question
As dawn broke through the gaps in the hotel's heavy curtains, a narrow strip of light cast across the carpet. When Jiang Mo awoke, she discovered she hadn't slept a wink; the sleep-aid spray had worked unexpectedly well. She picked up the spray bottle from the bedside table, her fingertips brushing over the handwritten coordinates at the bottom: the Golden Hall… What was Shen Zhiyan trying to imply by leaving this?
The forum's opening ceremony was held in a centuries-old Baroque auditorium at the University of Vienna. The dome's murals were weathered yet magnificent, and the air was filled with the scent of old books and the weight of time. Jiang Mo and Shen Zhiyan sat side by side in the guest section, surrounded by top scholars from around the world, conversing quietly in various languages, the atmosphere solemn and slightly dignified.
Shen Zhiyan, dressed in a well-fitting dark gray suit, maintained his usual calm demeanor. Jiang Mo noticed, however, that his hand, resting on his lap, was tapping rhythmically with his index finger—a subtle, almost imperceptible movement when he was deeply focused. She quietly placed her cool hand over his and gently pressed it. His tapping stopped abruptly. He glanced at her, his eyes flickering slightly before returning to their usual composure. He then took her hand in his own, his grip steady. Before a room full of academic giants, this subtle gesture was like a silent current, conveying mutual support.
The first thematic forum following the opening speech was themed "The Ethical Boundaries of Artificial Intelligence." Shen Zhiyan and Jiang Mo's joint presentation was scheduled for the middle session. When the host announced their names and topic—"Affective Computing and Public Cognition: An Exploration of an Interdisciplinary Communication Model"—polite but restrained applause rang out from the audience.
Shen Zhiyan was the first to step onto the stage, his movements precise and efficient as he adjusted the microphone. "Colleagues," he began, his voice carrying clearly through the auditorium through the loudspeaker, cutting straight to the point without any pleasantries, "our research attempts to demonstrate that, under strict control of variables and clear boundaries, affective computing technology can serve as an effective bridge connecting scientific rigor with public understanding..."
He presented concise yet powerful data models and laboratory results, with a clear and rigorous logical chain. However, when he mentioned his collaboration with Jiang Mo and the initial success of science communication through variety shows, several senior scholars in the audience visibly frowned.
When it was Jiang Mo's turn to speak, she calmly rose, walked to the front of the stage, her gaze sweeping across the audience, a perfectly timed smile playing on her lips. "As Dr. Shen explained, technology itself is a tool. And how to ensure that tools are correctly understood and used effectively may require us to step outside our established frameworks and try some…new ways of dialogue." Drawing on her own experiences on the program, she recounted the confusion, curiosity, and eventual understanding that ordinary people experience when faced with cutting-edge technology, her language vivid and full of empathy.
The atmosphere immediately became tense at the start of the Q&A session. An elderly German professor with gray hair and gold-rimmed glasses was the first to take the microphone, his tone carrying an undeniable air of authority:
“Dr. Shen, I must be frank, I find it difficult to agree with your research direction. Combining serious scientific research with…” He paused, his gaze sweeping over Jiang Mo with a hint of barely perceptible contempt, “…entertainment-oriented media forms, which in itself damages the purity of science. How can you guarantee that in this pursuit of 'effects,' the objectivity of science will not be compromised? Isn’t this a kind of…academic opportunism?”
Her words were sharp and merciless. The room fell silent instantly, all eyes focused on Shen Zhiyan.
Jiang Mo's heart leaped into her throat. She saw Shen Zhiyan's hand on the table, his knuckles slightly clenched. But there was no trace of anger on his face; instead, it seemed as if he had been waiting for this moment. He adjusted the microphone, his gaze calmly meeting the professor's.
