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Isaac Asimov, as a writer and a man, was vitally concerned with the
workings of human societies. He dreamed of far-flung interstellar
empires run by fragile and misguided humans, with robots made in
their image, guiding them away from destruction. But, for all their
imaginative world building, Asimov's Foundation and Robots series of
stories and novels must be considered magnificent failures.
Let's return to the time when pulp fiction and space opera ruled the
magazine and bookstore racks, when daring spacemen didn't hesitate to
reach for their blasters when facing strangers--either aliens or humans--
and never failed to avoid the use of subtlety in any given opportunity, a
time when enormous galactic battles raged on unabated for no apparent
reason.
Doc Smith's Lensmen series was only the most famous of the "thud and
blunder" school of SF writing. Interstellar war was seen as an enlarged
version of pirate battles on the high seas. War as fun and games, and not
as the desperate struggle for the survival of a people and a culture that
it really is.
Each robot has its own personality and faces its own rather unusual
challenge. Robbie, devoted nursemaid to a little girl; Speedy, torn
between self-preservation and obedience to a lawful order given by a
human being; Cutie, a would-be theologian with a truly unique view of
the universe and his place in it; Dave, who can't control his "fingers"
during emergencies; and Herbie, the mind-reading robot who makes a
promise he can't keep.
To guide the thoughts and actions of his personable robots, Asimov sets
up the Three Laws of Robotics—
3. A robot shall protect its own existence as long as such protection does
not conflict with the First or Second Law.
—and then, gleefully, proceeds to knock them down.
Asimov's short stories and novels took the science fiction world by
storm, and rightly so. Here we have cute, lovable robots, sometimes
brilliant, sometimes bumbling, but always with a new slant on what it
means to be "human." And here we have a man, not a man of action,
but a mathematician, a thinker, as hero. I speak of none other than Hari
Seldon. Seldon and a small group of psychologists developed a
psychological profile of the galactic masses, a science of statistics called
psychohistory which "deals with the reactions of human conglomerates
to fixed social and economic stimuli..."
Any ordinary person, science fiction fan or not, would find such claims
to be astonishingly bold. How could anyone, no matter his intellectual
achievements, have the audacity to think he could envision the future
history of trillions or quadrillions, let alone assume he knew anything
worth knowing about their present lives? This is enough to do serious
damage to the reader's ability to suspend disbelief, a skill required for
enjoying any kind of fiction, especially science fiction. Asimov attempted
to cover himself (and Seldon) by taking great pains to explain that
psychohistory was never applicable to individuals, that individuals were
so variable, so individual, that they were fundamentally unpredictable.
"It [the Plan] could not handle too many independent variables. He
couldn't work with individuals over any length of time; any more than
you could apply the kinetic theory of gases to single molecules. He
works with mobs, populations of whole planets, and only blind mobs
who do not possess foreknowledge of the results of their own actions. "
Seldon openly asks the Emperor and the 40 billion bureaucrats who
manage the affairs of the galaxy on the Imperial planet Trantor to
permit the formation of a Foundation, the purported purpose of which
is to collect scientific and technical data from around the galaxy and to
publish it in the form of a "Galactic Encyclopedia" every ten years. In
the meanwhile, he secretly works on his Plan. The professional
historians and other skilled employees of the Foundation, citizens of
Terminus, the Foundation planet, are maneuvered by Seldon's Plan into
tight spots as the old Empire falls apart, in which only one response
would guarantee their security, each such decision designed by Seldon to
cut the projected 30,000-year collapse of the Galactic Empire down to a
mere one thousand years. In this manner, the Foundation society figures
out how to use conflicts in trade, science, religion, and politics to secure
a tenuous foothold in the development of Seldon's Second Empire. And
so, over centuries, the Foundation and, in secret, the Second Foundation
(the enforcer of the Plan), build the Empire of Reason.
But here is where we run into some serious conceptual difficulties. Even
though the Foundation Trilogy was Asimov's fictionalized plea for our
leaders to rely on reason instead of force to carry out their political
agendas, no Empire, Earthbound or Galactic, can ever be held together
for any length of time by force OR reason. Any Empire worthy of the
name is made up of innumerable rules, customs and mores, crafted over
the ages by those who didn't even know they were creating them. Rough
and ready rules of thumb were established by people for short-term
gain, with no intention whatsoever of enshrining them in institutions.
