The other day I was in my dentist's office getting my teeth cleaned (wait, it gets better). Like most other health professionals, my dentist keeps patient records on paper in file folders bearing multicolored tabs, all crammed into shelves behind the receptionist's desk for easy access. As I discussed the bill with the office's insurance person, I glanced behind her and saw the name of a friend scrawled along a protruding edge of one folder.
Now, technically, that was a breach of confidential medical information, I suppose. I hadn't known that my friend and I shared a dentist in common, and I don't think anything nefarious will come of it. But this little episode shows that while some people concerned about computer security are worried now that the Obama Administration has gotten $19 billion out of Congress to spend on computerizing medical records, the old-fashioned paper records are not entirely secure either.
If you had asked someone in 1960 to guess whether doctors or lawyers would be faster to adopt computerized record-keeping, most people might have bet on the doctors. After all, doctors use advanced technology every day, while in 1960 it was still possible to operate a profitable law practice with manual typewriters and carbon paper. But history has proved this guess wrong. Most lawyers now shoot emails and .pdf files and electronic signatures around without a second thought, but doctors and hospitals still keep medical records more or less the same way they were kept in 1890: on millions of little scraps of paper in cardboard file folders. Yes, they can fax copies around, and sometimes do when requested, but the heart of the system is still paper, not electronic.
This state of affairs has its drawbacks. While no form of record-keeping is error-free, you would think that a profession with a reputation for bad handwriting would do something about keeping handwritten records of life-critical information before now. I am not aware of any formal estimate for how many people in the U. S. die every year due to medical errors caused by poor penmanship, but it's probably in the dozens, at least. So if it is done well, the transferring of medical records to computer form promises to reduce mistakes in a field where the phrase "fatal error" means more than just the fact that your computer crashed.
All the same, there are political groups which have been campaigning for increased protection of the privacy of patient records now that computerizing records looks like it actually may happen. A former RN named Deborah Peel runs an organization called Patient Privacy Rights, which tries to influence legislation to increase the formerly meager protections that U. S. citizens have against unauthorized use of their medical records. They have recently announced that the part of the stimulus bill paying for medical-record computerizing also has reasonably good protections in place for patient privacy. I admit to somewhat mixed feelings on this score, since efforts like this were responsible for the infamous information and consent forms every new patient has to fill out nowadays. To that extent, the reforms have increased everyone's paperwork burden, and whether patient privacy really got better is somewhat of an open question. But if the move to computers really succeeds, maybe the forms will become electronic too.
The $19-billion question right now is: exactly how is that money going to be used to convert the head-high file cabinets in every doctor's office and hospital in the country, into some computer files that presumably can be shared effortlessly from office to office? In trying to think of analogies to this, the only thing that comes to mind is the giant databases that aircraft manufacturers like Boeing maintain on new airplane designs. Everyone in the organization with the need to know about or alter these databases can access them instantaneously, and everyone ends up working from the same database. This system has increased productivity tremendously in the industry and reduced errors and misunderstandings a great deal.
But there are many differences between that situation and the case of medical records. Boeing is one private company, although a large one; the U. S. medical establishment is (so far, anyway) largely private, incredibly fragmented, and has no overall coordinating managerial structure of any kind. For the shared advantages of a common record-keeping system to be realized, somebody is going to have to impose some rules, which will include software and possibly hardware specifications. You know that all sorts of computer and software companies are currently salivating over that $19 billion, hoping that their particular product becomes the de-facto (or perhaps even de-jure) norm and they will end up with a good part of it in their pockets.
But given the rather anti-business tone of this administration, I can imagine another extreme, namely a Federal Medical-Records Computerization Agency, with thousands of newly hired young agents fresh out of college (where else are college graduates going to find jobs these days?), going from dentists to hospitals to chiropractors, knocking on doors and saying, "Hi, I'm from the government and I'm here to help you . . . computerize your medical records." Finish the joke any way you like, but that picture has its own drawbacks, not the least of which is the tremendous overhead in terms of federal employees and time it would take to decide on the system, train the agents to do their job, and then go and do it. If the Federal Aviation Administration's experiences with software are any guide (they have had tons of problems, including one or two expensive and complete failures), we have a right to be dubious that an all-government attempt to take on a huge software-intensive job like that will succeed, even with nineteen billion dollars behind it.
The sensible thing (and there are sensible people in government, though they don't often capture headlines) is an approach engaging both public and private entities, creating a minimum of new bureaucracies, trying things on a small scale first to work out the bugs, and adapting good systems that have been proven to work already. I hear that the Veterans' Administration, for example, has a pretty good computerized record approach that could be scaled up. Let's hope that sensible heads prevail, and we end up with computerized medical records that do the job with fewer errors and better privacy than the current paper records.
Sources: A report on some details of the portion of the stimulus package dealing with computerized medical records can be found at http://www.kansascity.com/444/story/1033620.html. Deborah Peel's Patient Privacy Rights organization has its website at http://www.patientprivacyrights.org.
Monday, February 23, 2009
Monday, February 16, 2009
The Crash of Flight 3407: Better Deicing Needed?
The passengers on Continental Airlines Flight 3407 from Newark, N. J. to Buffalo last Thursday night probably felt pretty confident about air travel, especially after hearing about Chesley Sullenberger's successful splash landing of his U. S. Air flight in the Hudson River less than a month ago after birds apparently clogged both engines. But a few minutes before the planned landing in Buffalo, the crew radioed that they were encountering noticeable icing on the wings. As soon as they attempted to lower the flaps for landing, the Bombardier Q400 commuter turboprop began to pitch and roll violently. The extended landing gear was retracted just before the plane crashed flat on top of a house in Clarence, New York, killing all 48 passengers and crew as well as one person on the ground.
Ice has been a problem for aircraft ever since the first airplane flew high and long enough to accumulate freezing rain on the wings. It tends to build up on the leading edges of airfoils. Besides its additional weight, ice can distort the airflow around the wing in unhelpful ways and even interfere with the mechanical movement of control surfaces such as ailerons and flaps.
There are three main approaches to deicing of aircraft. First, many airports are equipped to spray deicing solutions (basically a kind of antifreeze) on a plane's wings before takeoff. This can prevent ice buildup soon after takeoff, but it eventually wears off. In addition, larger aircraft use heated deicing strips that warm critical surfaces so that ice is less likely to form. Finally, smaller aircraft such as the two-engine Q400 usually use pneumatic deicing boots. If you imagine partially blowing up a balloon, spraying freezing water on it until it has a coating of ice, and then blowing it up more until it cracks out of its ice shell, you have pictured the essentials of a deicing boot.
At a news conference after the crash, federal investigators said that icing was a possible cause. The performance of pneumatic deicing boots has been of enough interest to inspire the Federal Aviation Administration to commission a lengthy investigation into how well they work. In 2006, the investigators published a 160-page report, which I have not had time to read since I found it this morning. However, the executive summary points out that in an actual flight test of an instrumented aircraft using the boots, enough so-called "intercycle ice" built up to produce a loss in lift of 25% or more. This loss became worse when the aircraft was close to a stall angle of attack.
The translation from aerodynamic engineering speak into layman's language goes something like this. Lift, the force that keeps an airplane in the air, can be reduced as much as one-fourth by ice that builds up between the times that pneumatic deicers operate (they work on an automatic cycle once they're turned on). If the airplane is trying to climb rapidly (as may well have happened, since a decision to retract landing gear is consistent with deciding to miss an approach and gain altitude), every airplane eventually reaches a "stall angle." When an airplane stalls, it nearly stops in the air and literally falls out of the sky. Recovering from a stall is hard, even in clear air in the daytime with a normally functioning aircraft when you have plenty of altitude left. The pilots of Flight 3407 were flying what was probably a plane with heavily iced control surfaces, in the dark, in freezing rain, with only about 2,000 feet between them and the ground. And it wasn't enough.
Speaking as a non-mechanical engineer, I have to confess that the picture of little rubber boots inflating and de-inflating to knock ice off a wing has its weirder aspects. Ice is not very strong mechanically, but it can be pretty sticky. And rubber exposed to the kind of life led by the leading edge of an aircraft wing is bound to get roughened and porous sooner or later, which will make ice stick to it that much better. I don't know any details such as how much the boots really inflate to blow off the ice. But the whole situation seems like it's a kind of empirical solution to a problem that is very hard to analyze theoretically, or even to model in the laboratory, as the FAA report itself admits. While the last accident where ice was implicated in the crash of this type of aircraft occurred fifteen years ago, even one life lost that could be prevented is too many.
We will have to wait for the final report of the crash investigation before we can draw any substantiated conclusions about what this accident says with regard to pneumatic deicing gear. As with many crashes, there may be a human factor involved. According to the Wikipedia website article "deicing," pilots used to believe that pneumatic deicers did not work well unless you allowed a certain minimum ice buildup to occur. Later studies reportedly revealed that this idea was false. We don't know what the late pilots of Flight 3407 believed, but we do have a record in the flight recording of what they did. Examination of that record plus engineering studies may show in more detail what went wrong and how accidents like this can be prevented in the future.
Sources: I used the MSNBC report from Associated Press currently available at http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29173163/, and the Wikipedia article "deicing." The FAA report "Investigation of Performance of Deicing Boots, Surface Ice Detectors, and Scaling of Intercycle Ice" is available for free download at http://www.tc.faa.gov/its/worldpac/techrpt/ar06-48.pdf.
Ice has been a problem for aircraft ever since the first airplane flew high and long enough to accumulate freezing rain on the wings. It tends to build up on the leading edges of airfoils. Besides its additional weight, ice can distort the airflow around the wing in unhelpful ways and even interfere with the mechanical movement of control surfaces such as ailerons and flaps.
There are three main approaches to deicing of aircraft. First, many airports are equipped to spray deicing solutions (basically a kind of antifreeze) on a plane's wings before takeoff. This can prevent ice buildup soon after takeoff, but it eventually wears off. In addition, larger aircraft use heated deicing strips that warm critical surfaces so that ice is less likely to form. Finally, smaller aircraft such as the two-engine Q400 usually use pneumatic deicing boots. If you imagine partially blowing up a balloon, spraying freezing water on it until it has a coating of ice, and then blowing it up more until it cracks out of its ice shell, you have pictured the essentials of a deicing boot.
At a news conference after the crash, federal investigators said that icing was a possible cause. The performance of pneumatic deicing boots has been of enough interest to inspire the Federal Aviation Administration to commission a lengthy investigation into how well they work. In 2006, the investigators published a 160-page report, which I have not had time to read since I found it this morning. However, the executive summary points out that in an actual flight test of an instrumented aircraft using the boots, enough so-called "intercycle ice" built up to produce a loss in lift of 25% or more. This loss became worse when the aircraft was close to a stall angle of attack.
The translation from aerodynamic engineering speak into layman's language goes something like this. Lift, the force that keeps an airplane in the air, can be reduced as much as one-fourth by ice that builds up between the times that pneumatic deicers operate (they work on an automatic cycle once they're turned on). If the airplane is trying to climb rapidly (as may well have happened, since a decision to retract landing gear is consistent with deciding to miss an approach and gain altitude), every airplane eventually reaches a "stall angle." When an airplane stalls, it nearly stops in the air and literally falls out of the sky. Recovering from a stall is hard, even in clear air in the daytime with a normally functioning aircraft when you have plenty of altitude left. The pilots of Flight 3407 were flying what was probably a plane with heavily iced control surfaces, in the dark, in freezing rain, with only about 2,000 feet between them and the ground. And it wasn't enough.
Speaking as a non-mechanical engineer, I have to confess that the picture of little rubber boots inflating and de-inflating to knock ice off a wing has its weirder aspects. Ice is not very strong mechanically, but it can be pretty sticky. And rubber exposed to the kind of life led by the leading edge of an aircraft wing is bound to get roughened and porous sooner or later, which will make ice stick to it that much better. I don't know any details such as how much the boots really inflate to blow off the ice. But the whole situation seems like it's a kind of empirical solution to a problem that is very hard to analyze theoretically, or even to model in the laboratory, as the FAA report itself admits. While the last accident where ice was implicated in the crash of this type of aircraft occurred fifteen years ago, even one life lost that could be prevented is too many.
We will have to wait for the final report of the crash investigation before we can draw any substantiated conclusions about what this accident says with regard to pneumatic deicing gear. As with many crashes, there may be a human factor involved. According to the Wikipedia website article "deicing," pilots used to believe that pneumatic deicers did not work well unless you allowed a certain minimum ice buildup to occur. Later studies reportedly revealed that this idea was false. We don't know what the late pilots of Flight 3407 believed, but we do have a record in the flight recording of what they did. Examination of that record plus engineering studies may show in more detail what went wrong and how accidents like this can be prevented in the future.
Sources: I used the MSNBC report from Associated Press currently available at http://www.msnbc.msn.com/id/29173163/, and the Wikipedia article "deicing." The FAA report "Investigation of Performance of Deicing Boots, Surface Ice Detectors, and Scaling of Intercycle Ice" is available for free download at http://www.tc.faa.gov/its/worldpac/techrpt/ar06-48.pdf.
Monday, February 09, 2009
Analog TV in the U. S.: Not Quite Dead Yet
Politics gets into everything nowadays, even my lecture notes for an electromagnetics course I hope to teach next fall. In the process of trying to give a more vivid picture of what the electromagnetic spectrum is like, I included a list of radio and television frequencies and what they were used for. One of them is "Old TV channel 56—now reassigned to other uses." When I wrote that, I was counting on having the switch to digital TV in the U. S. to happen on schedule, which until the politicians got into the act again was a week from tomorrow. But now, if President Obama signs legislation passed by Congress, which he has promised to do, the switch is delayed at least until June, and there is a good chance that even then, Congress and the President will take a look at the situation and say, "Well, there's still all these poor people who still haven't got digital converters, so let's wait another little while."
I confess to feelings of great ambivalence about the whole thing: digital versus analog TV, how the switchover has been handled here, and for that matter, TV in general. In these feelings, I continue a long-standing if obscure tradition of TV engineers who at best viewed TV in a dim light (metaphorically speaking) or disapproved of it altogether. The engineer who could be considered as the father of electronic television, Vladimir K. Zworykin, is quoted in the Wikipedia article about him as saying, "I hate what they've done to my child . . . I would never let my own children watch it." This feeling was shared by at least one other electronics engineer of note, Harold A. Wheeler, whose inventions were fundamental to both radio and television. For many years, my wife and I did not own a television set, and when we eventually got one, all we did with it was watch old movies on VCR tapes and DVDs. Finally, a couple of years ago when my father-in-law moved in with us, he received a large-screen TV as a gift and we hooked it up to cable TV. But I still suspect that in some ways the world might be better off without TV.
That being said, I earned my living for a couple of years around 1980 devising ways to keep people who hadn't paid for cable TV from watching it. This involved work at Scientific-Atlanta in what was called "scrambling." In the process, I had to get thoroughly familiar with the analog TV system, and purely for that reason I will be sorry to see the departure of an old acquaintance of long standing. Like any old friend, its flaws became as obvious to me as its virtues. In contrast to the European systems of analog color TV, the U. S. system (termed "NTSC" for the National Television Standards Committee that devised it in the early 1950s) did not reproduce the hue of colors very well unless the entire transmission system was carefully and repeatedly calibrated to maintain something called "constant group delay." For this reason, engineers joked that NTSC actually stood for "Never Twice the Same Color." Nevertheless, it served us reasonably well for over half a century, and I am somewhat sorry to see it go. If in fact it goes at all.
As to the ethics of the thing, I don't believe any wrongdoing can be laid at the feet of the engineers who cooked up digital TV and did the intensely political work of getting major companies and industry groups to agree on the new standards. By most engineering criteria, digital TV is a great advance over analog TV. It does more: it allows several sub-channels within one main channel, allows for a variety of display formats, and delivers an essentially studio-quality image everywhere within range of the transmitter, without the old analog problems of "snow" and "ghosts." (Of course, it does tend to fall off a cliff into complete disaster when you get out of range, but that is how all digital media tend to work: either very well or not at all.) And once it is implemented, we can get by with less spectrum bandwidth devoted to TV, which is how the federal government raised nearly $20 billion by auctioning off the surplus spectrum that will be freed up when all the stations go digital. This will lead, one hopes, to a variety of new digital wireless services, which is why some companies such as Qualcomm who were about to roll out such services complained loudly at the delay.
In comparison with how the digital rollout has been handled in England, the FCC and the TV industry stumbled rather badly here. In England, where everybody who watches TV pays a yearly license fee to the government to support the BBC and so on, the conversion happened in geographic stages and abundant help and equipment was made available. In the U. S., by contrast, there's been a lot of one-way communication in the form of advertising, an underfunded coupon program that assumes a lot of abilities on the part of the consumer (how to get the coupon, what to buy with it, how to hook up the box), and by some estimates, a failure to reach millions of people who still watch TV over the air with old analog sets. These folks tend to have lower incomes and are older and often socially isolated—people for whom TV is arguably one of their main companions. And I agree it would be a shame to simply cut them off without any help or assistance about what to do when that occurs. But no matter what we do, there will be some people who will be caught unawares no matter how much spade work is done in preparing the public for the change. And the rest of the country should not be held hostage to a few people who will have their screens go blank when digital comes along.
