All posts in “science”

Touched by its Googly appendage

I recently ran across this story about the upcoming Google I/O conference, speculating on what exactly Google might be working on. The article doesn’t seem to have gotten a huge amount of attention as yet, and I thought I’d give it some. This writer has done an extraordinary job of connecting lots of widely scattered dots to tease out some truly astonishing plans.

Now, although I use lots of Google products–to the point of embarrassment–I wouldn’t consider myself a fanboy. But I do tend to think that they generally have good intentions, and while some of what they do is scary from a privacy perspective, I feel that a lot of this uneasiness comes from a failure to see exactly what they’re trying to do.

But this article, IMHO, ties much of Google’s recent history together in a way that seems to match what I’ve suspected for some time–namely, that Google, rather quietly and not entirely wittingly, is attempting to build upon the whole of human experience to create a truly global, all-encompassing artificial intelligence.

Yes. I believe Google, on some level, wants to wake up the Internet.

And more, they’re not alone. We’re all doing it.

——————–

If you look carefully at the evolution of the Internet and the World Wide Web over the last 20 years, the overall trend has been toward more and denser connections between people. The so-called social web is merely the latest and most visible iteration. We seem to have an innate human instinct to share our thoughts and our lives, and to reach out to each other via whatever communication technology is available.

Note also that there seems to be a trend lately toward consolidation of people’s online identities. After all, the more we connect up the various parts of our online lives, the more useful each part becomes. Someone we meet casually in a chat room becomes a Facebook friend, and then a LinkedIn contact, leading to a new career; this sort of cascade of connection can only happen with tight links between various personal and professional spheres.

At the same time, the ability to easily crunch the world’s data leads to more useful insights than we can name. In the emerging field of digital humanities, for example, modern data-mining and visualization tools are applied to historical economic and geographic data, leading to new theories about trade patterns or the interplay of technology and culture. The vast corpus of public-domain works in Google Books has allowed a quantitative analysis of written language that was never before possible. And increasingly detailed digital mapping is allowing researchers to make fabulous new discoveries without necessarily leaving their desks.

Of course, this gives tremendous power to those entities with which we’ve decided to entrust that information. Google, Facebook, and other companies continue to amass information about the world and its people, and their willingness to trade on this data has naturally prompted questions about their trustworthiness. And more shadowy entities such as the National Security Agency have demonstrated similar interest, for what are likely more nefarious reasons than simple profit. Nevertheless, we as a people seem to have reached a consensus that we’re comfortable with sharing large swaths of our lives, in exchange for being able to connect with others doing the same.

We like sharing. And I suspect that this comes out of a primordial instinct–a deep, subconscious awareness of the true connectedness of all of us. An unknowing acknowledgement of the illusory nature of the boundaries we draw and the categories into which we place ourselves. This urge to share is a drive to overcome these artificial separations.

With that in mind, I think it makes sense to consider intelligence as an emergent phenomenon that arises naturally in complex information systems. Neural networks–dense arrangements of simple switches that can process input and respond to changing circumstances–are usually constructed by humans, but there’s nothing preventing one from arising spontaneously in a system made of the right building blocks. And once a neural network of sufficient complexity appears, it models its interactions with the world in order to adapt to new situations, and eventually begins to consider itself. Alongside all the models it creates for other objects and systems it encounters, it finally builds a model of itself–and this strange loop is the foundation of consciousness.

This is one of the prevailing theories on the origin of minds, and to me, what’s most interesting about it is that the building blocks of a neural net don’t have to work any particular way. All that’s necessary is that they take input and produce output according to some rule. They can be electromechanical (such as relays), digital (as in intelligent software agents), or biochemical (like the neurons in our brains). Regardless of the substrate, with sufficient complexity a neural network can exhibit emergent behavior that can be very hard to predict or to model.

Now after all that, let’s look at what Google may be up to.

Google’s been busy lately. We’ve all watched the rise of Google+, which, even if it hasn’t come close to dethroning Facebook, has nevertheless grown into a respectable social network integrated across all of Google’s properties. We’ve seen the ever-increasing capabilities and adoption of its Android smartphone software. And we’ve heard plenty lately about the new unified privacy policy it recently introduced.

