The Prisoner's Dilemma (33 page)

Annie and Sophie had worked a miracle and a luncheon to stay in the memory was being served in the dining room. Much of Dunbeath's fine old Bordeaux wine was flowing, and laughter and storytelling filled the ancient room with noise and warmth. In each of the different people that sat around the table there seemed to be a mood of change and fresh starts – Zweig was returning to Königsberg, Dunbeath to join the uprising, Sophie to be starting a new life as a married woman and the two philosophers going back to Edinburgh with the excitement of their many discussions and discoveries.

Dunbeath looked down the table, hardly able to believe the changes that had taken place over the past few months. More than anything, he felt able to admit, the changes to himself.

He now gazed down to where Adam Smith was speaking to Sophie in an unintelligible rattle. What did he make of all this he wondered? Even though he'd only met him that day, Dunbeath felt a great attraction towards the strange, unworldly young man, and he now called out to him as the party began to fall quiet.

‘So, Mr Smith, my friend David Hume tells me that you feel my little game may have contributed to your thinking.'

‘Yes, indeed, my lord,' replied Smith, his eyes glued to the fireplace. ‘Yes, I think the Prisoner's Dilemma has taken us all on a journey.'

‘And where do you think it has taken you?'

Smith's gaze began its customary careering sprint before it settled on the sideboard.

‘Well, my lord, I believe it has shown us how trust is the calling card of co-operation and how co-operation is the key to a constructive society.'

‘Ah, I see Sophie has been bewitching you as well, Mr Smith,' replied Dunbeath. ‘You should know that I am still a sceptic of
this thinking. I'm afraid I have spent far too long in this world not to know that however much the Dilemma may want us to have these three point relationships, the temptation to take five is never far from the surface in all men.'

Well, I don't believe I would argue with you too greatly on that, Lord Dunbeath. No more would I argue that a butcher might knowingly sell you bad beef. He might and you might pay for it, but you would not buy from him again. His stock would be damaged in your eyes. In just the same way, it seems to me that Miss Kant's free riders are damaging their reputations and their futures in society because they are seen as a threat to its stability.'

‘And where is this leading you?' said Dunbeath to a now silent table.

‘It is leading me without deviation, sir, to the belief that all society is a market,' replied Smith, ‘and that it is an error to imagine that society is one thing and commerce is another. Tit for Tat is without doubt a building block in our understanding of this. But I also feel that even this insight is too crude, too simplistic, to be the whole story.

‘I'm increasingly certain that what is going on is that we are selling ourselves to each other, just as much as we might sell our services, our goods or our specialisations. Just as a trader might lay out his wares for sale, so we are laying out our characters and talents – and our
trustworthiness
– for others to look at. We do this in what we say, in how we behave, in how we look …we are endlessly writing advertisements for ourselves. These bill posters of ours are appealing in everything we do for the co-operation of others.'

Smith leant forward and took a deep pull of his wine as he stared into space, clearly thinking through what he was going to say next. The others waited in silence, intrigued.

‘And, why are we doing this?' he continued. ‘Well, to survive, first and foremost, by finding people who will help us do so. That is the lesson of life. But once we think we've done that? Then our
aim is to win – to win against each other. And, to achieve this, we will employ every artifice, every trick and every instinct we're able to call on.

‘This much I think is plain. But I still do not find it enough to explain our strivings. You see, the Dilemma would have us all looking for long-term, co-operative, three point relationships. A society of doves trustingly building a New Jerusalem. But we do not see this. That is why you don't agree with Sophie's conclusions – you don't see it either. So, why aren't we happy with three points? What is it that makes us want more? Why do we strive so much and why do we fight so hard to progress? Why are we not content to enjoy our survival, but want to win against each other – and to be
seen
to win?' Adam Smith was unaware that all eyes were upon him. He had now become dreamy, rolling bread under his fingers and staring into the far distance.