So maybe one delay is understandable. But such things can get habit-forming, like resolutions to quit smoking. Mark Twain said it was easy to quit smoking; he'd done it dozens of times. Let's hope we use the next four months to help more of the people who need help with the digital transition, and then go ahead and get it over with.
Sources: A news article describing the latest news on legislation to delay the switchover can be found at the Reuters website http://www.reuters.com/article/industryNews/idUSTRE5136YP20090205.
I confess to feelings of great ambivalence about the whole thing: digital versus analog TV, how the switchover has been handled here, and for that matter, TV in general. In these feelings, I continue a long-standing if obscure tradition of TV engineers who at best viewed TV in a dim light (metaphorically speaking) or disapproved of it altogether. The engineer who could be considered as the father of electronic television, Vladimir K. Zworykin, is quoted in the Wikipedia article about him as saying, "I hate what they've done to my child . . . I would never let my own children watch it." This feeling was shared by at least one other electronics engineer of note, Harold A. Wheeler, whose inventions were fundamental to both radio and television. For many years, my wife and I did not own a television set, and when we eventually got one, all we did with it was watch old movies on VCR tapes and DVDs. Finally, a couple of years ago when my father-in-law moved in with us, he received a large-screen TV as a gift and we hooked it up to cable TV. But I still suspect that in some ways the world might be better off without TV.
That being said, I earned my living for a couple of years around 1980 devising ways to keep people who hadn't paid for cable TV from watching it. This involved work at Scientific-Atlanta in what was called "scrambling." In the process, I had to get thoroughly familiar with the analog TV system, and purely for that reason I will be sorry to see the departure of an old acquaintance of long standing. Like any old friend, its flaws became as obvious to me as its virtues. In contrast to the European systems of analog color TV, the U. S. system (termed "NTSC" for the National Television Standards Committee that devised it in the early 1950s) did not reproduce the hue of colors very well unless the entire transmission system was carefully and repeatedly calibrated to maintain something called "constant group delay." For this reason, engineers joked that NTSC actually stood for "Never Twice the Same Color." Nevertheless, it served us reasonably well for over half a century, and I am somewhat sorry to see it go. If in fact it goes at all.
As to the ethics of the thing, I don't believe any wrongdoing can be laid at the feet of the engineers who cooked up digital TV and did the intensely political work of getting major companies and industry groups to agree on the new standards. By most engineering criteria, digital TV is a great advance over analog TV. It does more: it allows several sub-channels within one main channel, allows for a variety of display formats, and delivers an essentially studio-quality image everywhere within range of the transmitter, without the old analog problems of "snow" and "ghosts." (Of course, it does tend to fall off a cliff into complete disaster when you get out of range, but that is how all digital media tend to work: either very well or not at all.) And once it is implemented, we can get by with less spectrum bandwidth devoted to TV, which is how the federal government raised nearly $20 billion by auctioning off the surplus spectrum that will be freed up when all the stations go digital. This will lead, one hopes, to a variety of new digital wireless services, which is why some companies such as Qualcomm who were about to roll out such services complained loudly at the delay.
In comparison with how the digital rollout has been handled in England, the FCC and the TV industry stumbled rather badly here. In England, where everybody who watches TV pays a yearly license fee to the government to support the BBC and so on, the conversion happened in geographic stages and abundant help and equipment was made available. In the U. S., by contrast, there's been a lot of one-way communication in the form of advertising, an underfunded coupon program that assumes a lot of abilities on the part of the consumer (how to get the coupon, what to buy with it, how to hook up the box), and by some estimates, a failure to reach millions of people who still watch TV over the air with old analog sets. These folks tend to have lower incomes and are older and often socially isolated—people for whom TV is arguably one of their main companions. And I agree it would be a shame to simply cut them off without any help or assistance about what to do when that occurs. But no matter what we do, there will be some people who will be caught unawares no matter how much spade work is done in preparing the public for the change. And the rest of the country should not be held hostage to a few people who will have their screens go blank when digital comes along.
So maybe one delay is understandable. But such things can get habit-forming, like resolutions to quit smoking. Mark Twain said it was easy to quit smoking; he'd done it dozens of times. Let's hope we use the next four months to help more of the people who need help with the digital transition, and then go ahead and get it over with.
Sources: A news article describing the latest news on legislation to delay the switchover can be found at the Reuters website http://www.reuters.com/article/industryNews/idUSTRE5136YP20090205.
Monday, February 02, 2009
Engineering Ethics and "Software Engineering"
Every now and then I like to write about something that is at least potentially controversial. The question of whether software engineering is really engineering ought to do it. I'd like to be more specific: should people who call themselves software engineers be bound by the same professional ethical principles that other engineers claim to follow?
As types of engineering go, software engineering is a relative newcomer. Philosopher Michael Davis, who has written extensively on engineering ethics, traces the first use of the term to a 1967 NATO meeting on software design. Since then, computers and the software they all have to run on have become a huge part of everyday life, and an even greater part of engineering. There are seventeen accredited undergraduate programs at U. S. universities and colleges in software engineering, and by that and other measures you might think software engineers have as much right to call themselves engineers as any other member of the profession. But Davis isn't so sure.
That may be one reason that Davis, along with twenty-four other experts, contributed to the creation of a distinct ethical code for software engineers. It is promulgated by the Association for Computing Machinery (ACM) in cooperation with the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers (IEEE). The IEEE Code of Ethics, which has been around for at least thirty years, is only 256 words long. By contrast, the full version of the ACM/IEEE Software Engineering Code of Ethics is over 2400 words long (although a shorter version is also available). More important than such superficialities as the length of the codes of ethics is the question of why software engineers need a separate set of ethical principles in the first place.
One reason may be that the education and training to do software engineering is markedly different than the typical training that other kinds of engineers receive. If you look at the undergraduate curriculum of most engineering programs, you see a solid one- to two-year foundation in the sciences: physics, mathematics, and (usually) chemistry. But it is generally accepted that people who can do good programming don't need to know any physics or chemistry, and even the utility of the kind of mathematics most engineering programs emphasize (that is, calculus, differential equations, and so on) is questionable. The type of science called computer science obviously relies on mathematics, but people without any significant background in computer science do software engineering all the time.
Are the ethical issues faced by software engineers markedly different compared to those faced by other engineers? The people who came up with the ACM/IEEE software engineering code seemed to think so, or else they would have simply referred inquirers to another code of ethics such as the IEEE's. A cursory reading of the ACM/IEEE code's long form reveals only a few items that could not explicitly apply to other kinds of engineers as well. For example, item 5.03 of the ACM/IEEE code states that those managing or leading software engineers should "[e]nsure that software engineers know the employer's policies and procedures for protecting passwords, files and information that is confidential to the employer or confidential to others." This is good advice to any type of manager, not just managers of software engineers. My sense is that, rather than leave some ethical stones unturned, the writers of the ACM/IEEE software engineering code tried to think of nearly every issue that software engineers might face, whether or not it pertains peculiarly to software engineering.
As a member of an older engineering discipline (electronic engineering), I confess to a twinge of professional jealousy as software engineering gains prominence. The truth of the matter is that as time goes on, the old divisions between disciplines become harder and harder to find in a typical workplace. It has always been true that many engineers also do management at various times, and often become full-time managers later in their careers. But nowadays it is hard to find any kind of engineer who doesn't at least use software, and every engineering student takes at least a smattering of computer-code writing along the way to graduation.
Still, there is the old notion that engineering is fundamentally about physical stuff, not the ephemeral and fundamentally non-material thing called software. Be that as it may, it is a hard fact that software is (a) produced by people with special knowledge for (b) use by non-specialists who (c) can be seriously inconvenienced (or worse) by software that doesn't perform as expected. Those three items have been true of all engineered products since we began to talk about engineers in the nineteenth century, and they are also true of the non-material product called software. So from a pragmatic standpoint, those who write software for sale or use by others bear the exact same type of responsibility as engineers who design bridges or rockets. For that matter, no bridge or rocket is designed today without at least the use of software, so by implication, software engineers are involved in most other kinds of engineering too.
Software engineering is still a young field, and news items about grand software-project disasters still come up from time to time. But the same was true of the earliest iron and steel bridges: they collapsed with alarming frequency. However, their designers didn't give up on the idea. Instead, they studied what went wrong, learned from their mistakes, got more organized as a profession, and went on to improve the next generation of bridges. I hope that the ACM/IEEE code of software engineering ethics does the same for its young discipline. But all the same, I'll take 256 words over 2400 words any day.
Sources: More thoughts on whether software engineering is really engineering can be found in chapter 3, "Are 'Software Engineers' Engineers?" of Michael Davis's book Thinking Like an Engineer: Studies in the Ethics of a Profession (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1998). The ACM/IEEE Software Engineering Code of Ethics is currently at http://www.acm.org/about/se-code. The IEEE Code of Ethics is at http://www.ieee.org/portal/pages/iportals/aboutus/ethics/code.html.
As types of engineering go, software engineering is a relative newcomer. Philosopher Michael Davis, who has written extensively on engineering ethics, traces the first use of the term to a 1967 NATO meeting on software design. Since then, computers and the software they all have to run on have become a huge part of everyday life, and an even greater part of engineering. There are seventeen accredited undergraduate programs at U. S. universities and colleges in software engineering, and by that and other measures you might think software engineers have as much right to call themselves engineers as any other member of the profession. But Davis isn't so sure.
That may be one reason that Davis, along with twenty-four other experts, contributed to the creation of a distinct ethical code for software engineers. It is promulgated by the Association for Computing Machinery (ACM) in cooperation with the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers (IEEE). The IEEE Code of Ethics, which has been around for at least thirty years, is only 256 words long. By contrast, the full version of the ACM/IEEE Software Engineering Code of Ethics is over 2400 words long (although a shorter version is also available). More important than such superficialities as the length of the codes of ethics is the question of why software engineers need a separate set of ethical principles in the first place.
One reason may be that the education and training to do software engineering is markedly different than the typical training that other kinds of engineers receive. If you look at the undergraduate curriculum of most engineering programs, you see a solid one- to two-year foundation in the sciences: physics, mathematics, and (usually) chemistry. But it is generally accepted that people who can do good programming don't need to know any physics or chemistry, and even the utility of the kind of mathematics most engineering programs emphasize (that is, calculus, differential equations, and so on) is questionable. The type of science called computer science obviously relies on mathematics, but people without any significant background in computer science do software engineering all the time.
Are the ethical issues faced by software engineers markedly different compared to those faced by other engineers? The people who came up with the ACM/IEEE software engineering code seemed to think so, or else they would have simply referred inquirers to another code of ethics such as the IEEE's. A cursory reading of the ACM/IEEE code's long form reveals only a few items that could not explicitly apply to other kinds of engineers as well. For example, item 5.03 of the ACM/IEEE code states that those managing or leading software engineers should "[e]nsure that software engineers know the employer's policies and procedures for protecting passwords, files and information that is confidential to the employer or confidential to others." This is good advice to any type of manager, not just managers of software engineers. My sense is that, rather than leave some ethical stones unturned, the writers of the ACM/IEEE software engineering code tried to think of nearly every issue that software engineers might face, whether or not it pertains peculiarly to software engineering.
As a member of an older engineering discipline (electronic engineering), I confess to a twinge of professional jealousy as software engineering gains prominence. The truth of the matter is that as time goes on, the old divisions between disciplines become harder and harder to find in a typical workplace. It has always been true that many engineers also do management at various times, and often become full-time managers later in their careers. But nowadays it is hard to find any kind of engineer who doesn't at least use software, and every engineering student takes at least a smattering of computer-code writing along the way to graduation.
Still, there is the old notion that engineering is fundamentally about physical stuff, not the ephemeral and fundamentally non-material thing called software. Be that as it may, it is a hard fact that software is (a) produced by people with special knowledge for (b) use by non-specialists who (c) can be seriously inconvenienced (or worse) by software that doesn't perform as expected. Those three items have been true of all engineered products since we began to talk about engineers in the nineteenth century, and they are also true of the non-material product called software. So from a pragmatic standpoint, those who write software for sale or use by others bear the exact same type of responsibility as engineers who design bridges or rockets. For that matter, no bridge or rocket is designed today without at least the use of software, so by implication, software engineers are involved in most other kinds of engineering too.
Software engineering is still a young field, and news items about grand software-project disasters still come up from time to time. But the same was true of the earliest iron and steel bridges: they collapsed with alarming frequency. However, their designers didn't give up on the idea. Instead, they studied what went wrong, learned from their mistakes, got more organized as a profession, and went on to improve the next generation of bridges. I hope that the ACM/IEEE code of software engineering ethics does the same for its young discipline. But all the same, I'll take 256 words over 2400 words any day.
Sources: More thoughts on whether software engineering is really engineering can be found in chapter 3, "Are 'Software Engineers' Engineers?" of Michael Davis's book Thinking Like an Engineer: Studies in the Ethics of a Profession (New York: Oxford Univ. Press, 1998). The ACM/IEEE Software Engineering Code of Ethics is currently at http://www.acm.org/about/se-code. The IEEE Code of Ethics is at http://www.ieee.org/portal/pages/iportals/aboutus/ethics/code.html.
Monday, January 26, 2009
Downadup: A Cure Worse Than the Disease?
Anyone with a PC (and that means most people reading this blog) should know that there is a new worm out there which by some estimates has infected as many as one out of every three PCs worldwide. Known as Downadup or Conficker, it has spread rapidly in the last few weeks despite attempts by Microsoft to issue updated security patches to its Windows operating system. One reason these attempts haven't been particularly successful is that the worm reportedly disables the computer's automatic security update function by blocking access to security websites. Experts are concerned that the worm will be used by its originators to mount malicious botnet activity or other harmful and/or illegal actions in the near future.
That's all bad enough, but this attack has brought up an interesting ethical question. Suppose that security experts find that the worm is poised to do some really nasty things, as many already suspect it is. Suppose also that they (the "good guys," that is) figure out how to use the worm to gain access to infected computers, more or less the way its original developers intended. But instead of turning the worm (so to speak) to evil purposes, the security people use it simply to warn users that their computer is infected, and that they ought to do something about it. Would that be an ethical thing to do?
Opinions in the security community are reportedly divided on this issue. One security analyst was quoted by the New York Times as saying "It's a really bad idea . . . . The ethics of this haven't changed in 20 years, because the reality is that you can cause just as many problems as you solve." Arguing in favor of the idea, another expert was quoted as saying, "Yes, it's illegal, but so was Rosa Parks sitting in front of the bus."
I can think of at least two objections to the notion of using the worm itself to warn people about it. One is legal, and the other is more pragmatic and sociological.
The legal objection has to do with using malicious means to achieve a good end. If you as a security person exploit a worm that was developed by someone intending to harm others, you are intruding on the privacy and integrity of every computer that is infected. The very act of using such a means is illegal, even if you intend to use it for a good purpose. That is acknowledged by the expert who cited Rosa Parks as an example of someone who obeyed a higher law than what was on the law books at the time. But the immoral status of the law in this case is far from being as clear-cut to us now, as the Jim Crow discriminatory laws against blacks were when Rosa Parks disobeyed them half a century ago.
The pragmatic and sociological objection has to do with the reactions of the people who would get the alleged warning message. What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you get an email, say, telling you that your computer is infected and to go to such-and-such website to fix it? I don't know about you, but my first reaction is suspicion, and my next reaction is to flush the email, because I am pretty sure it is a "phishing" email designed to get me to compromise my computer somehow. The cyberworld has been so plagued by phishing dodges like this, that the chances of a legitimate message from a bona-fide security organization being believed are certainly less than 100%, and maybe much lower. So not only is it illegal, it probably wouldn't work very well.
There might be some invisible software way for the security folks to disable the worm remotely without the knowledge of those whose computers are infected, but who knows what other ramifications that might involve? Every computer is slightly different, and the risks involved in such tinkering probably outweigh the benefits that might result. Besides, it's no different in principle than walking into a stranger's office and messing with their computer, even if you mean to help out. Most people wouldn't appreciate this if they saw you doing it in person, and doing it remotely and invisibly doesn't change that aspect of the situation.
Maybe the person who brought up Rosa Parks is right, and the severity of the new worms like Downadup warrants a re-thinking of traditional ethics on this issue. An analogous historical situation that comes to mind was the controversy that arose when fluoridation of public water supplies was first proposed on a large scale in the 1950s to prevent tooth decay. This was another case in which an individual right (not to drink fluoridated water) was posed against a public good (the benefits of lower rates of tooth decay). In the Downadup issue, you have the individual right of not having some security expert mess with the inner workings of your PC, opposed against the common good that would result if said experts had the freedom to try counteracting worms by using the same methods the worms use. Although fluoridation is widespread, it is by no means universal and can still inflame controversies in regions where it is not yet practiced. Of course, public water supplies are delineated by geographic boundaries, while computer networks are essentially borderless, so the cases are different in that respect.