Couple of other, slightly less visible details. You may have noticed that Google search results now have a page of more general, reader-friendly information about the topic over on the right side.

Google calls this the Knowledge Graph. What it’s trying to do is use Google’s vast collection of interrelated data to model what people are actually thinking of with a given search term. This is not as simple as it sounds at first; in addition to simple definitions, it requires detailed contextual knowledge. Google is using its knowledge of the world to provide this context in such a way that their system can conceptualize the subject in a way somewhat similar to how a human would.

It should be fairly obvious that in order to get a decent idea of what a person means by a particular search term, it helps tremendously to know something about that person. Who they are, where they’re from (to provide cultural background), their personal and professional interests, their current location, and a host of other details. And it’s also useful to have an idea of how they’re going to use that information; what categories they might put it in, whether they’ll share it with others, et cetera.

And this is precisely the kind of information you get from a social network.

THAT is what Google+ is: a tool for teaching Google how people think and use information, so that their results are better and more useful.

Remember, I’m a trained librarian. This is a huge part of what librarians do: modeling user behavior. Figuring out what the person is looking for and presenting it to them as efficiently as possible. So it makes perfect sense to me that Google would set up a social network in order to learn about its users.

And that’s also what the newly unified privacy policy is about. Google wants to be able to use all the information it has, across all of its properties, in order to build a complete picture of its users. All of this information will feed into the Knowledge Graph to make Google more useful and valuable to its users.

The most exciting development of all, however, hasn’t gotten nearly the attention it deserves: Google Assistant.

This will be Google’s answer to Siri, the virtual assistant built into the most recent iPhone. It will be able to understand questions posed to it in natural language, and respond in kind. But unlike Siri, it will have full access to everything Google knows about people and about the world. (By contrast, Apple doesn’t even have a search engine or a social network of any importance, so Siri is crippled by default.) Google is also pouring vast resources into natural-language processing, so the Assistant should be a decent conversationalist; one (unconfirmed) source even claims that Google has finally managed to crack the Turing Test.

Whether Assistant will have a personality seems to be undecided. But one telling detail is the original codename for the project: Majel. This is after Majel Barrett-Roddenberry, the wife of Star Trek creator Gene Roddenberry, who provided the computer voices on every iteration of Trek from TNG on. And Google has said explicitly that they want to build the Enterprise computer.

So. We have a massive distributed worldwide supercomputer, with every imaginable kind of information pouring into it from all directions; we have a semantic network designed specifically to model the interconnections between this data and turn it into useful knowledge; we have a natural-language system to understand spoken queries and to respond conversationally.

And we also have a system connecting humans together in such a way as to comprise the most powerful neural network the world has ever seen. Individuals are the switches, the neurons.

These are about the best conditions I can imagine for the spontaneous appearance of an artificial intelligence. What vast and alien intellect might emerge from this primordial digital soup?

Now, of course, this is all wild-eyed speculation on my part. I have no idea if Google really does want to create Galaxia. But I do think it’s a reasonable possibility that such a thing will emerge whether we’re planning it or not. And I refuse to make a value judgment about such an event; when biological consciousness appeared, nobody asked the neurons’ opinion.

And it isn’t just Google, of course. Facebook, Microsoft, Apple, the NSA, any entity that works to gather deep vertically-integrated information about people can serve as a locus for this. Facebook is also horizontally-integrated, due to its focus on connecting people, so it’s a strong candidate as well.

But only Google has the scope, the knowledge, the will to integrate that knowledge, and the sheer computing resources to pull off such a project.

So who knows? I’m not saying it will happen. But it could.

And maybe, shortly after Majel is turned on, we’ll find out what it’s like to share this planet with something smarter than us.

On religion, science, and morality

 

I found the above on Facebook the other day. I’m not sure who created it originally (although this is a strong contender). I took it and put it up on Pinterest, and both there and on Facebook it touched off some serious conversation. In particular, several people seem to be incapable of imagining morality without a moral authority.