‘And then I realised why. I suddenly saw that we are trying to do more than survive in this life – we are trying to survive in future lives as well. As Mr Hume once said to me: ‘none of our ancestors died celibate'. Each of us is proof of an unbroken success as our ancestors passed on their lines. And we are doing the same. Seeing the future and plotting, plotting, plotting to have our lines continue.'

Dunbeath had had enough of this.

‘Now Mr Smith, I believe you go too far. Think again, I beg you.'

‘Too far?' said Smith, suddenly looking at Dunbeath. ‘Do I? Then I apologise. But answer me then the question that I put to myself, my lord – why did man ever hunt large animals? Why would a man have risked his life trying to kill a great elk or a mammoth when he could kill a rabbit or a fowl more easily? The answer cannot be for the meat because no man or even his family could have eaten a dead mammoth before the meat was spoiled. A guinea fowl or a brace of duck or two would have been far easier to find and far less dangerous to hunt. So, why would a
man put himself through the uncertainty and danger of hunting large and dangerous animals when he could have trapped smaller ones more easily?

‘There was not only the risk of the chase. There was the waste as well. A man would never have been able to carry a dead mammoth, let alone have made use of it all himself where it was killed. So, he'd have had to allow other people to take some. He'd have to have tolerated their theft. Why would he do that? Why would he appear to have a social conscience or be interested in helping other people? And then I realised why. The answer, I believe, is that just as we trade our specialisations in life so the mammoth hunter was trading an unmovable and perishable commodity, a transient success, for a reward he could carry around with him at all times –
his reputation
. The community's gratitude and goodwill for his generosity, people's respect for his courage and so on. That was his reward.

‘This hunter was helping society just as rich men, not unlike your forebears, might build a beacon to warn passing vessels of rocks in a bay. It was erected at your ancestor's expense yet its light benefits everybody. But it also shines out with the boast of the Urquhain's social standing. These sorts of actions lead men to be admired, storing up a bank of goodwill to be exchanged later for other services and rewards.'

Adam Smith came to a stop and seemed to come out of his reverie. He looked up and down the table as if judging whether to go on. Then he stared at the ceiling.

‘But, much more than this,' he continued, ‘these kind of acts make men attractive to women. These actions are for show. They are the peacock's plumage. Men do such things so that women will think well of them – and will want to have their offspring. These men are saying to the world …see, look how strong I am, observe my courage and skills, see how I provide, see how
I win
, see what my line will inherit! Yes, my lord, the more you look at my chain of logic …the more you see a bed at its end.'

There was a collective gasp from the others and Dunbeath was on his feet in an instant.

‘Mr Smith. Now, you
do
go too far.'

‘I am surprised at you, my lord,' replied Smith without the slightest sign of fear or of backing down, ‘you of all people should know that scientists have to think these dangerous thoughts. In your own field, did not the great Galileo suffer for his discoveries? And is there anyone now, in this enlightened age, who would say that he was wrong?

‘No, I believe I am right. My parable holds. Killing the mammoth was difficult. It took tenacity and cunning and valour and ability. Admirable qualities to set on a bill poster, advertising yourself and your character. These qualities bring prestige and admiration. And in doing so, they bring an invitation to the bedroom. Women look at them and wish their children to have these same qualities and more. However, we forget something here at our peril. Yes, men may do these things to attract women but I rather imagine they do them also to attract other men too. Because they know that they so often control the choices of women. How dangerous would allowing a daughter to marry who she liked be to an ambitious father? So, I believe the urge to achieve these public displays of attractiveness is the key principle. That's why they were worth the increased hunting risk and why, for example, your own ancestors were so keen to reach the top of the heap.'

Dunbeath stared at Adam Smith as he talked, his mouth a tight line; but he said nothing.

‘What better way could there be of getting society's attention,' Smith continued, ‘of telling other people that one is of privileged and successful stock, than to carry round a huge billboard that says so – an advertisement. Like a great name, a title. In your family's case, an earldom. It proclaims, ‘I am a leader amongst men,' your bill poster says so. It spells out your success, your status, your specialisation – it spells out what you're selling.