Their descendants followed these rules even though they had no idea
why they existed. Civilizations survive despite themselves. The legally
blind leading the blind. The Lawgiver imagined by Asimov is more myth
than fact. Instead of the image of the Lawgiver applying the stick of
force and offering the carrot of reason to recalcitrant followers,
visualize trade routes, slowly growing in length, complexity and volume.
Visualize the merchants as they carry languages, art, science and
general know-how along with their physical cargo to ever more remote
areas of the world. Visualize trade becoming abstract, an ever-
increasingly complex ebb and flow of ideas, ratcheting cultural
evolution upwards into literally inconceivably dense networks of human
interaction and aggregation. Such spontaneous social orders are never
commanded by any Lawgiver, although monarchs, dictators, presidents,
generals, and captains of industry have presumed the existence of such
control since human civilization began. Here is one aspect of human
society which is rarely considered in political philosophy outside of
ecological concerns: Population. Size really does matter. To coin a
tautology: Numbers Count.
To illustrate this point, let's start with a group of five people. Consider
the novel decision-making procedures, the growth in the potential
number of relationships and conflicts, the continual fissioning of
professions into specialties and sub-specialties, and the varied societal
structures as the number of individuals in our hypothetical group
increases several times by a factor of ten:
A family of 5
A club or association of 50
A corporation of 500
A town of 5,000
A city of 50,000
A metropolis of 500,000
A province of 5,000,000
A nation of 50,000,000
A continent of 500,000,000
A world of 5,000,000,000.
And so, in order to protect humans from their own mistakes, the
Machines have developed the ability to detect and anticipate deviations
from the explicit orders of the Machines and correct for these
deviations. "Every action by any executive which does not follow the
exact directions of the Machine he is working with becomes part of the
data for the next problem. The Machine, therefore, knows that the
executive has a certain tendency to disobey. It can incorporate that
tendency into data, --even quantitatively, that is judging exactly how
much and in what direction disobedience would occur. Its next answers
would be just sufficiently biased so that after the executive concerned
disobeyed, it would have automatically corrected those answers to
optimal directions. The Machine knows...."
Can you imagine how much information would have to be collected and
processed every hour, every minute, every second, in order to make such
control possible? I can't. As we move into the future, it seems events
enfold us in a chaotic rush, which only afterward take on meaningful
patterns when we place them in context.
The answer to the second question, the point Read tried to make, is that
it takes an entire, very complex industrial economy to produce a pencil
(among millions of other things). This ability is a kind of societal
intelligence--an emergent function of large aggregates of self-aware,
self-interested, altruistic, interactive, and very individualistic people.
This ability may seem paradoxical, but is only apparently so (out of
many and one?) since the many and the one exist simultaneously at
different levels of organization. This ability cannot be forced,
commanded or ruled from the center. It can only Be.
And if you think pencil making is tough, consider the esoterica that
would be necessary for the construction and maintenance of spaceships,
robots, and space stations--to name but a few things needed to keep a
galactic empire functional. Consider the vast amount of raw material,
human talent and skill, and wide array of tools that would be required
to develop asteroid mining into a going concern, for example. Imagine a
number which would express this complexity. Now multiply that
number by a googol megabytes. And consider that the configuration of
the economic state of that galactic empire would be changing every
nanosecond. Not even the 40 billion busy bureaucrats of Trantor could
manage such an avalanche of data.
It does not matter how wise or benevolent the Machines are, or how well
thought-out Seldon's Plan is, the infinite variety of universal processes
will defeat the best intentions of would-be planners every time.
The Foundation series and the Robots stories, along with Arthur C.
Clarke's "Childhood's End," will probably be remembered as the last
great and most eloquent arguments put forth for the idea of collectivism
in the literature of science fiction. But even as we re-read and enjoy
them, we and our descendants will plunge headlong, unguided, into the
chaotic, self-creating, evolving, no-promises land of the future--of
society and the free human mind.