I’m not going to reprint other peoples’ words without their permission, but I did want to repeat some of my responses in case anyone would be interested.

Well, there seems to be a consensus, across all religions and cultures–including atheists–that murder, rape and theft are wrong. That suggests to me that morality really doesn’t have much to do with religion, and is instead probably rooted in our basic human instincts. (Granted, many of us still do these things anyway, regardless of the punishments. But that also seems to be independent of religion.)

(snip)

I mean, some of the people in this thread clearly believe in God. But if it were somehow proven that God didn’t exist–never mind how that would happen–and that there were no eternal punishments or rewards, would those people suddenly start killing and stealing? I honestly don’t think so.

Another person said that I probably don’t know much about religion. I responded:

I think it comes down to the difference between knowledge and faith.

(Referring to the picture itself.)

That was on Pinterest. Meanwhile, back in the Facebook thread, a discussion that had already been pretty active before I got there continued unabated. All the usual arguments; people talking about themselves or their children being good despite not being exposed to religion, or saying that our instinctive morality is devalued when people insist that it must come from outside ourselves. Others insisted that without God there can be no morality.

Because I sometimes can’t resist temptation, this was where I dove in:

“Without God you have no morality!”

One small problem with that: how do you know what God wants? Now, I know exactly what you’re going to say: the Bible says so. So now, you have another question: how do you know the Bible is a reliable guide to what God wants?

And the answer to that is, you have faith. (I think even the most devoted Christian would agree with me on that.)

So, now I have one more question for you, which I will leave unanswered: Have you ever considered the possibility that you might be wrong?

The last question comes from Peanuts creator Charles Schulz. It was his standard response to anyone who spouted dogma instead of using their brain.

But one person struck me in particular. He insisted that morality came not from religion, but from God… and then proceeded to use the Bible as justification. I imagine the contradiction was quite lost on him. He also said the Bible was true, and offered to prove it, asking if we wouldn’t want to know if the Bible indeed was true.

(Note to religious people using this approach: you can’t convince a skeptic by arguing the Bible’s authority, because that is precisely what the skeptic is questioning.)

(Y)ou say you’ve “looked into it” and found the Bible to be true. But I humbly submit that your faith is so strong that you’ve probably never seriously considered any other possibility.

(snip)

You can prove it? Yes, please do. This oughta be good.

(Not that having “proof” really persuaded anyone, of course. The evidence for evolution is about as clear and obvious as anything in science, but vast numbers of people still don’t buy it.)

At this point, he claimed to be able to disprove evolution using Darwin’s own words, claiming that there was more proof for the Bible than for any other theory; but then he acknowledged (with some insight, methinks) that we could keep bashing at each others’ beliefs and never made any progress. And asked again, if the Bible were true, wouldn’t I want to know it?

My reply:

You’re right, there’s no point in arguing about evolution. Because neither of us can convince the other, because we are approaching the issue from two diametrically opposed directions. You are taking it as given that your particular brand of creationism is true, and I honestly don’t believe that any amount of evidence would convince you otherwise. That’s faith: the belief in something regardless of the evidence.

I, on the other hand, am coming at it from the viewpoint that it’s possible to investigate the way the universe works and to find out what the truth is, without relying on the word of an authority which may have an ulterior motive, or of an ancient book which may or may not be accurate. That’s science–the only method we have for actually figuring out what the truth is. It’s not a perfect system–in particular, it’s impossible to completely eliminate human bias and misjudgments–but it’s the only method we have that seems to work.

Now, there’s nothing wrong with either of these systems, and they can coexist just fine–on the condition that they respect each others’ boundaries. For instance, science can’t say anything one way or the other about the existence of God. It’s not a question that we can directly investigate, and so scientists leave that issue for philosophers and theologians.

But when a religion makes a claim about the way the physical world works, that’s a different story. If you say the world is only 6000 years old, well, that IS a question we can investigate. And if you’re going to make such a claim, then I say you HAVE to pay attention to what scientists say about it. If you don’t, if you just deny all the evidence–centuries of it, gathered from all over the world, and involving at least half a dozen major fields of inquiry–then you’re guilty of the worst kind of intellectual dishonesty.