“Professor Merkel, thank you for your question. First, please allow me to clarify a conceptual misunderstanding.” His voice remained calm. “The ‘effectiveness’ of science communication and the ‘objectivity’ of science are two orthogonal dimensions, not mutually exclusive. Our model shows…”
He then turned around and quickly wrote a series of complex mathematical symbols and inequalities on the whiteboard. "...When the signal-to-noise ratio of the transmission channel is higher than a certain threshold, the fidelity of information and the breadth of its dissemination can achieve Pareto optimality. What we are doing is optimizing the efficiency function of the transmission path while ensuring that the core data and conclusions are absolutely objective."
He constructed a solid logical defense using pure, irrefutable mathematical language. The German professor opened his mouth, seemingly wanting to refute, but couldn't find a starting point.
However, the questioning didn't stop there. A female sociologist from the UK then raised a more culturally relevant question: "I understand Dr. Shen's confidence in his technology, but the definition and expression of emotions vary greatly across different cultural backgrounds. How can your model, developed based on East Asian cultural samples, be universally applicable? Isn't this a form of cultural arrogance?"
This question points to a relatively weak link in Shen Zhiyan's theoretical system. He pondered for a moment, preparing to respond with more cross-cultural data and theoretical models, when Jiang Mo gently nudged his arm, indicating that she should try.
She picked up the microphone and, without attempting to use any language skills that weren't hers, spoke in clear, steady Chinese (her voice was transmitted in real-time through the simultaneous interpretation headset): "Thank you for asking this crucial question. As you said, cultural differences do exist and profoundly affect the expression of emotions."
She paused briefly, her gaze sweeping across the room with a sincere sense of discussion: "In our collaboration, one of my roles is perhaps that of a 'cultural sample' and 'translator.' I come from a different field than Dr. Shen, a field that relies more on intuition, empathy, and narrative. When we work together, I need to 'translate' his rigorous data into stories and emotions that I can understand; similarly, I will 'feedback' the confusion and feelings that ordinary viewers, or rather, people from different cultural backgrounds, might have to his model."
She then naturally gave an example: "For instance, in Spanish, there's a word 'Sobremesa,' which describes more than just casual conversation after a meal; it describes a specific, relaxed atmosphere and state that emphasizes emotional exchange. Can this subtle emotional dimension be quantified? And how can it be calibrated and interpreted across different cultures? This is precisely what we are exploring. Our goal is not to build a 'universal' model, but rather to use technology to build a bridge of understanding, allowing different 'emotional dialects' to have the opportunity to be 'heard' and 'recognized' by each other."
She didn't flaunt any language skills, but cleverly used her identities as an "actor" (good at understanding and expressing emotions) and a "learner" (cultural insights gained from learning Spanish) to transform her "domain knowledge" into arguments to address the questions, both acknowledging the limitations and clarifying the value and direction of her research.
A low murmur of agreement rippled through the room. The British scholar nodded slightly and fell silent. This response, based on genuine understanding and heartfelt thought, was far more powerful than a few awkwardly uttered foreign words.
Shen Zhiyan glanced at Jiang Mo, a clear glint of admiration and recognition flashing in his eyes behind his glasses. He said softly in Chinese, "Very good... perspective shift and problem reconstruction."
The first lecture ended without incident. As Shen Zhiyan stepped down from the stage, several young scholars who had initially held reservations approached him to exchange ideas, expressing their interest in this interdisciplinary endeavor. A cognitive scientist from MIT even jokingly said to Shen, "Hey, your mathematical proofs are impeccable, but honestly, isn't your partner's 'cross-cultural translation' ability the core 'algorithm' of your project?"
Shen Zhiyan glanced at Jiang Mo, who was calmly talking with others, and unusually did not refute her, only slightly twitching the corner of her lips.
While having lunch at the forum's buffet, a waiter quietly handed Shen Zhiyan a folded note, saying someone had asked him to deliver it. Shen Zhiyan unfolded the note; it contained only one line of printed English:
"Stop your performance. Some boundaries are inviolable."
In the lower right corner of the note, there was a blurry mark that looked like a bird's claw mark.
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