‘To be recognised publicly is nothing less than where the logic of the Prisoner's Dilemma would lead us. It is the end result of a mechanism that allows a person to say ‘here I am, a proud and successful co-operator. I am trustworthy – yet I am
rewarded
. Look at me. See how attractive I am. Have my children. Let the line continue!'

Nobody at the table moved. Smith looked through the window, out to the open sea, smiling his beautiful smile. There was a long silence while everyone waited for the Urquhain Rage to descend.

But the blackness was broken by Zweig. With a huge laugh he threw up his hands.

‘Mr Smith. I wish you'd told my sister about this. If she'd known, she might not have married that idiot farmer of hers!'

Dunbeath and David Hume roared. Even Adam Smith's face creased into a wide grin. The crisis passed.

‘Let me ask you this, Captain Zweig,' continued Dunbeath as the laughter died, his humour now restored. ‘You have seen much of the world - do you not agree with me that it is the ugly force of greed that makes us what we are? Self-interest leads to more self-interest in my view. Not Mr Smith and Sophie's belief that it leads to goodness in us.'

‘Well I am just a foolish sailor,' replied Zweig, ‘but I must agree with you that greed can be so powerful that it can even overcome caution, even our fears. Let me show you something. Do you have a gold guinea, my lord?'

Dunbeath fished in his pocket and passed a guinea to Zweig. He held it up for the table to see.

‘Let me auction this for you. Let us see who will give you the most for it. The only condition of the game is that the under-bidder, the next losing bid, also has to pay you as the seller.'

Adam Smith brought his gaze down from the ceiling.

‘I'll bid you a penny.'

‘And I'll bid you tuppence,' said Hume. ‘So, Mr Smith, you
owe Lord Dunbeath a penny. And you have nothing to show for it.'

The auction continued, each new bid being met by shrieks of laughter as the price went up and up and the under-bidder's exposure grew. Eventually greed gave way to fear as the bids came closer to a pound. The party's hilarity was partly a reaction to Smith's shocking theory and partly a sign of end-of-an-era high spirits. And when David Hume offered more than the face value of the guinea, just so Adam Smith was committed to paying the losing amount, it seemed the funniest thing that anybody had ever seen. The wine flowed and the little group's flushed, laughing faces as they glowed in the candlelight, showed how close their friendship had become through the trials of recent events.

Eventually, Dunbeath glanced through the window and saw the first signs of gathering dusk.

‘I'm sorry that the party must end,' he said, ‘but it approaches four and the tide will soon be at its lowest. Zweig, you must leave now if you're to get out through the escape route. Let us go down to the cave to see you off. Sophie, perhaps you'd like to come with us to take your leave of the captain and give him any messages you may have for your family?'

Zweig rose and warmly shook the others by the hand. There were many good wishes for the future and David Hume gave Zweig's arm an admiring squeeze.

‘Goodbye, captain. I shall never forget your days on the dunes. I learnt much from watching you there.'

Zweig went to the hall to retrieve his wet weather jacket and then joined Dunbeath and Sophie in the storeroom. Once they were there the earl leant down and lifted the corner of the flagstone. It came away and he put his hand into the hole and pulled up the large stone.

‘Now, captain,' he said, ‘let me do this before we go through the cave.'

He went to a shelf in the room where he had left two huge leather pouches and handed them to Zweig.

‘Here is the gold, the very finest. This bag is for Herr Kant – the debt repaid. And this other one is for as much powder, arms and ammunition as you can buy with it.'

Zweig took the heavy sacks from him and Dunbeath then walked over to where a large piece of material was hanging from a hook. It was a cloak of black grogram lined with white silk and he handed it to Zweig with a smile.

‘And here is my father's old boat cloak for your journey. Something for you to remember the Urquhain by before we meet again. I fear it will become colder as you head for Königsberg. You will need it.'