Tim Radford
Nobody would give the novelist points for style. In the latest blockbuster to astonish the literary world, green is verdant, clock towers are ivy-covered and PhD diplomas are framed.
But Betrayal could end up framed in a hall of fame, anyway. It was written by a new and powerful piece of software. Brutus.1 is the world’s most advanced artificial story generator according to its begetter, Selmer Bringsjord of Rensselaer Polytechnic Institute in New York state.
Brutus.1 took four years and a research grant of R1,5-million to develop, and can only write about the deception and evil of betrayal. It assembles its horrid plots a bit at a time, and spins them out to 400 words.
But its novel is a Homeric leap for silicon storytelling. Previous efforts have ended in stories lasting only sentences – one famous example consisting entirely of a single sentence about a wombat that packed her bags and set off for a new life as a juggler in Siberia.
To generate a novel that dealt, for instance, with unrequited love, revenge, jealousy or patricide, Bringsjord and his researchers would need to devise mathematical formulae suited to each theme.
Brutus.1 has a future, however, in the entertainment industry, when standalone entertainment systems will be required to create and direct their own stories.
What follows is an unedited copy of Betrayal by Brutus.1: “Dave Striver loved the university. He loved its ivy-covered clock towers, its ancient and sturdy brick, and its sun-splashed verdant greens and eager youth. He also loved the fact that the university is free of the stark unforgiving trials of the business world – only this isn’t a fact: academia has its own tests, and some are as merciless as any in the marketplace. A prime example is the dissertation defence: to earn the PhD, to become a doctor, one must pass an oral examination on one’s dissertation. This was a test Professor Edward Hart enjoyed giving.
“Dave wanted desperately to be a doctor. But he needed the signatures of three people on the first page of his dissertation, the priceless inscriptions which, together, would certify that he had passed his defence. One of the signatures had to come from Professor Hart, and Hart had often said – to others and to himself – that he was honoured to help Dave secure his well-earned dream.
“Well before the defence, Striver gave Hart a penultimate copy of his thesis. Hart read it and told Dave that it was absolutely first-rate, and that he would gladly sign it at the defence. They even shook hands in Hart’s book-lined office. Dave noticed that Hart’s eyes were bright and trustful, and his bearing paternal.
“At the defence, Dave thought that he eloquently summarised chapter three of his dissertation. There were two questions, one from Professor Rodman and one from Dr Teer; Dave answered both, apparently to everyone’s satisfaction. There were no further objections.
“Professor Rodman signed. He slid the tome to Teer; she too signed, and then slid it in front of Hart. Hart didn’t move.
“`Ed?’ Rodman said.
Hart still sat motionless. Dave felt slightly dizzy. `Edward, are you going to sign?’
“Later, Hart sat alone in his office, in his big leather chair, saddened by Dave’s failure.
“He tried to think of ways he could help Dave achieve his dream.”