Perhaps we'll just have to wait and see what Downadup's evil creators (I have no hesitation in using that word for them) plan to do next. If its attacks are bad enough, maybe there will be a wider debate on the issue of how to forestall or prevent worms, including a reconsideration of the ethics of using worms to fight other worms. But until then, I'm not believing any emails telling me my computer's infected, unless they come from someone I trust in cyberspace. And these days, that's not a very long list.
Sources: The New York Times article "Worm Infects Millions of Computers Worldwide" appeared in the Jan. 22 online edition at http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/23/technology/internet/23worm.html. I also used material from the About.com sites http://pcworld.about.com/od/virusesphishingspam/Downadup-Worm-Eats-into-1-of-E.htm and http://antivirus.about.com/od/virusdescriptions/tp/downadup.htm. (Full disclosure: My wife edits a blog for About.com, which is a subsidiary of the New York Times Company.)
That's all bad enough, but this attack has brought up an interesting ethical question. Suppose that security experts find that the worm is poised to do some really nasty things, as many already suspect it is. Suppose also that they (the "good guys," that is) figure out how to use the worm to gain access to infected computers, more or less the way its original developers intended. But instead of turning the worm (so to speak) to evil purposes, the security people use it simply to warn users that their computer is infected, and that they ought to do something about it. Would that be an ethical thing to do?
Opinions in the security community are reportedly divided on this issue. One security analyst was quoted by the New York Times as saying "It's a really bad idea . . . . The ethics of this haven't changed in 20 years, because the reality is that you can cause just as many problems as you solve." Arguing in favor of the idea, another expert was quoted as saying, "Yes, it's illegal, but so was Rosa Parks sitting in front of the bus."
I can think of at least two objections to the notion of using the worm itself to warn people about it. One is legal, and the other is more pragmatic and sociological.
The legal objection has to do with using malicious means to achieve a good end. If you as a security person exploit a worm that was developed by someone intending to harm others, you are intruding on the privacy and integrity of every computer that is infected. The very act of using such a means is illegal, even if you intend to use it for a good purpose. That is acknowledged by the expert who cited Rosa Parks as an example of someone who obeyed a higher law than what was on the law books at the time. But the immoral status of the law in this case is far from being as clear-cut to us now, as the Jim Crow discriminatory laws against blacks were when Rosa Parks disobeyed them half a century ago.
The pragmatic and sociological objection has to do with the reactions of the people who would get the alleged warning message. What is the first thing that comes to your mind when you get an email, say, telling you that your computer is infected and to go to such-and-such website to fix it? I don't know about you, but my first reaction is suspicion, and my next reaction is to flush the email, because I am pretty sure it is a "phishing" email designed to get me to compromise my computer somehow. The cyberworld has been so plagued by phishing dodges like this, that the chances of a legitimate message from a bona-fide security organization being believed are certainly less than 100%, and maybe much lower. So not only is it illegal, it probably wouldn't work very well.
There might be some invisible software way for the security folks to disable the worm remotely without the knowledge of those whose computers are infected, but who knows what other ramifications that might involve? Every computer is slightly different, and the risks involved in such tinkering probably outweigh the benefits that might result. Besides, it's no different in principle than walking into a stranger's office and messing with their computer, even if you mean to help out. Most people wouldn't appreciate this if they saw you doing it in person, and doing it remotely and invisibly doesn't change that aspect of the situation.
Maybe the person who brought up Rosa Parks is right, and the severity of the new worms like Downadup warrants a re-thinking of traditional ethics on this issue. An analogous historical situation that comes to mind was the controversy that arose when fluoridation of public water supplies was first proposed on a large scale in the 1950s to prevent tooth decay. This was another case in which an individual right (not to drink fluoridated water) was posed against a public good (the benefits of lower rates of tooth decay). In the Downadup issue, you have the individual right of not having some security expert mess with the inner workings of your PC, opposed against the common good that would result if said experts had the freedom to try counteracting worms by using the same methods the worms use. Although fluoridation is widespread, it is by no means universal and can still inflame controversies in regions where it is not yet practiced. Of course, public water supplies are delineated by geographic boundaries, while computer networks are essentially borderless, so the cases are different in that respect.
Perhaps we'll just have to wait and see what Downadup's evil creators (I have no hesitation in using that word for them) plan to do next. If its attacks are bad enough, maybe there will be a wider debate on the issue of how to forestall or prevent worms, including a reconsideration of the ethics of using worms to fight other worms. But until then, I'm not believing any emails telling me my computer's infected, unless they come from someone I trust in cyberspace. And these days, that's not a very long list.
Sources: The New York Times article "Worm Infects Millions of Computers Worldwide" appeared in the Jan. 22 online edition at http://www.nytimes.com/2009/01/23/technology/internet/23worm.html. I also used material from the About.com sites http://pcworld.about.com/od/virusesphishingspam/Downadup-Worm-Eats-into-1-of-E.htm and http://antivirus.about.com/od/virusdescriptions/tp/downadup.htm. (Full disclosure: My wife edits a blog for About.com, which is a subsidiary of the New York Times Company.)
Monday, January 19, 2009
Miracle on 45th Street: Role of the Engineers
What could have been a tragic airplane crash that killed over 150 people turned last Thursday into one of those rarities, a big news story with a happy ending. When Pilot Chesley Sullenberger mentioned a minute into his flight out of New York's La Guardia Airport that he was seeing a lot of birds, he probably didn't think that a few seconds later, both of his engines on the dual-engine Airbus A320 would flame out simultaneously. But the flight data recorder shows that is exactly what happened once the plane reached an altitude of 3,200 feet.
We don't know for sure if it was birds that caused the accident, but what we do know is that everything happening after that had years of skilled professional and engineering planning behind it. Sullenberger, as it happened, had made a study of how cockpit crews react to emergencies, and was planning after retirement to start an airline-safety consulting business. I would say that his chances of succeeding in that business are greatly improved after what happened next. By all reports, he calmly steered the aircraft down the center of the Hudson River, got on the PA system to the passengers to say only one thing: "Brace for impact," and splash-landed the craft intact, unless you count the loss of one engine, which was not doing him any good at that point anyway. Although there were isolated cases of panic on the part of the passengers, the plane remained afloat long enough for everyone—100%—to get out alive and reasonably well. Some people even went back to the airport and continued on their travels right away.
The word "miracle" is being used a lot to describe what happened. I will not argue with that. If you had asked me what the chances of survival were on a flight that lost power less than a mile above the Hudson River, I would not have given you very good odds. Over my years of airline travel, I have watched dozens of times as flight attendants went through the FAA-required safety lecture, complete with gestures involving seat belts and those improbable-looking life vests that they never actually inflate. I had come to regard the whole thing as a kind of ceremony done not for any practical consequences it might have, but merely to make the passengers feel better. Listening to them talk about inflating the vest by blowing into the mouthpiece and so on usually reminded me of an alternative version an irreverent colleague once told me: "In case of emergency, put your head down between your knees and kiss your a-- goodbye."
But the miracle of flight 1549 makes me rethink these cynical musings. It is indeed possible to splash-land a commercial airliner in such a way that if it happens to come down in the middle of one of the most rescue-ready waterways in the world, all the passengers and crew members can get out safely. I have been unable to discover how deep the water was at the crash site, but it was apparently too deep to support the plane, which nevertheless floated long enough for a successful rescue operation.
The fact that it did so, and that it didn't break up on impact, and that the engines didn't set the whole plane on fire after they failed, and a number of other fortunate occurrences that I am not technically savvy enough to imagine, is due not only to the grace of God, and the skill of the pilot and co-pilot, but to the planning, experience, and wisdom of the engineers who designed and built the A320 Airbus. Not every kind of aircraft could withstand that sort of abuse, but this one did. The survival of the passengers depended on the integrity of the airframe, which came through with flying colors (or floating, as the case may be).
Perhaps it is petty to quibble about a minor point, but the only thing that would make this good story better would be to discover that there were actually enough life rafts on the plane to accommodate all the passengers. I don't know whether there were or not. Now in the case of a 747 or something equally large, I don't think surviving a water landing is feasible. The stresses on such a structure would simply be too great, and even if you packed enough life rafts for the over 350 passengers, there might not be any room left for luggage. But after Sullenberger's triumph, we should at least give some thought to the question of how to survive a similar splash landing in the open sea.
In the early days of commercial air travel, many if not most intercontinental flights used "flying boats" intentionally designed to land on water. The reliability of reciprocating engines was simply not that great, and it was probably a good public relations move for airlines such as Pan Am to be able to reassure the public that even if all the engines failed (and there were usually four), there was at least a chance of landing safely on the water, whereupon the plane would float indefinitely. Once engine reliability improved, the flying boats gradually disappeared, although there are a few left for specialty purposes. It turns out that water landings have their own hazards, so the increased safety of water-landing aircraft is more apparent than real.
But the good news coming out of the Hudson River last Thursday was real, and I hope this incident enters the engineering ethics literature as a good example of things going right. It is fully as exciting a story as many less fortunate technical mishaps, and has a happy ending. One of my colleagues used to summarize his goals in teaching engineering ethics as "No headlines." Generally that is good advice, but the headlines about the miracle on 45th Street, near the Manhattan shore where the plane landed, were welcome news indeed, for engineers and for everyone else.
Sources: I drew upon several news reports for this column, including a New York Daily News item at http://www.nydailynews.com/news/2009/01/15/2009-01-15_passengers_in_us_airways_hudson_river_cr.html and a Yahoo News item at http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090118/ap_on_re_us/plane_splashdown, which carried information about the flight data recorder.
We don't know for sure if it was birds that caused the accident, but what we do know is that everything happening after that had years of skilled professional and engineering planning behind it. Sullenberger, as it happened, had made a study of how cockpit crews react to emergencies, and was planning after retirement to start an airline-safety consulting business. I would say that his chances of succeeding in that business are greatly improved after what happened next. By all reports, he calmly steered the aircraft down the center of the Hudson River, got on the PA system to the passengers to say only one thing: "Brace for impact," and splash-landed the craft intact, unless you count the loss of one engine, which was not doing him any good at that point anyway. Although there were isolated cases of panic on the part of the passengers, the plane remained afloat long enough for everyone—100%—to get out alive and reasonably well. Some people even went back to the airport and continued on their travels right away.
The word "miracle" is being used a lot to describe what happened. I will not argue with that. If you had asked me what the chances of survival were on a flight that lost power less than a mile above the Hudson River, I would not have given you very good odds. Over my years of airline travel, I have watched dozens of times as flight attendants went through the FAA-required safety lecture, complete with gestures involving seat belts and those improbable-looking life vests that they never actually inflate. I had come to regard the whole thing as a kind of ceremony done not for any practical consequences it might have, but merely to make the passengers feel better. Listening to them talk about inflating the vest by blowing into the mouthpiece and so on usually reminded me of an alternative version an irreverent colleague once told me: "In case of emergency, put your head down between your knees and kiss your a-- goodbye."
But the miracle of flight 1549 makes me rethink these cynical musings. It is indeed possible to splash-land a commercial airliner in such a way that if it happens to come down in the middle of one of the most rescue-ready waterways in the world, all the passengers and crew members can get out safely. I have been unable to discover how deep the water was at the crash site, but it was apparently too deep to support the plane, which nevertheless floated long enough for a successful rescue operation.
The fact that it did so, and that it didn't break up on impact, and that the engines didn't set the whole plane on fire after they failed, and a number of other fortunate occurrences that I am not technically savvy enough to imagine, is due not only to the grace of God, and the skill of the pilot and co-pilot, but to the planning, experience, and wisdom of the engineers who designed and built the A320 Airbus. Not every kind of aircraft could withstand that sort of abuse, but this one did. The survival of the passengers depended on the integrity of the airframe, which came through with flying colors (or floating, as the case may be).
Perhaps it is petty to quibble about a minor point, but the only thing that would make this good story better would be to discover that there were actually enough life rafts on the plane to accommodate all the passengers. I don't know whether there were or not. Now in the case of a 747 or something equally large, I don't think surviving a water landing is feasible. The stresses on such a structure would simply be too great, and even if you packed enough life rafts for the over 350 passengers, there might not be any room left for luggage. But after Sullenberger's triumph, we should at least give some thought to the question of how to survive a similar splash landing in the open sea.
In the early days of commercial air travel, many if not most intercontinental flights used "flying boats" intentionally designed to land on water. The reliability of reciprocating engines was simply not that great, and it was probably a good public relations move for airlines such as Pan Am to be able to reassure the public that even if all the engines failed (and there were usually four), there was at least a chance of landing safely on the water, whereupon the plane would float indefinitely. Once engine reliability improved, the flying boats gradually disappeared, although there are a few left for specialty purposes. It turns out that water landings have their own hazards, so the increased safety of water-landing aircraft is more apparent than real.
But the good news coming out of the Hudson River last Thursday was real, and I hope this incident enters the engineering ethics literature as a good example of things going right. It is fully as exciting a story as many less fortunate technical mishaps, and has a happy ending. One of my colleagues used to summarize his goals in teaching engineering ethics as "No headlines." Generally that is good advice, but the headlines about the miracle on 45th Street, near the Manhattan shore where the plane landed, were welcome news indeed, for engineers and for everyone else.
Sources: I drew upon several news reports for this column, including a New York Daily News item at http://www.nydailynews.com/news/2009/01/15/2009-01-15_passengers_in_us_airways_hudson_river_cr.html and a Yahoo News item at http://news.yahoo.com/s/ap/20090118/ap_on_re_us/plane_splashdown, which carried information about the flight data recorder.
Monday, January 12, 2009
Engineering in a Shameless Culture
Shame has a bad press these days. You rarely hear parents these days saying to a son who's just spilled syrup all over the breakfast table, "You should be ashamed of yourself," because it might damage his self-esteem. Shame in our minds is associated with extremes such as the stereotypical Asian who, when his wrongdoing is publicly exposed, goes into his room and falls upon his sword. Yet I would like to put in a good word for shame. I miss it. Here's some reasons why.
Let's do a little thought experiment. What would be the consequences of living in a totally shameless culture? For one thing, people wouldn't hesitate to do things in public that the prospect of being ashamed would otherwise keep them from doing. Though it has nothing to do with engineering ethics as such, the story of Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich comes to mind in this connection. The FBI has publicized recordings of him as he allegedly tried to betray his public trust of appointing someone to the Senate seat vacated by president-elect Obama, by bargaining it away to the highest bidder. (I put the word "allegedly" in there because anyone is innocent in the eyes of the law until proven guilty.) When asked about this, he calmly says he's done nothing wrong and goes on about his business, at least unless the Illinois legislature convicts him in the ongoing impeachment proceeding.
And what is happening in that case is typical of what goes on in a shameless culture. When people have a reasonably developed sense of shame, they tend to be self-correcting. Maybe they will slip up every now and then, but their sense of shame will kick in and stop them before too long. They might even apologize to those who were offended or harmed by the shameful behavior.
But in a shameless culture, the self-restraint imposed by shame is gone. If society intends for people nevertheless to refrain from doing shameful things, it can no longer rely on the emotion of shame to do its job. So society has to use other means: ostracism (which rarely works—shameless people can be quite popular), or, more commonly, the law.
Have you ever wondered why we have so many lawyers in the U. S. compared to the population? One reason may be that we have substituted legal proceedings for the function of shame. If Gov. Blagojevich had a stronger sense of shame, he might have behaved more like former New York State Gov. Eliot Spitzer did when Spitzer's sexual misconduct was exposed (again by a federal wiretap, so we are still relying on law enforcement to some degree). Former Gov. Spitzer's words as he resigned are significant: "Over the course of my public life, I have insisted – I believe correctly – that people take responsibility for their conduct. I can and will ask no less of myself. For this reason, I am resigning from the office of governor." Of course, if Spitzer had possessed a more developed sense of shame, he wouldn't have visited prostitutes in the first place. But at least he had the decency to be ashamed enough to resign when his malfeasance was exposed.
A piece of advice I received from an older engineer is worth considering in this connection. In discussing the writing of technical reports, he said, "Never write anything down that you wouldn't mind being published on the front page of the New York Times." No one who follows this rule is going to make a lot of money from publishing their memoirs in their old age, unless they positively enjoy embarrassing themselves and other people. But on the other hand, if you follow this rule you won't be embarrassed, or shamed, if during an investigation connected with a lawsuit some of your emails come to light and get read in a courtroom. or at a Senate hearing.
Notice that following that writing rule requires an act of imagination: you must ask yourself, "What if everybody could read what I'm writing, including the people I'm saying nasty things about?" Now sometimes engineers have to say negative things, if for example you are evaluating a bad design and have to give an honest opinion. But there is always a way to deliver bad news without engaging in personal attacks or insults.
