The Body That Thinks

On the third morning, Chiara had a new experiment. She placed a small acrylic maze on the floor of the tank. The maze had a single piece of crab meat at its centre. The walls were transparent, but the route through was complex: two right turns, a left, and a small chamber gate that pushed open from one side only.

Pasta was already watching from her usual corner. Chiara set up a small video camera on the rim and stepped back.

What Polly saw next was something she had never seen before.

Pasta sent two arms toward the maze before her body left the corner. The two arms moved independently of each other. One went over the top of the maze, exploring the structure. The other slid along the floor, into the maze entry. The two arms did not coordinate with each other. They were operating as if they were separate creatures.

This was not a metaphor. Chiara explained, while it was happening: an octopus has about five hundred million neurons. Two thirds of them are not in its central brain. They are in its arms. Each arm has its own complex nervous system. Each arm can solve simple problems on its own. The central brain provides high-level intention. The arms negotiate the details.

Polly hopped along the tank rim to keep up. The first arm threaded the corridor of the maze. It hit the first turn, paused, felt, and turned. It hit the second turn. Pasta's body had still not moved from her corner. The second arm, the one exploring the top, found the small gate at the chamber and tested its edges. It pushed once. The gate gave a little.

The first arm reached the gate from inside the maze. It pushed in the opposite direction. The gate opened.

The arm took the crab meat.

The whole exchange had taken perhaps thirty seconds. Pasta had not moved her main body once.

Chiara, watching her video screen, exhaled slowly. "This is the part we still do not understand," she said. "The arms got the food. Did the octopus solve the maze? Or did the two arms solve it together, while the central brain did something else entirely? We do not know. There are arguments for both. I am paid, basically, to argue about it."

Polly looked at Pasta. The octopus was now stretching her body slowly, the way a cat might. The eight arms gathered together, and pulled the crab meat to the beak. The maze, empty, sat on the tank floor.

There is a phrase scientists use when they cannot fit a creature into the categories they had before they met it. The phrase is "alien intelligence." Polly had heard it in lecture videos. She had thought it was poetic. Today, watching two arms work a maze without consulting each other, she revised her thinking. It might be literal.

Chiara packed up the camera. "I have a lunch meeting," she said. "You stay. She likes the company."

Polly stayed. Pasta returned to her pipe. The afternoon light through the windows changed slowly from blue-grey to gold. The octopus, occasionally, opened one eye and looked at her.

Polly did not say anything. The octopus, very obviously, was not waiting to be talked to.

The Body That Thinks

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