If you’re going to make a scientific claim, then you MUST listen to what scientists have to say. Simple as that.

To answer your other question: yes, if the Bible were true, I would want to know it. But since it’s filled with inaccuracies and logical fallibilities, I see no reason to take it any differently than any other ancient book. And since, to me, the world is perfectly explicable without it… Well, to quote Laplace, “I had no need of that hypothesis.”

As yet, there has been no response.

(Maybe I don’t really need to be repeating all this, but I think there are some good explanations here of my attitude toward these issues. So I thought I’d share.)

Of stars, novas, and corrections

So, as always when there’s a science story making the rounds, I should have waited until actual scientists weighed in.

I was premature in my speculation about the effects of the eventual supernova explosion of Betelgeuse on our ecosystem. Granted, I still think those ideas might be valid if we were going to somehow temporarily get a second sun–but, apparently, that’s not what will actually happen when the star blows. The ever-reliable Phil Plait at Bad Astronomy has written a corrective to the current news frenzy, stating that the blast will be no brighter than the full moon. (He also points to a similar post by Ian O’Neill with a little more detail.)

I decided to have some fun and check the figures myself (which I really should have done before). So here we go.

Let’s start with Betelgeuse–in particular, how massive it is, because that determines how it will come to its end. At its birth, Betelgeuse was initially around 18 to 19 solar masses, which would yield a fairly typical Type II supernova.

The absolute magnitude for this class–how bright the object actually is, rather than how bright it looks to us–ranges from around -18 to around -19.3. (Magnitudes are calculated on a logarithmic scale with brighter objects having lower numbers; very bright objects have negative magnitudes.)

Now, taking -19.3 as the maximum brightness of the nova, at 640 light-years away this corresponds to an apparent magnitude of -12.84. (The necessary equation is here if you want to try it yourself. Also, I’m disregarding the redshift between us and Betelgeuse, which normally you would correct for.)

This turns out to be just a hair less bright than the maximum brightness of the moon (which is about -12.9). So, Plait and O’Neill are correct; the Betelgeuse supernova will be about as bright as the full moon–enough to cast shadows and to read by, but hardly enough to disrupt the circadian rhythms of our plants and animals. Some migrating birds might get confused, but that’s about all.

For the record, the sun’s magnitude is -26.74. There is almost nothing in the universe bright enough to match the sun at the distance of Betelgeuse; only the very brightest quasars could do it. And there are none of those nearby–in fact, the nearest one, PKS2349, is 1.5 billion light-years away.

So, we can relax. The Betelgeuse supernova will be absolutely spectacular, no doubt about it–but it will do us no harm whatsoever. And there’s almost no chance that it’ll happen in our lifetimes anyway.

(Funnily enough, Plait actually wrote about this last year, during a previous flurry of interest in Betelgeuse. He did an even better job knocking down the rumors that time.)

The biggest fireworks of all time

According to this io9 story, the star Betelgeuse–640 light-years away, in the constellation Orion–is about to go supernova. (For fairly generous values of “about”, anyway; it could happen anytime in the next million years.) This is actually quite well known among astronomers, of course.

When it happens, for several weeks, we will have two suns in the sky. If it happens in the winter, when Orion is normally visible, then there will be no nighttime on Earth at all. The article suggests that the only thing to do will be to throw a weeks-long global supernova party.

Now, that’s not a bad idea, but wait a minute. If our day/night cycles are temporarily disrupted, what will that do to our environment? Plants and animals depend on the daily cycle of light and dark to regulate all their functions. Feeding times in particular would be affected, as well as relationships between predator and prey species. Plants are also sensitive to light changes, and pollinators will be disoriented as well, which will create further problems. And, to complicate things even more, we would still have nightly cooling on the usual schedule–so different species would respond in different ways.

Our entire ecosystem is finely tuned to the rhythms of the day (as well as the annual cycle of the seasons). Having those rhythms altered, even temporarily, could cause chaos. I don’t know enough about biology to say for sure, but I can imagine it taking many years to restore equilibrium. What will happen to our food supplies in that time?