We do not yet live in a totally shameless culture, though an argument can be made that we are headed in that direction. But remember that shame has its uses, especially if it is internalized so that you can imagine being ashamed before you actually do the thing that you would be ashamed of. If you can do that, a little shame now will go a long way toward avoiding a lot of shame later.
Sources: The quotation from Eliot Spitzer is from the eponymous Wikipedia article.
Let's do a little thought experiment. What would be the consequences of living in a totally shameless culture? For one thing, people wouldn't hesitate to do things in public that the prospect of being ashamed would otherwise keep them from doing. Though it has nothing to do with engineering ethics as such, the story of Illinois Gov. Rod Blagojevich comes to mind in this connection. The FBI has publicized recordings of him as he allegedly tried to betray his public trust of appointing someone to the Senate seat vacated by president-elect Obama, by bargaining it away to the highest bidder. (I put the word "allegedly" in there because anyone is innocent in the eyes of the law until proven guilty.) When asked about this, he calmly says he's done nothing wrong and goes on about his business, at least unless the Illinois legislature convicts him in the ongoing impeachment proceeding.
And what is happening in that case is typical of what goes on in a shameless culture. When people have a reasonably developed sense of shame, they tend to be self-correcting. Maybe they will slip up every now and then, but their sense of shame will kick in and stop them before too long. They might even apologize to those who were offended or harmed by the shameful behavior.
But in a shameless culture, the self-restraint imposed by shame is gone. If society intends for people nevertheless to refrain from doing shameful things, it can no longer rely on the emotion of shame to do its job. So society has to use other means: ostracism (which rarely works—shameless people can be quite popular), or, more commonly, the law.
Have you ever wondered why we have so many lawyers in the U. S. compared to the population? One reason may be that we have substituted legal proceedings for the function of shame. If Gov. Blagojevich had a stronger sense of shame, he might have behaved more like former New York State Gov. Eliot Spitzer did when Spitzer's sexual misconduct was exposed (again by a federal wiretap, so we are still relying on law enforcement to some degree). Former Gov. Spitzer's words as he resigned are significant: "Over the course of my public life, I have insisted – I believe correctly – that people take responsibility for their conduct. I can and will ask no less of myself. For this reason, I am resigning from the office of governor." Of course, if Spitzer had possessed a more developed sense of shame, he wouldn't have visited prostitutes in the first place. But at least he had the decency to be ashamed enough to resign when his malfeasance was exposed.
A piece of advice I received from an older engineer is worth considering in this connection. In discussing the writing of technical reports, he said, "Never write anything down that you wouldn't mind being published on the front page of the New York Times." No one who follows this rule is going to make a lot of money from publishing their memoirs in their old age, unless they positively enjoy embarrassing themselves and other people. But on the other hand, if you follow this rule you won't be embarrassed, or shamed, if during an investigation connected with a lawsuit some of your emails come to light and get read in a courtroom. or at a Senate hearing.
Notice that following that writing rule requires an act of imagination: you must ask yourself, "What if everybody could read what I'm writing, including the people I'm saying nasty things about?" Now sometimes engineers have to say negative things, if for example you are evaluating a bad design and have to give an honest opinion. But there is always a way to deliver bad news without engaging in personal attacks or insults.
We do not yet live in a totally shameless culture, though an argument can be made that we are headed in that direction. But remember that shame has its uses, especially if it is internalized so that you can imagine being ashamed before you actually do the thing that you would be ashamed of. If you can do that, a little shame now will go a long way toward avoiding a lot of shame later.
Sources: The quotation from Eliot Spitzer is from the eponymous Wikipedia article.
Monday, January 05, 2009
Are the Amish Right About Technology?
Anyone who has spent time in Lancaster County, Pennsylvania has encountered that cultural, religious, and technological phenomenon called the Amish. Most people don't know anything more about the Amish than that they drive horse-drawn buggies, not cars, and dress funny. In reading a book about Amish society, I came across an indictment of modern science and technology that I thought deserved an airing here.
The history of the Amish in North America dates to several waves of emigration from the Alsace region of Germany, where followers of Jacob Ammann separated themselves from the Anabaptist movement around 1700. The Anabaptists were an early Protestant movement who believed that baptism should be reserved for adults, not administered to infants as was the custom in the Catholic and many other Protestant traditions. In addition, Ammann made his followers separate themselves from the world by distinctions in dress, worship, and other ways. Both Catholic and Protestant governments persecuted the new sect, which came to be called the "Amish" after Ammann, and eventually the only surviving groups settled in North America in settlements that are now mainly in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana.
The reason the Amish are interesting to those who make their living in science and technology is that their communities do quite well while consciously restricting their use of technology in ways that are almost inconceivable to the rest of us. Imagine living in a house with no central heating, electricity, or indoor plumbing; no internet, cable, computer, TV, radio, or telephone; no automobiles, motorcycles, or even bicycles; and the main way you pass your time is by shoveling manure or cutting hay with a horse-drawn mower. To most modern Americans, a prison sentence might be more preferable—at least prisoners get to watch TV sometimes. Yet the Amish have not only survived, but have grown over the years, numbering by some counts over 200,000 today. This despite the fact that nearly all the Amish do not pursue education past the eighth grade, a policy which is another intentional feature of their beliefs and practices.
According to John A. Hostetler, a former Amishman who wrote an extensive sociological study of the Amish, one reason for this shunning of higher education has to do with their view of how they, as followers of Christ, should separate themselves from "the world." Here is how he puts it: "The Amish do not want their children exposed to the 'wisdom of the world,' for they are repeatedly taught in their preaching services that 'the wisdom of the world is foolishness with God' (I Cor. 3:19). The 'world' is educated, and to the Amishman, 'worldly education' leads to sinfulness, manipulative powers, and moral corruption. To the Amishman, the grossest distortions of education are perpetuated by the scientists, who have invented the theory of evolution and who have made bombs to destroy the world. Such ends are held to be contradictory to the Bible."
Are the Amish right about that? An important fact to know about the Amish is that the are not, in the main, evangelical. One becomes Amish by being born into an Amish family, rather like Judaism. They make no attempt to apply their own ways to the rest of the world. In a strange way, the Amish need the rest of us to be the sinful worldly background to their distinctiveness, which is not so much an attempt to freeze time as it is simply to be obviously different. For example, in imitation of the cupholders so popular in SUVs these days, Amish carriagemakers have taken to carving wooden cupholders and adding them as accessories to their horse-drawn vehicles.
So I don't view their view of higher education and the danger of scientific and technical knowledge in the same way I'd view a scholarly indictment of it by a philosopher, for example. Most Amish don't argue with outsiders at all; they simply live their lives in the ways they have chosen. And by doing so, they testify that not only is life possible without 96% of the modern gizmos we feel are necessary; in some ways it's better. How?
In a word, community. The word has been abused so much we forget its original meaning, which is "a group of people bound by significant social ties." In that sense, most "communities" in U. S. towns and cities are anything but. Anyone who has been utterly alone in a big city knows what I mean. But the Amish, with their large families, family-owned farms, and intergenerational and relational ties, "do community" better than almost any other distinct social group I can think of, at least in North America. (Many cultures in African and Asian countries do nearly as well, at least before they move to America.) If the average Amishman faces a hard lot of physical work every day, at least there are family and friendships to share the burdens with, and knowledge that when he gets too old to work, he will occupy a respected and honored place in a true community of like-minded people.
What can we learn from the Amish? After reading Hostetler's Amish Society, I am convinced that it would be a mistake to try to take isolated pieces of the Amish culture and apply them willy-nilly to the secular culture. To use a crass analogy, it would be like trying to run Mac software on a PC: the entire environment is different.
And the Amish are not perfect, by any means. They have crime, illness, defectors (about 1 of every 5 children decide not to continue living as Amish as adults), and other social problems of their own, plus the continual struggle to preserve their way of life in a world that is not sympathetic with what they are trying to do, except in a superficial way.
But I think what they can teach us is in the nature of a demonstration experiment. As long as there are Amish communities living reasonably happy, prosperous lives while driving buggies and warming themselves with wood stoves, they show that life without a lot of the things we have come to think of as necessities is really possible. And while I don't think that should turn us all into Amish, it is a good motivation for making our own lives simpler and moderating our desires, both technological and otherwise.
Sources: The statistic on current Amish population (technically, the Old Order Amish) is from the Wikipedia article "Amish." The quotation from John A. Hostetler's Amish Society (fourth edition, published in 1993 by Johns Hopkins University Press) is found on p. 248.
The history of the Amish in North America dates to several waves of emigration from the Alsace region of Germany, where followers of Jacob Ammann separated themselves from the Anabaptist movement around 1700. The Anabaptists were an early Protestant movement who believed that baptism should be reserved for adults, not administered to infants as was the custom in the Catholic and many other Protestant traditions. In addition, Ammann made his followers separate themselves from the world by distinctions in dress, worship, and other ways. Both Catholic and Protestant governments persecuted the new sect, which came to be called the "Amish" after Ammann, and eventually the only surviving groups settled in North America in settlements that are now mainly in Pennsylvania, Ohio, and Indiana.
The reason the Amish are interesting to those who make their living in science and technology is that their communities do quite well while consciously restricting their use of technology in ways that are almost inconceivable to the rest of us. Imagine living in a house with no central heating, electricity, or indoor plumbing; no internet, cable, computer, TV, radio, or telephone; no automobiles, motorcycles, or even bicycles; and the main way you pass your time is by shoveling manure or cutting hay with a horse-drawn mower. To most modern Americans, a prison sentence might be more preferable—at least prisoners get to watch TV sometimes. Yet the Amish have not only survived, but have grown over the years, numbering by some counts over 200,000 today. This despite the fact that nearly all the Amish do not pursue education past the eighth grade, a policy which is another intentional feature of their beliefs and practices.
According to John A. Hostetler, a former Amishman who wrote an extensive sociological study of the Amish, one reason for this shunning of higher education has to do with their view of how they, as followers of Christ, should separate themselves from "the world." Here is how he puts it: "The Amish do not want their children exposed to the 'wisdom of the world,' for they are repeatedly taught in their preaching services that 'the wisdom of the world is foolishness with God' (I Cor. 3:19). The 'world' is educated, and to the Amishman, 'worldly education' leads to sinfulness, manipulative powers, and moral corruption. To the Amishman, the grossest distortions of education are perpetuated by the scientists, who have invented the theory of evolution and who have made bombs to destroy the world. Such ends are held to be contradictory to the Bible."
Are the Amish right about that? An important fact to know about the Amish is that the are not, in the main, evangelical. One becomes Amish by being born into an Amish family, rather like Judaism. They make no attempt to apply their own ways to the rest of the world. In a strange way, the Amish need the rest of us to be the sinful worldly background to their distinctiveness, which is not so much an attempt to freeze time as it is simply to be obviously different. For example, in imitation of the cupholders so popular in SUVs these days, Amish carriagemakers have taken to carving wooden cupholders and adding them as accessories to their horse-drawn vehicles.
So I don't view their view of higher education and the danger of scientific and technical knowledge in the same way I'd view a scholarly indictment of it by a philosopher, for example. Most Amish don't argue with outsiders at all; they simply live their lives in the ways they have chosen. And by doing so, they testify that not only is life possible without 96% of the modern gizmos we feel are necessary; in some ways it's better. How?
In a word, community. The word has been abused so much we forget its original meaning, which is "a group of people bound by significant social ties." In that sense, most "communities" in U. S. towns and cities are anything but. Anyone who has been utterly alone in a big city knows what I mean. But the Amish, with their large families, family-owned farms, and intergenerational and relational ties, "do community" better than almost any other distinct social group I can think of, at least in North America. (Many cultures in African and Asian countries do nearly as well, at least before they move to America.) If the average Amishman faces a hard lot of physical work every day, at least there are family and friendships to share the burdens with, and knowledge that when he gets too old to work, he will occupy a respected and honored place in a true community of like-minded people.
What can we learn from the Amish? After reading Hostetler's Amish Society, I am convinced that it would be a mistake to try to take isolated pieces of the Amish culture and apply them willy-nilly to the secular culture. To use a crass analogy, it would be like trying to run Mac software on a PC: the entire environment is different.
And the Amish are not perfect, by any means. They have crime, illness, defectors (about 1 of every 5 children decide not to continue living as Amish as adults), and other social problems of their own, plus the continual struggle to preserve their way of life in a world that is not sympathetic with what they are trying to do, except in a superficial way.
But I think what they can teach us is in the nature of a demonstration experiment. As long as there are Amish communities living reasonably happy, prosperous lives while driving buggies and warming themselves with wood stoves, they show that life without a lot of the things we have come to think of as necessities is really possible. And while I don't think that should turn us all into Amish, it is a good motivation for making our own lives simpler and moderating our desires, both technological and otherwise.
Sources: The statistic on current Amish population (technically, the Old Order Amish) is from the Wikipedia article "Amish." The quotation from John A. Hostetler's Amish Society (fourth edition, published in 1993 by Johns Hopkins University Press) is found on p. 248.
Monday, December 29, 2008
A Newer, Safer NASA?
Regular readers of this blog—all five of you—know that in the past I have had less than kind words for NASA regarding safety issues. The agency has become something of a poster child in engineering ethics circles, mainly because of the Challenger and Columbia space-shuttle disasters. Recently, however, under the leadership of Michael Griffin, NASA has shown signs of getting its act together. It has stuck to long-overdue plans to retire the current fleet of space shuttles by 2010, which by Thursday will be only next year. And it has embarked on ambitious but generally well-considered plans to develop a new way of getting to the moon and beyond: the Constellation program, which includes the new Ares series of partially reusable rockets and space capsules. In these plans, NASA is at least trying to do what's right, which is to get away from the increasingly antiquated and hazardous shuttle system toward newly designed systems that take advantage of thirty years of aerospace progress, while embracing safe tried-and-true technologies.
For example, the personnel-transporting Ares I rocket uses liquid-fueled J-2 engines, the same kind that the Gemini and Apollo programs used. The solid-fuel boosters employed by the space shuttle were a bargain-basement compromise that led directly to the first major shuttle disaster, and it will be good to see them go.
But the best-laid plans of mice and men, at least those employed by the government, are subject to political winds. News reports of a few weeks ago carried a story about a dust-up between Griffin and Lori Garver, a former NASA public relations officer who now heads the Obama transition team in charge of deciding what to do with NASA.
According to Time, the dispute arose when Garver and Griffin met in a NASA library during a book signing. Although details of the encounter vary by source, one issue was the possibility of either canceling the Ares I program altogether or switching to a cheaper alternative using existing rockets such as the Atlas and Centaur, currently used for unmanned space projects. Griffin reportedly questioned Garver's engineering qualifications and said that Atlas and Centaur rockets are not safe enough to use for people.
Of course, it is within the prerogative of a new administration to replace Griffin with someone more cooperative. But if NASA has finally learned something from its past mistakes and is headed in a good direction, it would be a shame if the incoming administration forced it into the same nickel-and-dime mode that led to the twenty-eight-year dangerous compromise called the space shuttle.
The environment that NASA operates in now is very different than the situation three decades ago. In the late 1970s, the only credible competitor in space was the old USSR, which had pretty much thrown in the towel when the U. S. reached the moon in 1969. Today, all kinds of folks are getting into the act: China, Japan, and India all have serious space programs, and Russia, far from having abandoned theirs, will be our only link to the International Space Station from the time the shuttle is retired until we develop something better—assuming there are funds and political support to do so.
The appeal of space flight—especially manned space flight—has always been more emotional than rational, more tied to political prestige than to economic realities. From a strictly business point of view, the market is very thin—there simply aren't that many super-rich people willing to pay $20 million for a joyride in space. And while there is money to be made from orbiting satellites, that end of the business has become truly a business, in which the cheapest rocket that will do the job is used. For the foreseeable future, flying people outside the atmosphere is something that will always be a money-loser. So the agencies charged with doing it have to justify their existence on grounds other than profit.
For NASA, this means two things: science and the romantic appeal of space exploration. As far as science goes, the Hubble Space Telescope has proved very fruitful, but note that the only time we have to send people up to it is when it breaks down. With advances in autonomous robotic instruments, even exploration of other planets can be done much more economically with unmanned probes. So sending people into space doesn't really further science, except to add to our knowledge of what happens to people when they spend long periods of time in space. (The short answer to that is, nothing much good.)
So that leaves romance and a kind of quasi-religious feeling as the real basis for manned space flight. Griffin is reportedly a believer in the idea that mankind's long-term destiny is to colonize space, whether other planets in our solar system or planets in other solar systems. I have had some minor dealings with people who think this way, and it really amounts to a kind of religion. If you don't believe in the supernatural, and you think we are well on the way to trashing the only planet we can live on, that leaves space exploration as the only hope for immortality of the human species. After all, the sun is going to run out of gas here in a few billion more years, and then what?
