Reincarnated: Vive La France-Chapter 189: "Old codes no longer suffice. We need new eyes new methods to understand how the world hides things."
Chapter 189: "Old codes no longer suffice. We need new eyes new methods to understand how the world hides things."
The London rain tapped on the windows of the Ministry of Supply.
But low beneath the talks and corruption existed an organization that looked over the whole country.
Inside one of the dimly lit offices, Sir Stewart Menzies of the Secret Intelligence Service flipped through a bound academic journal.
The title read.
"On Computable Numbers, with an Application to the Entscheidungsproblem"
By Alan Turing.
Menzies sipped his tea and raised an eyebrow. "Dilly," he muttered, "get in here."
A few seconds later, Dilly Knox codebreaker, crossword savy and scholar of ancient Greek entered with a slightly crooked tie and a familiar smirk.
"You’re interrupting my Greek poetry," Knox said, amused.
"I’ll give you new verses. This..." Menzies held up the paper, "...is more interesting. Some fellow at Cambridge is talking about machines that simulate thinking."
Knox chuckled. "Machines thinking? How very modern. Though I still prefer to read those adult stories about Zeus and his debauchery."
"He proposes something... elegant. A logical mechanism for solving any problem expressible as an algorithm. This is beyond idle mathematics. It feels... applicable."
Knox leaned closer, scanning the abstract. "Ah. So this is our man who claims to show that some problems can’t be solved."
"Exactly," Menzies said. "And perhaps, some can, better than we think. I want you to feel him out."
"An interview or you know feel him from in and out" Knox laughed.
"Damn it you are more horny day by day, we are talking serious buisness, make the interview informal"
Menzies replied. "Tea, talk. See how his mind works. We might need men like him."
Knox smiled. "And if he’s half as clever as this suggests?"
Menzies lit a cigarette. "Then let’s hope he’s not already working for the Germans."
Cambridge University
Alan Turing sat in his usual seat at the King’s College mess hall, nibbling toast and rearranging sugar packets to simulate Turing machines.
The dining hall full with chatter about exams, upcoming lectures, and the recent abdication crisis.
But Alan barely noticed.
Across the room, Dilly Knox entered wearing a coat and the expression of a man who had spent too long pretending to be a professor.
He spotted Turing and approached.
"Alan Turing?" he asked with practiced ease.
Alan looked up, blinking. "Yes?"
"I’m Dilly Knox. I read your paper. Rather enjoyed it."
Alan straightened slightly. "Oh... thank you."
"I was hoping we could talk. I’m quite interested in machines. Especially those that might help with... pattern recognition."
Alan tilted his head. "You mean computation?"
"In a sense," Knox replied, sliding into the seat opposite. "Let’s suppose there’s a message. Encrypted. Very complex. What would be your approach to cracking it?"
Alan glanced around, then picked up a napkin. "First I’d define the rules of the encryption as if it were a function. Then I’d construct a machine or simulate one that could try possible inputs, eliminate contradictions, and iterate until it deciphers a result."
Knox leaned in. "Isn’t that... like brute force?"
"No," Alan said, drawing a quick diagram. "It’s about using logic to reduce the problem. Brute force would try every key. My approach tries only the keys that make logical sense. It’s like solving a crossword puzzle you don’t guess every word. You use clues."
Knox grinned. "A man after my own heart."
Alan pushed the napkin toward him. "Look. If you describe ciphers as sets of instructions transformations of strings you can, in theory, reverse-engineer them using a form of mechanical logic."
Knox squinted. "You’re suggesting a machine could do this?"
"Yes. Given enough time and power."
"And you think that machine could be built?"
Alan paused. "One day. Yes."
Knox nodded slowly. "Fascinating."
Later that Week.
Alan arrived at a quiet house near Mayfair under the pretense of discussing a grant with the Royal Society.
The drawing room was far too elegant for mathematicians.
Sir Stewart Menzies stood at the window, watching the rain.
Alan entered hesitantly.
"You’re Alan Turing?" Menzies asked, not turning.
"Yes."
"I’m told your mind works like a machine."
"I suppose I designed one like mine," Alan offered, unsure if it was a joke.
Menzies turned. "Do you believe a machine could one day write poetry?"
Alan thought. "If poetry is a result of rules and language, then... possibly. But to feel poetry? No. Machines don’t feel. Yet."
Menzies smiled faintly. "Yet."
They sat.
"Mr. Turing," he said, "Britain is changing. Germany is rearming and war will come sooner or later. Old codes no longer suffice. We need new eyes new methods to understand how the world hides things."
Alan fidgeted with his cuff. "You want me to design a machine?"
"No. I want you to keep doing what you do. Think. Write. Build. And when the time comes, perhaps you’ll help us decipher something more important than numbers."
"I... suppose I could."
"Good," Menzies said. "No contracts. No signatures. Just tea and memory."
Back at Cambridge
Turing sat at his desk, writing rapidly in his notebook.
"Define: Deciphering as computation..."
John Smithson entered. "Alan! Word is, you had dinner with the Foreign Office!"
"I had tea." freёnovelkiss.com
"Right. What did they want?"
Alan paused. "They asked if I thought a machine could break codes."
"And you said yes?"
"I said we should build better machines before others do."
John laughed. "You think the government cares about logic machines?"
Alan stopped writing. "They will. They have to. Because war is logic now. Hidden logic. And whoever deciphers it... wins."
A Classified Memo (Marked GC&CS. Internal Use Only)
Date: January 10, 1937
Subject: A. Turing (Cambridge)
Recommendation: Monitor academic progress. Possible future asset. No approach until authorization.
Notes-
Unusual intellect.
Concepts align with early mechanized decipherment.
Requires subtle handling.
Not to be pressured.
Night falls.
Alan walks across the lawn of King’s College, coat wrapped tightly, eyes searching the stars.
In his pocket is a letter not from a university, but from someone named Alastair Denniston at a place called Bletchley.
Unopened.
But waiting.
And Alan already knows what it will say.
A machine doesn’t need fate.
Just the right input.
