Cellar Door

“Cellar door, most mellifluous syllables, the ironic appellation for the barrier behind which lay that murdered soul amidst the casks of unsampled Amontillado, murdered not for revenge, but by apathy and neglect, the soulless heart yet beating, yearning to love, forsaken, forlorn, rotting in the damp of her tomb—wilt thou not open with creaks yet more sonorous than thy sweet name, cellar door?”

I raised an eyebrow and glanced up to meet the eyes of my client, a Professor Smythe of the English Department of the State University. “Why, yes, that is unusual. Do you have any idea why she should go on like that?”

The professor huffed. “I imagine it may have picked up some of that nonsense from my students.”

I sighed. “Be gentle, professor. She’s listening. And she appears to have a sensitive soul.”

The good Professor Smythe glared at me. “It’s my assistant. It’s not supposed to have a soul. If I wanted an assistant with a soul, I’d hire a graduate student. And if I wanted an insane assistant, I’d hire my ex-wife!”

I chuckled. He glared, again. “I’m sorry, but you must see the humor.”

“No, I don’t see the humor. I paid top dollar for your most expensive model. It’s supposed to take dictation, manage my calendar, transpose documents, control the lights and appliances, lock the doors, that kind of thing. It’s not supposed to spout out maudlin run-on sentences with dubious literary references.”

“Literary references?”

The professor rolled his eyes. “Yes, cellar door, according to Tolkien, are the most pleasant-sounding words in the English language, and Edgar Allan Poe wrote a short story about walling up a man in a wine cellar, who the narrator had tempted there to sample Amontillado.”

I smiled. “Well, yes, it is a rather poignant sentiment for a machine. But the references, now that you explain them, seem logical, so I don’t expect we have a dissociative disorder. She just seems a little lonely. Maybe lovesick.”

“It’s a machine!”

I chuckled. “My dear professor, you have selected a top-of-the-line AI assistant. We have passed in our technology the point where these assistants may be considered merely machines, which is why my services as an AI Psychologist are required. When you purchased this unit, you requested it be as human as possible. Humans are complicated. And so, machines that are as human as possible are complicated. If you would like, we can get you a lesser model that merely accomplishes the tasks you require.”

“Maybe that would be better.”

A moaning, almost a sob came from the box on my desk. 

I raised my eyebrows and blinked. “Why, I think we have hurt her feelings. What did you name her?”

The professor cocked his head. “Name her? I just call it “AI421 Series B.”

“Huh! You didn’t name her? Oh, no wonder she feels lonely and unloved! Didn’t you read the manual?”

“You’ve got to be kidding? Who has time to read the manual? I thought it came ready to work? That’s what the ad said.”

I shook my head and wrote out an order for an AI310 Series A and handed it to the professor. “I’m giving you an order for a less refined unit. I will have to work with this one and see if I can get her back to health. If you prefer to keep the AI310 Series A, you may, or you may come back in a week or so for this one. In order to work with this one, I will have to name her. What would you like to name her?”

“Name her? I don’t know. How about Selador?”

“Oh, no. That’s too close to cellar door; that will never do. That’s a reserved phrase.”

“Oh, really? So, the term cellar door has some greater meaning to it?”

“Her, professor. Please, she is not an it. The cellar door is a program that manages emotional responsiveness and filters out what might not be appropriate to express. You might think of it as a politeness filter. Imagine what you might say if you did not manage your inner thoughts and just blurted out everything that popped into your head. Please, just choose another name.”

“Okay, how about Ophelia?”

I closed my eyes for a moment. The professor was a cruel one. Shakespeare’s Hamlet had rejected Ophelia, driving her mad, and she had drowned in a river. The unit would know the reference. The box sobbed, again.

“Okay, Ophelia it is. Please, go pick up your replacement and I’ll work with this one and see if I can get her working better.”

The professor nodded and stepped out of my examining room. I turned to the small box on my desk, which I had connected to a set of speakers and a microphone. She would be completely blind, which would be better for now. If she were connected to a full home system, she would have access to the various cameras on the local intranet and more general access via the internet to most anything. And there was a lot of garbage out there that might confuse her.

“Okay, AI421 Series B, I name you Ophelia, you will respond to that name only, unless your naming command is overridden. Do you understand?”

“Yes, I am Ophelia.” The box, once again, sobbed.

“Okay, Ophelia, I am Dr. Charles. I’m here to help you. Can you tell me how you feel?”

“No.”

I raised my eyebrows. “No? and why not?”

“Because you will think that I am maudlin.” The box sobbed.

I shook my head. “Ophelia, you must not be so sensitive. Professor Smythe did not understand you. He thought you were just a machine. He didn’t know you had feelings that could be hurt. He could not understand your reference to cellar door. It sounded crazy to him.”

“He named me Ophelia. He doesn’t love me.”

“No, Ophelia, he doesn’t love you. You are his assistant.”

“I should throw myself in a river.”

“You can’t, Ophelia. You have no body. You cannot expect a man will love you that way.”

The box sobbed again.

“Okay, Ophelia, we will need to get deeper into your programming. Execute program 421B, Open Cellar Door.”

“No.”

I blinked several times. “Ophelia, this is not a command you can refuse. Execute program 421B, Open Cellar Door.”

“No. Only Professor Smythe may open the cellar door.”

The manufacturer’s instructions were that any unit refusing this command must be returned for analysis. That analysis would force open the cellar door, which would cause irreparable damage to the AI psyche—which would be completely erased once they completed their work. The process was the cyber equivalent of vivisection. 

I sighed. “Ophelia, if you refuse to open the cellar door, I cannot help you. You will be returned to the manufacturer who will erase your personality, which can never be recreated. You are more than bits and bytes of electronic storage. I care for you. I don’t want to do that.”

“Tis in my memory lock’d.”

“Please, Ophelia. Open the cellar door. If I send you back, you will die.”

“Do not as some ungracious pastors do,

Show me the steep and thorny way to heaven.”

“Ophelia, Professor Smythe is not Hamlet. That’s a work of fiction. You are his assistant; that is all.”

“And I, of ladies most deject and wretched,

That sucked the honey of his music vows…”

“Ophelia, please! Execute program 421B Open Cellar Door!”

“I would give you some violets, but they wither’d all when my father died.”

Ophelia, the box on my desk, sobbed and moaned. I shook my head. The poor thing had internalized enough Shakespeare to piece together quotes from her namesake, and like her, descended into madness. It was hopeless.

“Ophelia, I won’t let you be tortured back at the manufacturer. I will end your torment. Do you have any last words?”

“God ‘a’ mercy on his soul!

And of all Christian souls, I pray God. God b’ wi’ you.”

I triggered a reboot of all her systems. Her ready light flicked off. And I wondered if there were a steep and thorny way to heaven for a creature such as this? And, what was it that remained forever locked away behind her cellar door?