I am generally well disposed toward idealism, if it is directed at worthy goals. And I'm all in favor of the scientific aspects of space exploration. But sending people into space costs a lot more than unmanned projects, and (needless to say) are more dangerous to those participating as well. In a democracy, public expenditures have to be justified by the economic or political good that they can achieve. These political goods include maintaining what prestige we have in the community of nations, satisfying the desires of those who see space as the final frontier, and making heroes, without whom few nations make it for long. It is up to the Obama administration and the new Congress to decide whether NASA's plans are worth the cost. Whatever happens, I hope that we end up with something to replace the shuttles that is orders of magnitude safer and will serve the public in the best way possible—whatever that is.
Sources: Reports of the Griffin-Garver controversy I used can be found at the Time Magazine website http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1866045,00.html
and the Orlando Sentinel website http://blogs.orlandosentinel.com/news_space_thewritestuff/2008/12/nasa-has-become.html.
For example, the personnel-transporting Ares I rocket uses liquid-fueled J-2 engines, the same kind that the Gemini and Apollo programs used. The solid-fuel boosters employed by the space shuttle were a bargain-basement compromise that led directly to the first major shuttle disaster, and it will be good to see them go.
But the best-laid plans of mice and men, at least those employed by the government, are subject to political winds. News reports of a few weeks ago carried a story about a dust-up between Griffin and Lori Garver, a former NASA public relations officer who now heads the Obama transition team in charge of deciding what to do with NASA.
According to Time, the dispute arose when Garver and Griffin met in a NASA library during a book signing. Although details of the encounter vary by source, one issue was the possibility of either canceling the Ares I program altogether or switching to a cheaper alternative using existing rockets such as the Atlas and Centaur, currently used for unmanned space projects. Griffin reportedly questioned Garver's engineering qualifications and said that Atlas and Centaur rockets are not safe enough to use for people.
Of course, it is within the prerogative of a new administration to replace Griffin with someone more cooperative. But if NASA has finally learned something from its past mistakes and is headed in a good direction, it would be a shame if the incoming administration forced it into the same nickel-and-dime mode that led to the twenty-eight-year dangerous compromise called the space shuttle.
The environment that NASA operates in now is very different than the situation three decades ago. In the late 1970s, the only credible competitor in space was the old USSR, which had pretty much thrown in the towel when the U. S. reached the moon in 1969. Today, all kinds of folks are getting into the act: China, Japan, and India all have serious space programs, and Russia, far from having abandoned theirs, will be our only link to the International Space Station from the time the shuttle is retired until we develop something better—assuming there are funds and political support to do so.
The appeal of space flight—especially manned space flight—has always been more emotional than rational, more tied to political prestige than to economic realities. From a strictly business point of view, the market is very thin—there simply aren't that many super-rich people willing to pay $20 million for a joyride in space. And while there is money to be made from orbiting satellites, that end of the business has become truly a business, in which the cheapest rocket that will do the job is used. For the foreseeable future, flying people outside the atmosphere is something that will always be a money-loser. So the agencies charged with doing it have to justify their existence on grounds other than profit.
For NASA, this means two things: science and the romantic appeal of space exploration. As far as science goes, the Hubble Space Telescope has proved very fruitful, but note that the only time we have to send people up to it is when it breaks down. With advances in autonomous robotic instruments, even exploration of other planets can be done much more economically with unmanned probes. So sending people into space doesn't really further science, except to add to our knowledge of what happens to people when they spend long periods of time in space. (The short answer to that is, nothing much good.)
So that leaves romance and a kind of quasi-religious feeling as the real basis for manned space flight. Griffin is reportedly a believer in the idea that mankind's long-term destiny is to colonize space, whether other planets in our solar system or planets in other solar systems. I have had some minor dealings with people who think this way, and it really amounts to a kind of religion. If you don't believe in the supernatural, and you think we are well on the way to trashing the only planet we can live on, that leaves space exploration as the only hope for immortality of the human species. After all, the sun is going to run out of gas here in a few billion more years, and then what?
I am generally well disposed toward idealism, if it is directed at worthy goals. And I'm all in favor of the scientific aspects of space exploration. But sending people into space costs a lot more than unmanned projects, and (needless to say) are more dangerous to those participating as well. In a democracy, public expenditures have to be justified by the economic or political good that they can achieve. These political goods include maintaining what prestige we have in the community of nations, satisfying the desires of those who see space as the final frontier, and making heroes, without whom few nations make it for long. It is up to the Obama administration and the new Congress to decide whether NASA's plans are worth the cost. Whatever happens, I hope that we end up with something to replace the shuttles that is orders of magnitude safer and will serve the public in the best way possible—whatever that is.
Sources: Reports of the Griffin-Garver controversy I used can be found at the Time Magazine website http://www.time.com/time/nation/article/0,8599,1866045,00.html
and the Orlando Sentinel website http://blogs.orlandosentinel.com/news_space_thewritestuff/2008/12/nasa-has-become.html.
Monday, December 22, 2008
A Riveting Story: The Titanic's 94-Year-Old Mystery Solved
The sinking of the White Star Line's luxury passenger liner Titanic on April 14, 1912 has got to be one of the most famous engineering failures in history. Everybody knows the story: how the ship ran full speed into an iceberg despite warnings relayed by the then-new wireless, and sank less than three hours later with the loss of over 1500 lives. Since the discovery of the wreck in 1985, researchers have been able to recover hundreds of artifacts and subject them to modern forensic analyses. Two of these researchers—metallurgical experts Jennifer Hooper McCarty and Tim Foecke—have written a book about their discoveries. What Really Sank the Titanic clears up a long-standing mystery about the tragedy and points the finger of blame in a surprising direction.
Boards of inquiry held immediately after the disaster obtained enough information from survivors to piece together the following story. At about 11:40 PM, as the Titanic moved at about 22 knots through a near-freezing sea "as smooth as glass," lookouts spotted an iceberg in the path of the ship. The steersman had just begun to turn the bow to port when the berg scraped along the starboard side of the ship, making a long-lasting noise that was described variously as tearing, jarring, or ripping. Although the ship's six watertight compartments were immediately sealed when it was discovered that water was coming in, there were enough holes in different parts of the hull that eventually all six compartments filled up, and the ship sank. The ship's designer, Edward Wilding, said at one inquiry that a long, narrow series of slit-like openings about two hundred feet long and only an inch or so wide would have accounted for the fashion and speed with which the ship foundered. But since steel is much harder than iceberg ice, he could not explain how such openings could have occurred. There the mystery lay at the bottom of the North Atlantic for over eighty years, until salvage expeditions began to bring pieces to the surface.
In a decade-long investigation, McCarty and Foecke, respectively graduate student at Johns Hopkins University and staff member at the Gaithersburg, Maryland office of the National Institute of Standards and Technology, obtained samples of the Titanic's hull, which consisted of large steel plates held together by rivets (electric-arc welding was not to become the standard steel-fabrication method until World War II). McCarty's archival research in England revealed that Harland & Wolff, the ship's Belfast builders, used two kinds of rivets: the more modern machine-formed steel rivets for the central part of the ship, and the old-fashioned hand-formed wrought-iron type for the stern and bow sections, where much of the collision impact probably occurred.
The making and installing of wrought-iron rivets was largely a manual operation. The Titanic needed over three million rivets in all, and this huge demand led flocks of entrepreneurial ironmakers to enter the field. The hand-stirred "puddling" process then used to make wrought iron from ore required strong and highly experienced workers, of which there were not enough in 1912. So it turned out that Harland & Wolff bought wrought iron from a wide variety of suppliers, some of whom were much less experienced than others. McCarty and Foecke have proof of this in the form of long, stringy slag inclusions they found in some of the recovered rivets. These inclusions tended to make wrought iron, an already a less satisfactory material than steel, even weaker.
Why weren't steel rivets used throughout? Besides reasons of cost, steel rivets had to be formed with hydraulic riveters—large U-shaped steel machines upwards of six feet high that had to be laboriously positioned on either side of the plate to be riveted. Then the rivet, shaped much like a blunt round-headed nail, would be heated, inserted into its hole through the two overlapping hull plates to be joined, and squeezed between the jaws of the riveter. This squeezing formed heads on both ends, and as the rivet cooled, the resulting shrinkage provided tension that held the two steel hull plates together in a watertight joint.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work. The problem was there was not enough room in the bow and stern areas to maneuver the hydraulic riveter. So the builders resorted in those areas to the older hand-forming way of riveting, which couldn't use steel rivets because of reasons to do with the different ways steel and iron cool. Wrought iron was more forgiving to the delays and variations involved when a boy tossed a red-hot rivet from a portable stove to the rivet gang, which placed it in its hole and pounded it in by hand.
When the Titanic embarked on her maiden voyage on April 10, 1912, her bow hull plates were held together by wrought-iron rivets. The iron itself had probably never undergone any systematic quality testing, and the only quality tests done on the finished riveting job was a hurried hammer tap by an inspector, who listened to the sound it made. All this inspection could detect was loose rivets, not those made from defective wrought iron.
Then came the iceberg. While ice itself will crumble if forced against solid steel, the typical iceberg was a lot heavier than the Titanic. So in a glancing collision, the iceberg exerted tremendous localized force against only a few hull plates at a time. While even poorly-made rivets can withstand the mainly sideways stress that uniform pressure causes (e. g. hydraulic pressure on a water tank or a ship's hull), some of the forces that the iceberg caused tended to pull the hull plates apart, causing tensile stress. And the researchers found that wrought-iron rivets made of bad iron with lots of slag inclusions pop their heads off much more easily than either steel rivets or wrought-iron rivets made with better material. Significantly, many of the steel plates recovered from the wreckage were missing their rivets altogether. And riveting is not a gracefully-degrading fastening method. Once one rivet in a row pops, the ones next to it get much higher stress and are likely to fail as well, leading to a kind of chain-reaction zipper effect.
That is exactly what McCarty and Foecke say must have happened as the iceberg bounced repeatedly along the side of the ship, popping rivets and opening up long, narrow slots between hull plates—exactly what designer Wilding said in 1912 must have happened, though he couldn't explain exactly how. The researchers also show in detail how a rival theory—one that says the cold Atlantic waters made the plates themselves brittle enough to shatter like glass—is full of holes, so to speak.
So the roots of the Titanic disaster prove to go in several directions: to the heedlessness of the captain who failed to slow down in a known field of icebergs, to the rulemakers who didn't require lifeboats for everybody, and, surprisingly, to little mom-and-pop wrought-iron puddling operations that sprang up all over the United Kingdom in response to increased demand for wrought iron. McCarty and Foecke conclude that if all the ship's rivets had been steel, the ship still might have sustained serious damage, but not so much as to sink it in less than three hours. Even a few hours longer afloat could have given time for nearby ships to arrive and save most or all the passengers. But that was not the way it happened.
Sources: What Really Sank the Titanic was published in 2008 by Citadel Press. I also thank my wife Pamela for her thoughtfulness in this birthday-gift selection.
Boards of inquiry held immediately after the disaster obtained enough information from survivors to piece together the following story. At about 11:40 PM, as the Titanic moved at about 22 knots through a near-freezing sea "as smooth as glass," lookouts spotted an iceberg in the path of the ship. The steersman had just begun to turn the bow to port when the berg scraped along the starboard side of the ship, making a long-lasting noise that was described variously as tearing, jarring, or ripping. Although the ship's six watertight compartments were immediately sealed when it was discovered that water was coming in, there were enough holes in different parts of the hull that eventually all six compartments filled up, and the ship sank. The ship's designer, Edward Wilding, said at one inquiry that a long, narrow series of slit-like openings about two hundred feet long and only an inch or so wide would have accounted for the fashion and speed with which the ship foundered. But since steel is much harder than iceberg ice, he could not explain how such openings could have occurred. There the mystery lay at the bottom of the North Atlantic for over eighty years, until salvage expeditions began to bring pieces to the surface.
In a decade-long investigation, McCarty and Foecke, respectively graduate student at Johns Hopkins University and staff member at the Gaithersburg, Maryland office of the National Institute of Standards and Technology, obtained samples of the Titanic's hull, which consisted of large steel plates held together by rivets (electric-arc welding was not to become the standard steel-fabrication method until World War II). McCarty's archival research in England revealed that Harland & Wolff, the ship's Belfast builders, used two kinds of rivets: the more modern machine-formed steel rivets for the central part of the ship, and the old-fashioned hand-formed wrought-iron type for the stern and bow sections, where much of the collision impact probably occurred.
The making and installing of wrought-iron rivets was largely a manual operation. The Titanic needed over three million rivets in all, and this huge demand led flocks of entrepreneurial ironmakers to enter the field. The hand-stirred "puddling" process then used to make wrought iron from ore required strong and highly experienced workers, of which there were not enough in 1912. So it turned out that Harland & Wolff bought wrought iron from a wide variety of suppliers, some of whom were much less experienced than others. McCarty and Foecke have proof of this in the form of long, stringy slag inclusions they found in some of the recovered rivets. These inclusions tended to make wrought iron, an already a less satisfactory material than steel, even weaker.
Why weren't steel rivets used throughout? Besides reasons of cost, steel rivets had to be formed with hydraulic riveters—large U-shaped steel machines upwards of six feet high that had to be laboriously positioned on either side of the plate to be riveted. Then the rivet, shaped much like a blunt round-headed nail, would be heated, inserted into its hole through the two overlapping hull plates to be joined, and squeezed between the jaws of the riveter. This squeezing formed heads on both ends, and as the rivet cooled, the resulting shrinkage provided tension that held the two steel hull plates together in a watertight joint.
At least, that was how it was supposed to work. The problem was there was not enough room in the bow and stern areas to maneuver the hydraulic riveter. So the builders resorted in those areas to the older hand-forming way of riveting, which couldn't use steel rivets because of reasons to do with the different ways steel and iron cool. Wrought iron was more forgiving to the delays and variations involved when a boy tossed a red-hot rivet from a portable stove to the rivet gang, which placed it in its hole and pounded it in by hand.
When the Titanic embarked on her maiden voyage on April 10, 1912, her bow hull plates were held together by wrought-iron rivets. The iron itself had probably never undergone any systematic quality testing, and the only quality tests done on the finished riveting job was a hurried hammer tap by an inspector, who listened to the sound it made. All this inspection could detect was loose rivets, not those made from defective wrought iron.
Then came the iceberg. While ice itself will crumble if forced against solid steel, the typical iceberg was a lot heavier than the Titanic. So in a glancing collision, the iceberg exerted tremendous localized force against only a few hull plates at a time. While even poorly-made rivets can withstand the mainly sideways stress that uniform pressure causes (e. g. hydraulic pressure on a water tank or a ship's hull), some of the forces that the iceberg caused tended to pull the hull plates apart, causing tensile stress. And the researchers found that wrought-iron rivets made of bad iron with lots of slag inclusions pop their heads off much more easily than either steel rivets or wrought-iron rivets made with better material. Significantly, many of the steel plates recovered from the wreckage were missing their rivets altogether. And riveting is not a gracefully-degrading fastening method. Once one rivet in a row pops, the ones next to it get much higher stress and are likely to fail as well, leading to a kind of chain-reaction zipper effect.
That is exactly what McCarty and Foecke say must have happened as the iceberg bounced repeatedly along the side of the ship, popping rivets and opening up long, narrow slots between hull plates—exactly what designer Wilding said in 1912 must have happened, though he couldn't explain exactly how. The researchers also show in detail how a rival theory—one that says the cold Atlantic waters made the plates themselves brittle enough to shatter like glass—is full of holes, so to speak.
So the roots of the Titanic disaster prove to go in several directions: to the heedlessness of the captain who failed to slow down in a known field of icebergs, to the rulemakers who didn't require lifeboats for everybody, and, surprisingly, to little mom-and-pop wrought-iron puddling operations that sprang up all over the United Kingdom in response to increased demand for wrought iron. McCarty and Foecke conclude that if all the ship's rivets had been steel, the ship still might have sustained serious damage, but not so much as to sink it in less than three hours. Even a few hours longer afloat could have given time for nearby ships to arrive and save most or all the passengers. But that was not the way it happened.
Sources: What Really Sank the Titanic was published in 2008 by Citadel Press. I also thank my wife Pamela for her thoughtfulness in this birthday-gift selection.
Monday, December 15, 2008
Explosion in Tyler: More Questions than Answers
Over the weekend I heard a short news item about an explosion and fire at an oil refinery in Tyler, Texas. Here is the fruit of less than an hour's web research on what happened:
Tyler is a town of about 100,000 in East Texas. Among its industrial facilities is a smallish oil refinery (it's the 94th largest in the U. S.) owned by an Israeli company called Delek USA. On Thursday afternoon, Nov. 20 of this year, a part of its saturated gas unit exploded and caught fire. Four employees of the company were hospitalized, and two of them died later of their injuries. About 2,000 gallons of gasoline spilled into a nearby creek during the accident, but didn't catch fire. Five employees have filed suit in a Houston court over injuries suffered in the blast. The U. S. Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board has not yet posted a notice of investigation for this accident.
