Researchers at Carnegie Mellon University work at the frontier of innovation. Their key ingredient: human understanding.

By Mike Darling / Illustration by Bryan Christie

One of the hardest-working receptionists in business has never typed a memo in his life. He only pretends to answer phones and has an irritating habit of reminiscing with total strangers about his failed career with the CIA. He can remember the exact locations of every office in the building but fails to remember what you said to him the last time you spoke, even if the conversation took place just minutes ago and may or may not have involved a thinly veiled dig at his beloved Pittsburgh Steelers.

Instead, the digitized head of Marion “Tank” LeFleur—a square-jawed, sleepy-eyed man on a flat-screen display—greets visitors to the main lobby of Pittsburgh’s Carnegie Mellon School of Computer Science with a blank stare. “Welcome to Newell-Simon Hall,” he repeats in a calm, flat monotone. “How can I help you?” The large bronze sign hanging above his cramped wooden desk carousel reads “ROBOCEPTIONIST.” When a visitor types “Hw olld ar yu?” on an ancient keyboard, Tank takes offense. “Just because I’m armless doesn’t mean I’m less of a person,” he bellows through a speaker, garnering a few sidelong glances from the dozen-or-so students passing through the lobby. “Soon I will attend a self-defense camp for abused machines. I’m looking forward to getting away for a while.”

A passing graduate student looks up from his cell phone and smiles knowingly at the bizarre non sequitur. And that, his grin seems to say, is why I’m deep in debt, everyone.

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