(This story of mine was published on the editorial page of
the Hendrix College Profile on March 1, 1979, under the heading, “The
Hendrix of the future . . . fiber optics?”).
The
following story is mainly fiction—because it is set in the future—but it is
based on fact. The fact is, however,
that facts are not important to the story, so forget facts and use imagination
instead. Imagine a college, such as
Hendrix College, as it might be in 20 years or so. Imagine video input devices (TV cameras) in
all the classrooms and classes being recorded and stored in digital form by
computer, the result being a videoclass that could be copied and viewed on any
television connected to a video playback device. Now try to imagine some of the difficulties
that might arise…
Young professor Plumgarden was quite ill at ease as
he paced slowly in a wide circle around the dean’s outer office. He hardly seemed to be pacing at all and
indeed he was making every effort to appear as though he were casually walking
around the perimeter of the office, inspecting the original art work hanging on
the walls. The dean’s secretary was
aware of the professor’s agitation, however, because every few moments
Plumgarden would purse his lips while simultaneously furrowing his eyebrows and
wrinkling his nose, giving the impression he’d just caught wind of a most
unpleasant odor. The secretary was
relieved when Dean Wigner finally ushered the professor into his
office.
Wigner shook Plumgarden’s hand and offered him a chair. “I haven’t seen much of you since you joined
our faculty,” Wigner said as he seated himself behind his massive desk. “In fact, I didn’t even see you at our
get-acquainted banquet before school started.”
Wrinkling his nose, raising his chin and closing his eyes briefly,
Plumgarden replied, “I’m afraid I had to leave the banquet early. The cigar smoke was making me queasy.” He
paused but before Wigner could come up with a polite response blurted out, “Dean
Wigner, I must have today’s videoclass erased!
It is most urgent!”
Wigner, who’d been reaching for his box of cigars after sitting down, had
casually retracted his hand and, seeing what he was up against, composed his
thoughts. “Please call me Eugene,” he said with a friendly nod. “And your first name is…?”
“Purifoy.”
“Oh, yes, I remember now. Well, I
think you realize, Purifoy, that we’ve had to tighten up our erasure policy
recently. Several of our instructors
were erasing some of their classes simply because they didn’t like the lectures
they’d given. You know—maybe they’d made improper use of English or maybe they’d
just all of a sudden stopped lecturing and started cursing—they’re liable to do
that when lecturing to an empty classroom.
Of course, the computer’s assembly censor is programmed to distinguish
between those kind of aberrant tones and syllables and the normal combinations
of syllables and vocal dynamics, as you know, I’m sure. Some of the older professors still won’t rely
on the computer however, and they’d erase entire lectures if they could get past
the monitor program without going through the proper channels.”
Plumgarden had been opening and closing his mouth, ready to start talking
if Wigner happened to pause long enough.
He finally got the chance. “No,
no! It’s much more serious than that! I
thought today’s lecture was one of the best I’ve ever given. The students seemed inordinately
attentive. They asked more questions and
I seemed to be getting more feedback than ever from them. I was quite elated until after class when one
student approached me and whispered, ‘Dr. Plumgarden, your fly is open.’ You cannot imagine my embarrassment—no, it
was humiliation, abject humiliation! And
on top of that, I found I had a smudge of chalk dust covering my forehead! I still have a bad habit of resting my hand
in the chalk tray, and I’ve always put my palm on my forehead when in deep
thought.” He paused and pursed his
lips. “Eugene, you see my
predicament…”
“I most certainly do, Purifoy,” Wigner said, nodding with grave
sincerity, “and I can assure you I will take the necessary steps to have lecture
erased. You’ll want to keep the audio—am
I correct?”
“Yes, I would be quite happy for the students to copy the audio, if
you’re certain they won’t be able to get video also. What appears on the screen if only the audio
portion of a class is available?”
“Well, in your case, only a transcript of the lecture could be viewed,”
Wigner explained, leaning back in his chair, “since your class meets in a room
that hasn’t had the chalkboards replaced by fiber optics, which would directly
record and store your notations for immediate display at any time during the
videoclass. Most students get a hardcopy
of the lectures, though, so they probably wouldn’t watch it on the screen. As likely as not, your students will just
listen to the lecture, like we used to do on our cassette
recorders.”
“That would be fine with me,” Plumgarden said in a rather strained manner
as he stood up and then cleared his throat. “I simply can’t bear the thought of
copies being made of my extraordinary oversight in today’s class. I overheard some students mention they were
going to send a copy to Saturday Night
Live!” Plumgarden closed his eyes
tightly and put his hand on Wigner’s desk to steady himself.
Wigner walked around his desk and put one hand on Plumgarden’s shoulder.
“I assure you the video data will be erased immediately, and permanently. I’ll have Jeannette call the memory
supervisor right now.”
As they walked to the door of the dean’s office, Plumgarden brightened
up. He looked at Wigner with one eyebrow
raised, and as they stepped back into the outer office asked, “Wasn’t your wife
a Schrödinger?” He quickly pursed his
lips, because the question sounded a little daffy, especially to the secretary
(who looked up quickly when she heard it), since she’d never heard of a
Schrödinger.
Apparently oblivious to the professor’s slight discomfort, Wigner
replied, “Yes, she was. Do you know the
family?”
“Oh, no. I only know of the name
from studying the philosophy of quantum mechanics. Schrödinger stands out in my memory because
of his cat.”
Wigner was standing at the door to his office with one hand on the
doorknob as Plumgarden slowly stepped backwards toward the outer door. “Yes, I think most people remember
Schrödinger’s cat,” Wigner replied with a smile, “and rightly so, since it was a
development that laid the foundations of modern quantum
psychology.”
Plumgarden smiled back at Wigner and said, not without obvious pride, “My
PhD work was in quantum psychology, and I worked with cats, too, as a matter of
fact—”
“Well, Erwin never worked with cats, actually,” Wigner said quickly. “He only proposed it as a kind of thought
experiment. What was the nature of your
work with cats?”
“My work was entirely experimental.”
“What was the title of your thesis?”
Plumgarden smiled modestly. “I
called it ‘On the Behavior of Cats in Aqueous Solutions.’ I showed that, in many cases, animal behavior
is indeed discontinuous.”
“Well,” Wigner said rather loudly, as he started moving toward
Plumgarden, thereby inducing Plumgarden to move toward the door a little faster,
“I think you’re going to make your mark in this world, Purifoy, and I hope
you’ll feel right at home with our other faculty members here.”
“I’ve already begun to feel at home, Eugene,” Plumgarden replied with a
quiet happiness dancing in his eyes. “I
do appreciate your help on this matter.”
“You’re quite welcome.” Wigner
nodded and was about to turn away, but then seemed to remember something. As Plumgarden stepped into the hallway,
Wigner waved to him through the glass door and called, “I’ll see if we can’t get
you into a room with the fiber optics.”
—David Trulock