The plant has been shut down since the explosion and no one is saying when it might start up again.
As oil refinery accidents go, this one is not in the major leagues. The 2005 BP refinery accident in Texas City, Texas that killed 15 people is probably the most recent leader in that regard, if we judge by the number of fatalities. But the death or injury of even one person in any engineered facility is the result of something that shouldn't have happened.
I wish I could present you with a complete story of exactly what went wrong in Tyler that day and how it could have been prevented. But alas, it is not my job to gather such information from primary sources. Investigators from insurance companies or perhaps the Federal government will undertake that arduous and exacting task, equipped with tools and knowledge that such specialists have. In a few months, perhaps, the truth will emerge about what caused the accident. If history is any guide, human error will have turned out to play some role.
There are a lot of good reasons why refineries are such dangerous places. Just handling millions of gallons of highly flammable liquids and gases involves considerable risks on its own, even if you're not doing anything to make matters worse. But that is how refineries operate: you take combustible crude, run it through pipes surrounded by intense flames, squeeze it under tremendous pressure that will use any slight excuse to shoot flammable stuff out into the air where it will spontaneously burn because it's so hot, and then subject it to all sorts of chemical indignities with catalysts, further heating, pressure, toxic acids, and so on.
It would be bad enough if it was simple, but refineries are some of the most complex large systems on Earth: thousands of pipes, pumps, valves, tanks, sensors, actuators, and other stuff, all having to be operated just so or else you're in big trouble fast. The fact that we don't have refinery accidents every day is a testimony to the incredibly disciplined management and training that has to go into good refinery operations. Refinery employees have hard, dangerous jobs, and most of them do their jobs well. But not always, especially if they or their managers get careless or squeezed by cost issues into deferring necessary maintenance or safety practices.
Equipment failure, while not unheard of, is something that can almost always be prevented. The physics and chemistry of how steel fails and how chemicals behave are well enough understood that chemical engineers can predict what's going to happen in almost any given case. The problem is making sure that knowledge is applied at the right time in the right way.
The fact that the Tyler plant is owned by an offshore firm may not have any bearing on the accident. But responsibility is a funny thing: like radio waves, it tends to weaken over long distances. This is not to say that all companies based in the U. S. act more responsibly than any foreign firm—that is silly. But the point is that if nationalism means anything at all, and there is abundant evidence to show that it does, people are going to be more conscientious about protecting the lives and wellbeing of fellow citizens before they will look out for the interests of foreign nationals. It is a natural human tendency, but one that must be fought against when the situation of foreign ownership of plants arises. Years ago, when it was more common to find American firms owning offshore factories, the temptation was to neglect safety for non-American native populations, and tragedies such as the Union Carbide Bhopal disaster in India were the result. Now that ownership of manufacturing facilities seems to have become anathema to U. S. businesses, the shoe is on the other foot. Such refineries and plants that we have here are increasingly owned by foreign firms, whose owners may or may not be as careful to ensure safe working environments as U. S. owners might be.
We will simply have to wait to find out more about what happened in Tyler last November 20. But let's hope that any lessons we can find out will be learned well by everyone who has anything to do with oil refinery safety or engineering.
Sources: I have used information from the following sources: http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1044426.html, http://www.tylerpaper.com/article/20081120/NEWS08/811200292, and http://oilspot2.dtnenergy.com/e_article001272178.cfm?x=b11,0,w.
Tyler is a town of about 100,000 in East Texas. Among its industrial facilities is a smallish oil refinery (it's the 94th largest in the U. S.) owned by an Israeli company called Delek USA. On Thursday afternoon, Nov. 20 of this year, a part of its saturated gas unit exploded and caught fire. Four employees of the company were hospitalized, and two of them died later of their injuries. About 2,000 gallons of gasoline spilled into a nearby creek during the accident, but didn't catch fire. Five employees have filed suit in a Houston court over injuries suffered in the blast. The U. S. Chemical Safety and Hazard Investigation Board has not yet posted a notice of investigation for this accident.
The plant has been shut down since the explosion and no one is saying when it might start up again.
As oil refinery accidents go, this one is not in the major leagues. The 2005 BP refinery accident in Texas City, Texas that killed 15 people is probably the most recent leader in that regard, if we judge by the number of fatalities. But the death or injury of even one person in any engineered facility is the result of something that shouldn't have happened.
I wish I could present you with a complete story of exactly what went wrong in Tyler that day and how it could have been prevented. But alas, it is not my job to gather such information from primary sources. Investigators from insurance companies or perhaps the Federal government will undertake that arduous and exacting task, equipped with tools and knowledge that such specialists have. In a few months, perhaps, the truth will emerge about what caused the accident. If history is any guide, human error will have turned out to play some role.
There are a lot of good reasons why refineries are such dangerous places. Just handling millions of gallons of highly flammable liquids and gases involves considerable risks on its own, even if you're not doing anything to make matters worse. But that is how refineries operate: you take combustible crude, run it through pipes surrounded by intense flames, squeeze it under tremendous pressure that will use any slight excuse to shoot flammable stuff out into the air where it will spontaneously burn because it's so hot, and then subject it to all sorts of chemical indignities with catalysts, further heating, pressure, toxic acids, and so on.
It would be bad enough if it was simple, but refineries are some of the most complex large systems on Earth: thousands of pipes, pumps, valves, tanks, sensors, actuators, and other stuff, all having to be operated just so or else you're in big trouble fast. The fact that we don't have refinery accidents every day is a testimony to the incredibly disciplined management and training that has to go into good refinery operations. Refinery employees have hard, dangerous jobs, and most of them do their jobs well. But not always, especially if they or their managers get careless or squeezed by cost issues into deferring necessary maintenance or safety practices.
Equipment failure, while not unheard of, is something that can almost always be prevented. The physics and chemistry of how steel fails and how chemicals behave are well enough understood that chemical engineers can predict what's going to happen in almost any given case. The problem is making sure that knowledge is applied at the right time in the right way.
The fact that the Tyler plant is owned by an offshore firm may not have any bearing on the accident. But responsibility is a funny thing: like radio waves, it tends to weaken over long distances. This is not to say that all companies based in the U. S. act more responsibly than any foreign firm—that is silly. But the point is that if nationalism means anything at all, and there is abundant evidence to show that it does, people are going to be more conscientious about protecting the lives and wellbeing of fellow citizens before they will look out for the interests of foreign nationals. It is a natural human tendency, but one that must be fought against when the situation of foreign ownership of plants arises. Years ago, when it was more common to find American firms owning offshore factories, the temptation was to neglect safety for non-American native populations, and tragedies such as the Union Carbide Bhopal disaster in India were the result. Now that ownership of manufacturing facilities seems to have become anathema to U. S. businesses, the shoe is on the other foot. Such refineries and plants that we have here are increasingly owned by foreign firms, whose owners may or may not be as careful to ensure safe working environments as U. S. owners might be.
We will simply have to wait to find out more about what happened in Tyler last November 20. But let's hope that any lessons we can find out will be learned well by everyone who has anything to do with oil refinery safety or engineering.
Sources: I have used information from the following sources: http://www.haaretz.com/hasen/spages/1044426.html, http://www.tylerpaper.com/article/20081120/NEWS08/811200292, and http://oilspot2.dtnenergy.com/e_article001272178.cfm?x=b11,0,w.
Monday, December 08, 2008
Michael Polanyi and the Purity of Science
Everybody agrees that engineering and technology these days depend on science. Modern engineering is inconceivable without the advances made possible by the Scientific Revolution, both in our state of knowledge and in our approach to knowledge itself. One of the twentieth century's most profound thinkers about the scientific way of knowing and its connection to technology was Michael Polanyi (1891-1976).
Born of Jewish parentage in Hungary, he obtained a Ph. D. in chemistry and began a career as a research chemist in Germany. He married a Catholic there and left with his family for England shortly after Hitler came to power in 1933. At the University of Manchester, his interests turned gradually from chemistry to the philosophy of science. When he was invited to give the prestigious Gifford Lectures for 1951-52, he focused on the personal nature of supposedly "objective" scientific knowledge and published his thoughts in his best-known work, Personal Knowledge, in 1958. Fifty years later, his arguments about the purity of science and its relationship to technology are probably worth heeding even more now than when he wrote them.
Personal Knowledge is a deep and wide-ranging book, and all I want to do today is to give you a small sample that touches on the relationship between science and engineering, and how we allow the practical needs of technology to dominate the way we do science at our peril.
If you write a proposal these days to the U. S. National Science Foundation for even the most abstruse and theoretical project, you will have to address two questions in your proposal. The first, appropriately, is "What is the intellectual merit of the proposed activity?" That is, how will this work advance the state of scientific knowledge? This is an entirely reasonable criterion, and one which has been in place since the early days of the Foundation in the 1950s. However, the answer to a second question is now given equal weight in the funding reviews: "What are the broader impacts of the proposed activity?" In an explanatory paragraph, the Foundation expands on this second question thus: "How well does the proposed activity broaden the participation of underrepresented groups (e.g., gender, ethnicity, disability, geographic, etc.)? . . . .What may be the benefits of the proposed activity to society?" Unless an investigator can muster adequate answers to both main questions, the proposal stands practically no chance of getting funded.
Now the NSF distributes taxpayers' money, and the taxpayers have a right to know what they're getting. But contrast that second question with Polanyi's words about why scientists should do science. In describing how science fares in developing countries, he says that "it suffers from a lack of response to its true values. Consequently, the authorities grant insufficient time for research; politics play havoc with appointments; businessmen deflect interest from science by subsidizing only practical projects. . . . Encircled today between the crude utilitarianism of the philistine and the ideological utilitarianism of the modern revolutionary movement, the love of pure science may falter and die. And if this sentiment were lost, the cultivation of pure science would lose the only driving force which can guide it toward the achievement of true scientific value. The opinion is widespread that the cultivation of science would always be continued for the sake of its practical advantages. . . . The scientific method was devised precisely for the purpose of elucidating the nature of things under more carefully controlled conditions and by more rigorous criteria than are present in the situations created by practical problems. These conditions and criteria can be discovered only by taking a purely scientific interest in the matter, which again can exist only in minds educated in the appreciation of scientific value. Such sensibility cannot be switched on at will for purposes alien to its inherent passion [e. g. for writing answers to question about the "broader impact" of research]. No important discovery can be made in science by anyone who does not believe that science is important—indeed, supremely important—in itself."
I wonder how far we in the U. S. have gone in the direction that Polanyi warned about. I see several signs that maybe we've gone quite a distance. Corporations have long since shuttered their basic-research divisions: Bell Laboratories is no more, IBM and Xerox are no longer spending large fractions of their income on basic research, and even before the present economic downturn, any CEO who authorized spending that couldn't promise a return in one to three quarters was asking for trouble from the stockholders. Following the fiasco of the Superconducting Supercollider in the 1990s, the axis of high-energy physics research left the U. S. and returned to its birthplace, Europe. We are relying on the Russians for the next few years of access to the International Space Station once the Space Shuttle is (finally!) terminated. And native-born Americans seem to be allergic to almost any kind of graduate study that doesn't promise quick financial rewards. That eliminates science and engineering graduate study for most of them, which explains the highly international flavor of most graduate schools, and by now most engineering and science college faculties.
That is great news for the folks who come to the U. S. to better their education, of course. We are 99% a nation of immigrants anyway, and I do not begrudge anyone a place in the great adventure of science and technology, no matter where they came from. But we can't rely exclusively on immigration from places which, in another generation or so, will have graduate schools as good or better than ours, partly because people in those countries seem to have learned what we're in the process of forgetting: that some science, in fact all true science, has to be pursued for philosophia—the love of knowledge, not for what it can do or how much money it can make. Some engineers and politicians may not like to hear that, but unless we're prepared to do without new science, we should at least recognize the problem, which, as in any engineering ethics issue, is the first step toward solving it.
Sources: The Polanyi quotations are from pp. 182-183 of Personal Knowledge: Toward a Post-Critical Philosophy (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1958). The questions an NSF applicant must answer can be found in the Grant Proposal Guide on the NSF website, http://www.nsf.gov/pubs/policydocs/pappguide/nsf08_1/gpg_3.jsp.
Born of Jewish parentage in Hungary, he obtained a Ph. D. in chemistry and began a career as a research chemist in Germany. He married a Catholic there and left with his family for England shortly after Hitler came to power in 1933. At the University of Manchester, his interests turned gradually from chemistry to the philosophy of science. When he was invited to give the prestigious Gifford Lectures for 1951-52, he focused on the personal nature of supposedly "objective" scientific knowledge and published his thoughts in his best-known work, Personal Knowledge, in 1958. Fifty years later, his arguments about the purity of science and its relationship to technology are probably worth heeding even more now than when he wrote them.
Personal Knowledge is a deep and wide-ranging book, and all I want to do today is to give you a small sample that touches on the relationship between science and engineering, and how we allow the practical needs of technology to dominate the way we do science at our peril.
If you write a proposal these days to the U. S. National Science Foundation for even the most abstruse and theoretical project, you will have to address two questions in your proposal. The first, appropriately, is "What is the intellectual merit of the proposed activity?" That is, how will this work advance the state of scientific knowledge? This is an entirely reasonable criterion, and one which has been in place since the early days of the Foundation in the 1950s. However, the answer to a second question is now given equal weight in the funding reviews: "What are the broader impacts of the proposed activity?" In an explanatory paragraph, the Foundation expands on this second question thus: "How well does the proposed activity broaden the participation of underrepresented groups (e.g., gender, ethnicity, disability, geographic, etc.)? . . . .What may be the benefits of the proposed activity to society?" Unless an investigator can muster adequate answers to both main questions, the proposal stands practically no chance of getting funded.
Now the NSF distributes taxpayers' money, and the taxpayers have a right to know what they're getting. But contrast that second question with Polanyi's words about why scientists should do science. In describing how science fares in developing countries, he says that "it suffers from a lack of response to its true values. Consequently, the authorities grant insufficient time for research; politics play havoc with appointments; businessmen deflect interest from science by subsidizing only practical projects. . . . Encircled today between the crude utilitarianism of the philistine and the ideological utilitarianism of the modern revolutionary movement, the love of pure science may falter and die. And if this sentiment were lost, the cultivation of pure science would lose the only driving force which can guide it toward the achievement of true scientific value. The opinion is widespread that the cultivation of science would always be continued for the sake of its practical advantages. . . . The scientific method was devised precisely for the purpose of elucidating the nature of things under more carefully controlled conditions and by more rigorous criteria than are present in the situations created by practical problems. These conditions and criteria can be discovered only by taking a purely scientific interest in the matter, which again can exist only in minds educated in the appreciation of scientific value. Such sensibility cannot be switched on at will for purposes alien to its inherent passion [e. g. for writing answers to question about the "broader impact" of research]. No important discovery can be made in science by anyone who does not believe that science is important—indeed, supremely important—in itself."
I wonder how far we in the U. S. have gone in the direction that Polanyi warned about. I see several signs that maybe we've gone quite a distance. Corporations have long since shuttered their basic-research divisions: Bell Laboratories is no more, IBM and Xerox are no longer spending large fractions of their income on basic research, and even before the present economic downturn, any CEO who authorized spending that couldn't promise a return in one to three quarters was asking for trouble from the stockholders. Following the fiasco of the Superconducting Supercollider in the 1990s, the axis of high-energy physics research left the U. S. and returned to its birthplace, Europe. We are relying on the Russians for the next few years of access to the International Space Station once the Space Shuttle is (finally!) terminated. And native-born Americans seem to be allergic to almost any kind of graduate study that doesn't promise quick financial rewards. That eliminates science and engineering graduate study for most of them, which explains the highly international flavor of most graduate schools, and by now most engineering and science college faculties.
That is great news for the folks who come to the U. S. to better their education, of course. We are 99% a nation of immigrants anyway, and I do not begrudge anyone a place in the great adventure of science and technology, no matter where they came from. But we can't rely exclusively on immigration from places which, in another generation or so, will have graduate schools as good or better than ours, partly because people in those countries seem to have learned what we're in the process of forgetting: that some science, in fact all true science, has to be pursued for philosophia—the love of knowledge, not for what it can do or how much money it can make. Some engineers and politicians may not like to hear that, but unless we're prepared to do without new science, we should at least recognize the problem, which, as in any engineering ethics issue, is the first step toward solving it.
Sources: The Polanyi quotations are from pp. 182-183 of Personal Knowledge: Toward a Post-Critical Philosophy (Chicago: Univ. of Chicago Press, 1958). The questions an NSF applicant must answer can be found in the Grant Proposal Guide on the NSF website, http://www.nsf.gov/pubs/policydocs/pappguide/nsf08_1/gpg_3.jsp.