Yes, it’d be a hell of a fireworks show. But the ensuing famine might be a little too high a price.

(The io9 story is based on this article at news.com.au, which is typically breathless pop-culture fluff. I’d love to see some serious speculation about the ecological implications.)

Strange new worlds

There’s been lots of buzz about the more-or-less Earthlike planet that’s just been discovered in the habitable zone of the red-dwarf star Gliese 581, 20 light-years away in the constellation of Libra. Gliese 581g is about 3 to 4 times the mass of Earth, with a surface temperature just a little below the range for liquid water; if it has an atmosphere to trap heat near the surface, that could potentially raise the temperature enough to where terrestrial microbes would be happy.

Gliese 581g

This is tremendously exciting for several reasons. First and foremost, we’ve only just started looking for planets around other stars, and since we’ve already found one so potentially habitable, it bodes very well for our chances of finding life elsewhere. The planet’s discoverer, UC Santa Cruz astrophysicist Steve Vogt, says that, given the apparent propensity for life to appear quickly in any environment suited for it, he’d place the chances of life on this planet at 100 percent. I think this is a bit of hyperbole, but it’s certainly not out of the question.

Second, this is someplace that we could potentially go. Not quickly or easily, true. It would take probably the full effort of our entire civilization for several centuries to make it happen. But it’s not impossible. Which means that there is a ray of hope, however small, that our science-fictional dreams of colonizing the galaxy are not completely unrealistic.

Third, the more we learn about the possibilities of extrasolar planets, the more fuel we have for our imaginations. I can’t help imagining what it would be like to stand on this planet, looking up at its red sun…

Which led me this morning to speculate on a possible name. The first thing that leapt to mind was Vulcan–after, of course, the home planet of Spock, from Star Trek. (The show’s canon has his planet orbiting 40 Eridani, but never mind that.) After all, the planet appears to be tidally locked, which means it always has the same face toward its sun–which would be huge, red, and never-moving.

I actually went to the trouble of calculating how large Gliese 581 would appear to be in the sky above this planet. It’s basic trigonometry. We know how big the star is (0.29 solar radii, or 201695 km), and how far planet g is from the star (0.146 astronomical units, or 21,841,600 km); from there it’s a simple calculation to work out the angular diameter of the star in the sky at that distance. It comes out to 1.0582 degrees–about twice the apparent size of the Sun as seen from Earth.

So, imagine yourself standing on this planet, maybe near the terminator–the boundary between the light and dark sides. The sky is red (I’m imagining an atmosphere here, but we don’t know). And just above the horizon is a ball of bright red fire, twice the size of the Sun.

This is an old system. Gliese 581 is thought to be 7 to 11 billion years old, around twice the age of the Sun. That’s plenty of time for life, and even civilization, to have arisen and died out. There may be ruins. Even records.

And we could go there. We could see it.

Just imagine it.

(Update: Okay, so Vogt has unofficially named the planet Zarmina, after his wife. All due respect, but I think Vulcan is a far better name.)

It’s not what you think.

Today, my spouse and I somehow got into a long discussion of the Chinese Room argument, and I thought I’d share a little here of what I came up with.

If you don’t know, the Chinese Room (proposed by John Searle in 1980, and summarized nicely at the above Wikipedia link) is a thought experiment about artificial-intelligence work, having to do with the level of “understanding” that can be achieved by an AI system. The idea is this:

Imagine a computer that can understand Chinese. It can read Chinese characters, process them, and produce an appropriate response, that can be read by a native Chinese reader and understood well enough that the reader cannot tell the responses from those that would be given by a human fluent in Chinese.

Now imagine that instead of a computer, you have a printout in English of its algorithm, and a human (who does not understand Chinese) who executes the instructions with pen and paper, and produces the same results. Searle’s argument is that functionally, there is no difference between the computer and the human; and, that since the human operator doesn’t understand Chinese, the computer can’t be said to understand Chinese either–and, without “understanding”, the computer can’t be said to be “thinking”.

