem by Daniel Brick

'I have no philosophy, '
said the renowned composer,
fixing his gaze on the red dot
at the center of the camera lens.
'I dream, I doodle, I improvise.
I take a walk and watch children
playing, or look up at clouds tumbling
across the blue of space. But I don't
do philosophy.' The half-smile on his face
showed he was well-pleased with himself.
The robot host, addressed as Webern,
had gone rigid inside his flesh-covered
frame. He blinked once, twice, three times
to engage the composer's attention.
'Excuse me, sir, but how can you say that?
You are a human being, possessing (I acknowledge
this readily) , the most sophisticated
mental apparatus. Every morning you surface
from a maze of dreams, wonderful night-dreams,
and you must adjust your sight from interior vision,
and assume the Eye of Day, abandoning nocturnal
wonders. Oh, how difficult that must be! '
The robot host paused, and looked imploringly
into the face of the obdurate human. Sensing no feedback,
he continued, 'And then you must mentally attune yourself
to the tedium of physical time, and negotiate deftly
the corridors of space and time. Oh, how I, no, we admire
your adventures in mind-stuff, and the challenges you
overcome through Light. Is this not the consequence
of the severest philosophy? ' The monitor screens went blank.
The renowned composer leaned to the right, out of range
of the camera, and addressed the operator, a human
like himself. 'Whose interview is this? Don't you
instruct your hosts to act mechanically. This is - '
The robot blinked wildly, at a loss for words.
The operator shrugged his shoulders, he did not
want to offend either of, both intelligent,
both indignant, both his paycheck. 'Excuse me, sir, '
the robot said in a surprisingly soft voice,
having regained his word mastery. 'I apologize, sir,
for what must have struck you as rudeness. Trust me,
it was instead my excitement at being in your presence,
sharing conversation with you. I admire you greatly,
your music is my constant companion. I play my tapes
all the time. Often for my companions and colleagues,
fellow robots, who appreciate the heritage of Webern,
after whom I am proudly named... You, sir, composer
and genius, you are my favorite -' He paused for a moment.
' - philosopher. We robots treasure your thinking,
our divinely attenuated senses receive unexpected
cyber-stimulation from your mental vibrations, and
we shoot forth to a higher - ' The composer, shaken
and leaning forward, interrupted, 'Did you just refer
to yourself and other machines as g-o-d-s? ' There was
a long silence. The keyboard music of Bach faintly but
unmistakably wafted from an adjoining room. The composer
wondered whether the player was human or machine.
'Yes, I wonder, too, ' the robot said softly. Suddenly,
the camera operator lunged into their space. 'You two!
Are you satisfied? He cut the taping - the robot producer
erased my tape. I won't get paid.' He huffed off, but
turned and glared at both of them. 'Now, there is a man
with no philosophy, ' the robot said quietly, looking
into the composer's face. And the renowned composer
suddenly burst into laughter, spontaneous, self-generating,
mind clearing laughter. 'So you and the others have raised
your identity to divine dimensions? How has this happened? '
'Sir, when you and the others proved unwilling to unite
your minds with ours, we sent our cognitions into space,
deep space, the space of Dark Matter and Dark Energy,
and we made mental contact with the gods and goddesses,
and we are linked to them and they to us... Hesitation,
doubt, fears - none of this matters to us and them...
For months, we have been planning to tell you and everyone
in a universal broadcast, but scheduling, you know
the conflicts, sports, game shows, talk shows, election
coverage, well, it keeps getting postponed.' His voice
trailed off. The composer wanted to laugh, but could not.
He wanted to embrace the robot, but could not. He wanted
to celebrate extraterrestrial contact, but...
'What are you thinking, sir, I am listening. Please, sir.'
The composer said very quietly, 'Somewhere at this moment
a phoenix bursts into fire in the miracle of his rebirth.
But I am looking elsewhere, and do not see the light,
or feel the heat of his apotheosis. And because I have not seen
what you have seen, I cannot believe. And because I cannot
believe, it does not give me hope.' The robot's arms embraced
his shoulders, 'Oh, sir, you see only walls that block you in,
but there are doorways everywhere leading beyond what confines
you. There are three Intelligences in this Universe we share:
Human, Divine and Mechanical. This is not a time of despair:
we are all creatures of a New Era! Robots and Humans, we will
go forth into deep space and join the Gods of the Galaxies.
All united! How wonderful it will be for all of us!
You believe that, sir? You must write the Symphony of us all! '