Monday, December 01, 2008
Engineering Social Capital
Social capital is the network of personal relationships—memberships in associations, personal friendships, even people you say hi to at the grocery store—without which a society becomes just a collection of isolated individuals. Of course, even a highly dysfunctional society has some social capital, unless everyone is living as a hermit or a Robinson Crusoe with no human interaction of any kind. But social capital is at least as important to a society's well-being as the more familiar financial and physical kinds. In his 2000 book Bowling Alone, Harvard professor of public policy Robert D. Putnam showed the vital importance of social capital for all sorts of things, ranging from personal health to national prosperity. He also exhibited tons of evidence that the U. S. has suffered a long-term decline in social capital beginning around the 1960s and progressing through the rest of the twentieth century.
As I read Bowling Alone, I kept finding little pieces of my life being explained here and there, and I'm sure nearly everyone who reads it will as well. That Junior League thing that my mother belonged to—social capital. Those bridge games and backyard barbecues my parents were always having—social capital. (Did you know that in 1958, one of every three adults were bridge players?) The stubborn decline in the percentage of eligible U. S. engineers who belong to professional societies such as the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers over the last twenty years—social capital again.
Much of the change is generational. It turns out that the baby-boomer-parent generation which came of age in the 1940s and 50s also participated in a peak in social capital, as measured by everything from memberships in voluntary organizations, to voting and political action, to union membership and writing letters to newspapers. Those who came afterwards do less of all these things. In a series of state-by-state studies that compare the degree of social capital with public health, efficiency in government, economic strength, and so on, Putnam shows that the right kinds of social capital (there are bad kinds, it turns out) benefit these other socially desirable factors as well. In other words, if you live in a state with higher social capital, you're likely to make more money, live longer, and even be happier with your life, on average. So the fact that social capital in the U. S. is sinking is cause for concern.
What has this got to do with engineering? Only nearly everything. Many of the sources of the decline Putnam describes have their roots in technological changes: the rise of television in the late 1940s, the increased urbanization (and suburbanization) of America, even (although he doesn't mention it) technologies like air conditioning, that makes staying inside with the windows closed on really hot days a viable option. Although the Internet was just gathering steam as Putnam finished his tome, I'm sure he'd have a lot to say today about the rise of computer-mediated relationships at the expense of face-to-face encounters.
Far from being a technology-is-bad Luddite, Putnam acknowledges that technology has helped to increase social capital in some ways. The automobile made travelling for social reasons easier, especially for young people. Having online relationships is better than no relationships at all. His main point is that many technologies have externalities—unintended consequences, basically—that often adversely affect social capital. When your choice of what to do in the evening was to go to a movie with friends or play a pickup basketball game, both activities involved you with other people. But now the options might be between watching your latest Netflix CD or trying out your new videogame—typically both solitary pursuits.
Every engineer whose work affects the way people spend their time or money—which is nearly every engineer—should read this book. It's a big book, some 400 pages and notes, but it's easy to read, entertaining in spots, and toward the end Putnam goes on a little Sherlock Holmes quest to find the "culprits" responsible for the decline of social capital. Technology isn't the only one—the shift of women into the workplace, urbanization and sprawl, and several others helped as well—but it is a major enough player to justify the attention of any engineer whose product or service might tend either to bring people together or to isolate them from others.
A good example of a newly engineered product that potentially leads to beneficial social capital is Nintendo's Wii video game console. Unlike other games which require only rapid finger movements, the Wii console encourages the use of games that involve the player's whole body and can more easily involve two players at once. I haven't tried it myself, but if the reports are true, a video game that encourages two people to be playing the same game in the same room produces more social capital than otherwise.
So the next time you stop what you're doing and think about the social consequences of your work, try thinking along the lines of social capital: Will this product bring people together? Or will it be one more reason for a guy to sit alone in his room with his machinery? It's not the only factor, but it is a factor that engineers seldom consider. And Bowling Alone makes it clear that something needs to be done soon.
Sources: Robert D. Putnam's Bowling Alone was published by Simon & Schuster in 2000. For an explanation of externalities, see my blog "The Ethics of Externalities" on Nov. 3, 2008.
As I read Bowling Alone, I kept finding little pieces of my life being explained here and there, and I'm sure nearly everyone who reads it will as well. That Junior League thing that my mother belonged to—social capital. Those bridge games and backyard barbecues my parents were always having—social capital. (Did you know that in 1958, one of every three adults were bridge players?) The stubborn decline in the percentage of eligible U. S. engineers who belong to professional societies such as the Institute of Electrical and Electronics Engineers over the last twenty years—social capital again.
Much of the change is generational. It turns out that the baby-boomer-parent generation which came of age in the 1940s and 50s also participated in a peak in social capital, as measured by everything from memberships in voluntary organizations, to voting and political action, to union membership and writing letters to newspapers. Those who came afterwards do less of all these things. In a series of state-by-state studies that compare the degree of social capital with public health, efficiency in government, economic strength, and so on, Putnam shows that the right kinds of social capital (there are bad kinds, it turns out) benefit these other socially desirable factors as well. In other words, if you live in a state with higher social capital, you're likely to make more money, live longer, and even be happier with your life, on average. So the fact that social capital in the U. S. is sinking is cause for concern.
What has this got to do with engineering? Only nearly everything. Many of the sources of the decline Putnam describes have their roots in technological changes: the rise of television in the late 1940s, the increased urbanization (and suburbanization) of America, even (although he doesn't mention it) technologies like air conditioning, that makes staying inside with the windows closed on really hot days a viable option. Although the Internet was just gathering steam as Putnam finished his tome, I'm sure he'd have a lot to say today about the rise of computer-mediated relationships at the expense of face-to-face encounters.
Far from being a technology-is-bad Luddite, Putnam acknowledges that technology has helped to increase social capital in some ways. The automobile made travelling for social reasons easier, especially for young people. Having online relationships is better than no relationships at all. His main point is that many technologies have externalities—unintended consequences, basically—that often adversely affect social capital. When your choice of what to do in the evening was to go to a movie with friends or play a pickup basketball game, both activities involved you with other people. But now the options might be between watching your latest Netflix CD or trying out your new videogame—typically both solitary pursuits.
Every engineer whose work affects the way people spend their time or money—which is nearly every engineer—should read this book. It's a big book, some 400 pages and notes, but it's easy to read, entertaining in spots, and toward the end Putnam goes on a little Sherlock Holmes quest to find the "culprits" responsible for the decline of social capital. Technology isn't the only one—the shift of women into the workplace, urbanization and sprawl, and several others helped as well—but it is a major enough player to justify the attention of any engineer whose product or service might tend either to bring people together or to isolate them from others.
A good example of a newly engineered product that potentially leads to beneficial social capital is Nintendo's Wii video game console. Unlike other games which require only rapid finger movements, the Wii console encourages the use of games that involve the player's whole body and can more easily involve two players at once. I haven't tried it myself, but if the reports are true, a video game that encourages two people to be playing the same game in the same room produces more social capital than otherwise.
So the next time you stop what you're doing and think about the social consequences of your work, try thinking along the lines of social capital: Will this product bring people together? Or will it be one more reason for a guy to sit alone in his room with his machinery? It's not the only factor, but it is a factor that engineers seldom consider. And Bowling Alone makes it clear that something needs to be done soon.
Sources: Robert D. Putnam's Bowling Alone was published by Simon & Schuster in 2000. For an explanation of externalities, see my blog "The Ethics of Externalities" on Nov. 3, 2008.
Monday, November 24, 2008
The Ethics of Financial Engineering
As I write this, the Dow-Jones Industrial Average is somewhere south of 8100, down 35% or more from its 2007 high and showing few signs of fatigue in its downward trek. General Motors hourly threatens to go bankrupt, credit markets are doing an imitation of the last Ice Age, and newspapers are running old pictures of soup lines during the Great Depression of the 1930s, I guess to get us used to what's coming. For such a young recession, it's already gotten plenty of publicity. But in all the finger-pointing about whose fault it was that we got into this mess, I have not read anyone who has addressed the question of what might be called economic and financial engineering, and the ethics associated with it.
I remember being surprised the first time I heard that a couple of our better electrical engineering graduates got high-paying jobs with a credit-card company, of all places. But I'm surprised no longer when I hear that present or former engineers often get hired by banks, brokerage firms, and other outfits that deal in highly technical and complex financial machinery. The attention to detail and problem-solving skills that engineers learn can be applied fruitfully to finance and securities trading as well as electronics, and the pay can be better, too. I call it "machinery" although in reality it's mostly software and rules devised by lawyers and technical types such as former engineers and physicists. But the complexity is there, and there is a good argument that such complexity played a significant role in the current recession.
From what little I do understand about the situation, when all sorts of home loans (the good, the bad, and the ugly) were bundled together by means of software-mediated deals, they sold like two-dollar Miley Cyrus concert tickets at a middle school full of teenage girls. To make things more complicated still, financial institutions started selling things called "credit default swaps," which were some sort of unregulated insurance against the eventuality of loans turning bad. My point is not to explain these things in all their gory details (which I couldn't even if I had to), but to show that computers and technical people who can keep track of these things, and figure out the rules by which they operated, played essential roles in this situation.
Before electronic computers became generally available, the most complex math a banker had to deal with was figuring out compound interest, and there were tables for that sort of thing. The complexity of a given financial deal was limited by, among other things, the labor it would take to figure it out. If somebody came up with some kind of security that came with a formula that would take three women punching calculators for three days to figure out, nobody would have bought it.
Not so today. If you took all the computers away from today's traders, the whole system would come to an instant halt, not only because computers are the medium of communication (so-called "electronic trading" is involved in virtually all transactions), but because a lot of trades are initiated by automatic triggers that write buy and sell orders based on electronically reported prices.
This is not to say that speculative booms and busts are possible only when you have engineer types and horribly complicated automated trading involved. The classic textbook example of a boom-and-bust phenomenon was the tulip-bulb mania of the early 1600s. Substitute tulip bulbs for bundled home mortgages, and you can see the same psychology at work: rising prices, a spreading perception that investing in tulip bulbs is a great way to make money fast, a few people made richer but only if they cash out early, and then alternate reality sets in: hey, we're only talking about tulip bulbs here! What's the big deal? And the crash follows, wiping out thousands of tulip-bulb plutocrats.
Engineers or technical people are not to blame for the mass psychology of crashes. But as they are often endowed with perhaps an above-average grasp of logic and what used to be called common sense, I would hope that they could serve as a kind of reality check or brake on things when matters really get out of hand. Of course, engineers working for a firm whose whole existence is based on complex derivatives or credit-default swaps or tulip-bulb futures, are not going to have long stable careers in such firms if they start questioning the fundamental assumptions on which the operation is based. On the other hand, it's looking like they won't have long stable careers anyway, now that many of the outfits are going broke.
I have no illusions that many of my readers are working in the financial industry. But if you ever happen to end up either working in it or dealing with it, remember that when a deal gets so complicated and computerized that even the people who are buying and selling it don't really understand it—then maybe it's too complicated. Complexity in the service of necessity is one thing, but complexity simply to confuse the buyer is wrong. And it looks like there were a lot of confused buyers out there who have lost faith in their vendors, to the detriment of the economy as a whole.
I remember being surprised the first time I heard that a couple of our better electrical engineering graduates got high-paying jobs with a credit-card company, of all places. But I'm surprised no longer when I hear that present or former engineers often get hired by banks, brokerage firms, and other outfits that deal in highly technical and complex financial machinery. The attention to detail and problem-solving skills that engineers learn can be applied fruitfully to finance and securities trading as well as electronics, and the pay can be better, too. I call it "machinery" although in reality it's mostly software and rules devised by lawyers and technical types such as former engineers and physicists. But the complexity is there, and there is a good argument that such complexity played a significant role in the current recession.
From what little I do understand about the situation, when all sorts of home loans (the good, the bad, and the ugly) were bundled together by means of software-mediated deals, they sold like two-dollar Miley Cyrus concert tickets at a middle school full of teenage girls. To make things more complicated still, financial institutions started selling things called "credit default swaps," which were some sort of unregulated insurance against the eventuality of loans turning bad. My point is not to explain these things in all their gory details (which I couldn't even if I had to), but to show that computers and technical people who can keep track of these things, and figure out the rules by which they operated, played essential roles in this situation.
Before electronic computers became generally available, the most complex math a banker had to deal with was figuring out compound interest, and there were tables for that sort of thing. The complexity of a given financial deal was limited by, among other things, the labor it would take to figure it out. If somebody came up with some kind of security that came with a formula that would take three women punching calculators for three days to figure out, nobody would have bought it.
Not so today. If you took all the computers away from today's traders, the whole system would come to an instant halt, not only because computers are the medium of communication (so-called "electronic trading" is involved in virtually all transactions), but because a lot of trades are initiated by automatic triggers that write buy and sell orders based on electronically reported prices.
This is not to say that speculative booms and busts are possible only when you have engineer types and horribly complicated automated trading involved. The classic textbook example of a boom-and-bust phenomenon was the tulip-bulb mania of the early 1600s. Substitute tulip bulbs for bundled home mortgages, and you can see the same psychology at work: rising prices, a spreading perception that investing in tulip bulbs is a great way to make money fast, a few people made richer but only if they cash out early, and then alternate reality sets in: hey, we're only talking about tulip bulbs here! What's the big deal? And the crash follows, wiping out thousands of tulip-bulb plutocrats.
Engineers or technical people are not to blame for the mass psychology of crashes. But as they are often endowed with perhaps an above-average grasp of logic and what used to be called common sense, I would hope that they could serve as a kind of reality check or brake on things when matters really get out of hand. Of course, engineers working for a firm whose whole existence is based on complex derivatives or credit-default swaps or tulip-bulb futures, are not going to have long stable careers in such firms if they start questioning the fundamental assumptions on which the operation is based. On the other hand, it's looking like they won't have long stable careers anyway, now that many of the outfits are going broke.
I have no illusions that many of my readers are working in the financial industry. But if you ever happen to end up either working in it or dealing with it, remember that when a deal gets so complicated and computerized that even the people who are buying and selling it don't really understand it—then maybe it's too complicated. Complexity in the service of necessity is one thing, but complexity simply to confuse the buyer is wrong. And it looks like there were a lot of confused buyers out there who have lost faith in their vendors, to the detriment of the economy as a whole.
Monday, November 17, 2008
Gateways to Engineering: "Our Mr. Sun" 52 Years On
In my perhaps overly generous definition of engineering ethics, I consider the question of why people become engineers a legitimate topic of enquiry within the field. If for some mysterious reason young people all of a sudden lost interest in becoming engineers, we'd have real problems getting engineering projects done, and all the good things that result from engineering wouldn't happen. Also, even though it's been two years since I did a blog on the movie "The Prestige," I'm still getting comments about it. So these two factors lead me to draw your attention to a curious film called "Our Mr. Sun." But first, some context.
The nineteen-fifties were unique in many ways, some good, some not so good. Having helped to knock flat nearly every other industrialized country's manufacturing capabilities during World War II, the United States enjoyed an unprecedented decade of prosperity as we produced a lot of neat new stuff that the rest of the world wanted. One beneficiary of this abundance was the Bell System, which back then legally monopolized the U. S. telecommunications market. With a small portion of their government-regulated profits, Ma Bell devoted itself to what it perceived as good works, the nature of which some historian of technology ought to explore one of these days. One of these good works was a well-funded series of entertaining and (they hoped) educational films, which became known as the Bell Laboratories Science Series.
It sounds like what we call "infotainment" today, but compared to today's thirty-minute ads for weight-loss nostrums, the Bell films are almost the exact opposite. Today's infotainment is produced as cheaply as the advertisers can get by with it; Bell went out and hired top-notch directors such as Frank Capra, and gave them pretty nearly a free hand and generous funding. The whole point of today's infotainment is to sell you something; the first film in the Science Series, an hour-long production called "Our Mr. Sun," has about three minutes devoted to the Bell System's early research in solar cells, and one gets the feeling that if Mr. Capra had decided to cut it for a good artistic reason, the Bell people would have swallowed their pride and gone along with the cut.
When one asks why a telecommunications monopoly would spend their shareholders' money on such an apparently profitless enterprise, the non-historian is reduced to guesswork (the real answer may be buried in the AT&T Archives in New Jersey, but my historical-research travel budget for this blog is busted). One reason might have been that Bell, and a lot of other people besides, were worried that U. S. citizens didn't know enough about science, and needed to know more. Although the film's format combined animation and live action, it was clearly intended for a wider audience than the kiddies, since it reportedly aired on television at 10 PM, which was not a good time if you wanted a lot of children in your audience. On the other hand, over 600 prints were later distributed to schools and civic organizations, so reaching the younger generation must have been at least a part of their intentions.
One way to get a grip on why they did it is to watch the film, which I did last night. (It is now in the public domain, and a URL for a streaming source is given below.) Technically, the story is in the form of an allegory a la Pilgrim's Progress, with characters such as Mr. Research (played by professor of literature Frank Baxter), Mr. Writer (Eddie Albert), and the voices of Mr. Sun (Marvin Miller) and Father Time (allegedly played by Lionel Barrymore, in his last role). These latter two worthies appear via animated segments, which makes it easier to conduct interviews with beings such as stars and personifications of non-material ideas.