I won’t rehash the vast range of discussion that we had about this (particularly since I didn’t take notes). But I do have a reply, which is this: the “intelligence”, if there is any, resides in the instructions, not in the person or machine executing those instructions.

Of course, that would seem to put me in the dualist camp–saying that there’s mind and there’s body and never the twain shall meet. But the experiment, to my mind, is missing one detail: the brain is constantly reconfiguring itself according to new input and data. There are feedback loops between the various symbols in the mind, and these particularly come into play when modeling the behavior of other minds (and most especially when modeling itself). How these symbols are expressed in the brain’s architecture is far from clear, but what is clear is that the hardware responds to changes in the software.

Of course, there’s really no way to answer these questions at all until we figure out what consciousness is, and there are so many competing theories about that that we might be a century or more choosing between them. If it’s not clear from the previous paragraph, I’m a Hofstadterian; I believe that consciousness arises from self-sustaining, self-referential patterns of interaction between the various symbols in the brain. I also think that strong AI might in principle be possible; however, I’m also willing to throw a bone to Penrose and consider that the complex interactions between the brain’s hardware and software might be impossible to duplicate on any other substrate.

But, as I said, it’s hard to find the answers when we’re not even sure how to figure out what questions to ask.

Anyway, this is a pretty good example of the kinds of stuff I get into with my sweetie. I’m definitely with the right person.

(Incidentally, she’s currently reading Peter Watts‘ novel Blindsight, and she got very excited while I was reading her the Wikipedia article on the Chinese Room, because Blindsight apparently deals with many many of these issues relating to the nature of cognition. It’s pretty clear that I’m going to have to read the book–if I can ever squeeze it in among all the other stuff I have to read.)

The path not taken

So, last week I sent out this tweet about my mild regret at abandoning my childhood goal of becoming an astronomer. That led to an email exchange with an astronomy student about exactly why and how it happened. I’ve been thinking about it since and thought I’d write something here.

I grew up fascinated by astronomy–the first book I remember owning was about the stars–and it was the only thing I ever really wanted to do up until I entered college. When I did so, I discovered that astronomy was mostly a graduate discipline and I needed a bachelor’s degree in physics first. So I became a physics major.

The only problem with this was the math. I was a straight-A student in math, from elementary school up through my first year of college, so I assumed it wouldn’t be a problem. Sadly, I was wrong. As soon as I started calculus, my grades began to drop. In my three semesters of calc, I had a B, a C (the only one I ever got), and a B. And, if you know anything about the hard sciences, you know that calculus is the beginning of the math you need.

I made it out of calculus somewhat intact, but I continued to struggle through differential equations and linear algebra. And meanwhile, when I started my first upper-division physics classes, I got bogged down with Lagrangians and the calculus of variations. (I’ll forgive you if you can’t read any of the math in those Wikipedia links; I can’t read it myself, anymore.)

Since I was on financial aid at the time, I was on a time limit, and eventually I had to make a decision about whether I could finish the degree before I had to quit. I finally decided I couldn’t. This was devastating, and I had a lot of trouble figuring out what to do. I was too far along with school to finish another major in the time I had left, so I ended up getting a general-studies degree–thinking that I would pick something to specialize in for grad school.

I finished in 1995, worked for a year, and then went back and spent a year working on a master’s in anthropology, planning to go into linguistics (another interest). However, there was very little I could do in that field at my particular school. I eventually left, worked for a number of years, went through a couple of relationships, and then started thinking about library school. A few years later I went for it, and now, of course, I’ve finished (though I still haven’t found a job).

I still haven’t quite forgiven myself for quitting physics, and I do keep up with developments in the sciences. But I’m probably happier now than I would have been if I had continued. If I had followed the career path I was planning on, I’d be a tenured professor now, teaching and writing and doing research–and I’d probably have no social life and an ulcer the size of Nebraska. Instead I have many friends and the time to pursue a wide variety of interests.

Don’t get me wrong, I do have the occasional fantasy about starting over. But I don’t really expect that it’ll happen. I have too many other things I want to do. And I don’t want to have to pull my hair out again trying to deal with the math.

And I do make use of my limited scientific education in my writing, so that’s something!

UA-32500871-1