Capra knew his way around lively stories, and the film holds up surprisingly well in both the dramatic and the technical senses. Dramatically, it does not induce that cringing sensation that the hyper-corniness of so many didactic films of the 1950s produce in us today. Capra managed to get across three thousand years' worth of history about how the sun was originally regarded as a god, to today's present view of it as a flaming ball of gas, and pinpoints the turning point with the name of a specific Greek philosopher. Then the viewer is treated to such things as the physics of nuclear fusion as explained by a magician, the problem of future sources of energy as symbolized by an "energy bank" measured in horsepower-hours, and speculation that future energy shortages will be solved in the short run by nuclear energy, of course, but eventually we might run out of uranium and then we'd have to develop better solar cells.
It's easy to throw rocks at such clouded crystal balls (to mix a metaphor), but the science that was state-of-the-art then was explained well. We get to see a clip of Hans Bethe, who originated the explanation for the carbon cycle of nuclear fusion in the sun, and get treated to what scientists knew about how chlorophyll (or rather, Chloro Phyll, a diminutive cook in a plant's metaphorical chemical kitchen) turns sunlight and water and carbon dioxide into sugar. In one of the weirder sequences, a cartoon scientist dressed in a chef's outfit starts with beach sand, purifies it in a blender, adds a "dash of arsenic" (!), cooks it in a boron oven, and voila! out pops a pan of solar cells from the oven, like cookies. (You're tempted to say, "Kids, don't try this at home," but the Bell System, in a separate but related public-education program, made available to public schools a do-it-yourself solar-cell kit, complete with a set of little fire bricks to build your boron-diffusion oven with.)
Your correspondent was too young at the time the film was released in 1956 to see it in its initial release on TV, but seven others came out over the next eight years, and chances are that anybody going to school in the 1960s saw at least one of these films. In an essay on the series, David Templeton notes that many young people who saw the films later became scientists and engineers, and some cite the series as at least one reason why they chose their technical fields. So in that sense, at least, it looks like Ma Bell got her money back.
It's hard to imagine anything like this taking place today, for a number of reasons. Telecomm monopolies have passed from the scene, corporate altruism is not popular with shareholders these days (what is?), and there is no chance in perdition that a modern film director could get by with the framing motif that Capra, a committed Catholic, chose to begin and end "Our Mr. Sun" with. The first words you see are "The Heavens declare the glory of God" (the first line of the Old Testament Psalm 19), and nearly the last words you hear are those of St. Francis of Assisi, who viewed Nature not as our mother, to be enslaved to, nor as our mistress or subject, to be exploited and dominated, but as our sister, to be loved, cared for, and regarded as a fellow creature of one's Creator. Of course, this was back when prayer in schools was not only permitted but often required by law. Whether getting rid of that kind of religious intrusion in public education has contributed to our current parlous state in which the future of engineering in the U. S. is at least somewhat in doubt, I will leave as a puzzle for the reader.
Sources: "Our Mr. Sun" can be viewed at the AVGeeks archive at http://www.archive.org/details/our_mr_sun. David Templeton's essay can be found at http://www.metroactive.com/papers/sonoma/09.23.99/bellscience-9938.html.
The nineteen-fifties were unique in many ways, some good, some not so good. Having helped to knock flat nearly every other industrialized country's manufacturing capabilities during World War II, the United States enjoyed an unprecedented decade of prosperity as we produced a lot of neat new stuff that the rest of the world wanted. One beneficiary of this abundance was the Bell System, which back then legally monopolized the U. S. telecommunications market. With a small portion of their government-regulated profits, Ma Bell devoted itself to what it perceived as good works, the nature of which some historian of technology ought to explore one of these days. One of these good works was a well-funded series of entertaining and (they hoped) educational films, which became known as the Bell Laboratories Science Series.
It sounds like what we call "infotainment" today, but compared to today's thirty-minute ads for weight-loss nostrums, the Bell films are almost the exact opposite. Today's infotainment is produced as cheaply as the advertisers can get by with it; Bell went out and hired top-notch directors such as Frank Capra, and gave them pretty nearly a free hand and generous funding. The whole point of today's infotainment is to sell you something; the first film in the Science Series, an hour-long production called "Our Mr. Sun," has about three minutes devoted to the Bell System's early research in solar cells, and one gets the feeling that if Mr. Capra had decided to cut it for a good artistic reason, the Bell people would have swallowed their pride and gone along with the cut.
When one asks why a telecommunications monopoly would spend their shareholders' money on such an apparently profitless enterprise, the non-historian is reduced to guesswork (the real answer may be buried in the AT&T Archives in New Jersey, but my historical-research travel budget for this blog is busted). One reason might have been that Bell, and a lot of other people besides, were worried that U. S. citizens didn't know enough about science, and needed to know more. Although the film's format combined animation and live action, it was clearly intended for a wider audience than the kiddies, since it reportedly aired on television at 10 PM, which was not a good time if you wanted a lot of children in your audience. On the other hand, over 600 prints were later distributed to schools and civic organizations, so reaching the younger generation must have been at least a part of their intentions.
One way to get a grip on why they did it is to watch the film, which I did last night. (It is now in the public domain, and a URL for a streaming source is given below.) Technically, the story is in the form of an allegory a la Pilgrim's Progress, with characters such as Mr. Research (played by professor of literature Frank Baxter), Mr. Writer (Eddie Albert), and the voices of Mr. Sun (Marvin Miller) and Father Time (allegedly played by Lionel Barrymore, in his last role). These latter two worthies appear via animated segments, which makes it easier to conduct interviews with beings such as stars and personifications of non-material ideas.
Capra knew his way around lively stories, and the film holds up surprisingly well in both the dramatic and the technical senses. Dramatically, it does not induce that cringing sensation that the hyper-corniness of so many didactic films of the 1950s produce in us today. Capra managed to get across three thousand years' worth of history about how the sun was originally regarded as a god, to today's present view of it as a flaming ball of gas, and pinpoints the turning point with the name of a specific Greek philosopher. Then the viewer is treated to such things as the physics of nuclear fusion as explained by a magician, the problem of future sources of energy as symbolized by an "energy bank" measured in horsepower-hours, and speculation that future energy shortages will be solved in the short run by nuclear energy, of course, but eventually we might run out of uranium and then we'd have to develop better solar cells.
It's easy to throw rocks at such clouded crystal balls (to mix a metaphor), but the science that was state-of-the-art then was explained well. We get to see a clip of Hans Bethe, who originated the explanation for the carbon cycle of nuclear fusion in the sun, and get treated to what scientists knew about how chlorophyll (or rather, Chloro Phyll, a diminutive cook in a plant's metaphorical chemical kitchen) turns sunlight and water and carbon dioxide into sugar. In one of the weirder sequences, a cartoon scientist dressed in a chef's outfit starts with beach sand, purifies it in a blender, adds a "dash of arsenic" (!), cooks it in a boron oven, and voila! out pops a pan of solar cells from the oven, like cookies. (You're tempted to say, "Kids, don't try this at home," but the Bell System, in a separate but related public-education program, made available to public schools a do-it-yourself solar-cell kit, complete with a set of little fire bricks to build your boron-diffusion oven with.)
Your correspondent was too young at the time the film was released in 1956 to see it in its initial release on TV, but seven others came out over the next eight years, and chances are that anybody going to school in the 1960s saw at least one of these films. In an essay on the series, David Templeton notes that many young people who saw the films later became scientists and engineers, and some cite the series as at least one reason why they chose their technical fields. So in that sense, at least, it looks like Ma Bell got her money back.
It's hard to imagine anything like this taking place today, for a number of reasons. Telecomm monopolies have passed from the scene, corporate altruism is not popular with shareholders these days (what is?), and there is no chance in perdition that a modern film director could get by with the framing motif that Capra, a committed Catholic, chose to begin and end "Our Mr. Sun" with. The first words you see are "The Heavens declare the glory of God" (the first line of the Old Testament Psalm 19), and nearly the last words you hear are those of St. Francis of Assisi, who viewed Nature not as our mother, to be enslaved to, nor as our mistress or subject, to be exploited and dominated, but as our sister, to be loved, cared for, and regarded as a fellow creature of one's Creator. Of course, this was back when prayer in schools was not only permitted but often required by law. Whether getting rid of that kind of religious intrusion in public education has contributed to our current parlous state in which the future of engineering in the U. S. is at least somewhat in doubt, I will leave as a puzzle for the reader.
Sources: "Our Mr. Sun" can be viewed at the AVGeeks archive at http://www.archive.org/details/our_mr_sun. David Templeton's essay can be found at http://www.metroactive.com/papers/sonoma/09.23.99/bellscience-9938.html.
Monday, November 10, 2008
Watching Teenage Drivers with Webcams
Over two hundred teenagers in southern Maryland are now driving around with a webcam on the rear-view mirror of their cars. Whenever they turn or brake sharply, the resulting g-force triggers the camera to record a 20-second sequence of what went on inside and outside the car before and after the incident. These dynamic snippets go via the web to a company in San Diego that reviews them, attaches little helpful comments about how such dangerous driving incidents can be avoided, and notifies the teenager's parents that the video is now available for viewing.
Although deaths and injuries in automobile accidents have been declining slowly for years, over 40,000 people died in highway-related accidents in 2007. Anything that makes that number go down without severely compromising some other desirable outcome of automobile use is worth considering. And at first glance, the specter of Mom or Pop looking over the teen driver's shoulder, so to speak, seems like a good idea. A similar study done in 2006 showed that drivers who started out triggering the webcam a lot with their jerky, high-risk driving, eventually learned to reduce their triggering rate (and thus drive more safely) by four-fifths. It's too early to tell whether a similar improvement will result from the Maryland experiment. But one thing is already clear: the teens don't like the idea, even though some grudgingly admit that the system has improved their driving.
Do the teens have a point? Is the webcam an intrusion on their privacy? Obviously it is, but then you have to ask whether the chance of saving someone's life is worth a little less privacy. And it's not like the thing was on all the time. Teens do other things with, and in, cars that I'm sure they wouldn't want their parents to see. But when the company that operates the system says it won't forward anything that's "embarrassing to the teen" in their words, that seems to be enough to satisfy most young drivers. Of course, if the company were ever to betray that trust, the entire system might suffer a black eye that it might never recover from.
This system is just one example of how technology is making it possible to monitor more and more aspects of our daily lives, in ways that were unthinkable back in the days when George Orwell wrote 1984. One of the creepier images of that novel was the spy cameras everywhere, monitored by secret police whose presence the citizens were reminded of through the slogan "Big Brother is watching you." A sure-fire argument against that kind of thing ever happening in reality used to be that you'd never be able to man every camera everywhere, because eventually you'd end up hiring one half of the populace to watch the other half. But notice that the in-car webcam uses smart technology—namely, accelerometers—to select only those incidents worthy of study, thereby reducing the work of human editors to manageable proportions.
So as time goes on, it will be more and more practical to acquire webcam data on all sorts of activities, and still be able to handle the massive amounts of raw input intelligently. Is this a fundamental threat to privacy, liberty, and all that? Or is it a tempest in a teapot?
The answer hinges on those who are doing the spying, or monitoring, or whatever you want to call it. In the case we're discussing today, a private company is involved with consenting families, and if the company does anything out of line, they are liable to lose business fast. That's one of the best constraints against misbehavior. Governments do not have such a negative incentive, which is why government-sponsored monitoring of behavior can be more problematic. A case in point is the increasingly obtrusive safety inspections for airline passengers. In certain airports, systems are now in place that use millimeter-wave sensors to see through a person's clothes. The people who inspect these images are not co-located at the inspection point, but still, you wonder if and when this kind of thing will be abused.
It seems the best thing to do in these cases is to ask whether the system is doing any good. In the case of the in-car webcams, it looks like they may well improve driver safety, which is good for everybody. In other situations, such as in-flight security, it's harder to evaluate effectiveness except with tests in which people try to sneak by the inspection stations on purpose. And the news regularly carries reports that inspectors often fail these tests. On the other hand, we haven't had any U. S. planes get bombed or turned into flying missiles since Sept. 9, 2001, so something is working, at any rate.
The other factor to consider is the continuing decline in monitoring technology cost. The current webcam system costs $900 plus a $30 monthly fee, but if it proves popular, these costs could go down to where it would be offered as an option when you buy a new car. If insurance companies like it, you could get a discount on your teenager's insurance rate if you agreed to install the device. And once it's in there, it will work for everybody: the teens, Mom, Pop, and Grandpa. So one day we may all be driving around with spycams in our rear-view mirrors, who knows? Let's just hope the people operating the cameras then are as trustworthy as they are today.
Sources: An early report on the in-car webcam can be found at the Washington Post website for Oct. 24, 2008 at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/10/23/AR2008102303821.html. The 2007 automotive fatality statistics can be found at the U. S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration website http://www-nrd.nhtsa.dot.gov/Pubs/811017.PDF.
Although deaths and injuries in automobile accidents have been declining slowly for years, over 40,000 people died in highway-related accidents in 2007. Anything that makes that number go down without severely compromising some other desirable outcome of automobile use is worth considering. And at first glance, the specter of Mom or Pop looking over the teen driver's shoulder, so to speak, seems like a good idea. A similar study done in 2006 showed that drivers who started out triggering the webcam a lot with their jerky, high-risk driving, eventually learned to reduce their triggering rate (and thus drive more safely) by four-fifths. It's too early to tell whether a similar improvement will result from the Maryland experiment. But one thing is already clear: the teens don't like the idea, even though some grudgingly admit that the system has improved their driving.
Do the teens have a point? Is the webcam an intrusion on their privacy? Obviously it is, but then you have to ask whether the chance of saving someone's life is worth a little less privacy. And it's not like the thing was on all the time. Teens do other things with, and in, cars that I'm sure they wouldn't want their parents to see. But when the company that operates the system says it won't forward anything that's "embarrassing to the teen" in their words, that seems to be enough to satisfy most young drivers. Of course, if the company were ever to betray that trust, the entire system might suffer a black eye that it might never recover from.
This system is just one example of how technology is making it possible to monitor more and more aspects of our daily lives, in ways that were unthinkable back in the days when George Orwell wrote 1984. One of the creepier images of that novel was the spy cameras everywhere, monitored by secret police whose presence the citizens were reminded of through the slogan "Big Brother is watching you." A sure-fire argument against that kind of thing ever happening in reality used to be that you'd never be able to man every camera everywhere, because eventually you'd end up hiring one half of the populace to watch the other half. But notice that the in-car webcam uses smart technology—namely, accelerometers—to select only those incidents worthy of study, thereby reducing the work of human editors to manageable proportions.
So as time goes on, it will be more and more practical to acquire webcam data on all sorts of activities, and still be able to handle the massive amounts of raw input intelligently. Is this a fundamental threat to privacy, liberty, and all that? Or is it a tempest in a teapot?
The answer hinges on those who are doing the spying, or monitoring, or whatever you want to call it. In the case we're discussing today, a private company is involved with consenting families, and if the company does anything out of line, they are liable to lose business fast. That's one of the best constraints against misbehavior. Governments do not have such a negative incentive, which is why government-sponsored monitoring of behavior can be more problematic. A case in point is the increasingly obtrusive safety inspections for airline passengers. In certain airports, systems are now in place that use millimeter-wave sensors to see through a person's clothes. The people who inspect these images are not co-located at the inspection point, but still, you wonder if and when this kind of thing will be abused.
It seems the best thing to do in these cases is to ask whether the system is doing any good. In the case of the in-car webcams, it looks like they may well improve driver safety, which is good for everybody. In other situations, such as in-flight security, it's harder to evaluate effectiveness except with tests in which people try to sneak by the inspection stations on purpose. And the news regularly carries reports that inspectors often fail these tests. On the other hand, we haven't had any U. S. planes get bombed or turned into flying missiles since Sept. 9, 2001, so something is working, at any rate.
The other factor to consider is the continuing decline in monitoring technology cost. The current webcam system costs $900 plus a $30 monthly fee, but if it proves popular, these costs could go down to where it would be offered as an option when you buy a new car. If insurance companies like it, you could get a discount on your teenager's insurance rate if you agreed to install the device. And once it's in there, it will work for everybody: the teens, Mom, Pop, and Grandpa. So one day we may all be driving around with spycams in our rear-view mirrors, who knows? Let's just hope the people operating the cameras then are as trustworthy as they are today.
Sources: An early report on the in-car webcam can be found at the Washington Post website for Oct. 24, 2008 at http://www.washingtonpost.com/wp-dyn/content/article/2008/10/23/AR2008102303821.html. The 2007 automotive fatality statistics can be found at the U. S. National Highway Traffic Safety Administration website http://www-nrd.nhtsa.dot.gov/Pubs/811017.PDF.
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