Make plants grow a thin layer of graphene on their leaves. Graphene thermal conductivity could be influenced by shape or form or pattern. The pattern could compose semiconductance - thermal semiconductance.
Teach a specific and prolific species of plant to grow graphene layers on their leaves, in such a form as to form transistors or semiconductors, except that these biological graphene semiconductor circuits do not rely on conductance of electricity, but heat. They constitute thermal semiconductors. The plants grow a thin layer of graphene on the leaf surface. The pattern is influenced to grow into a transistor arrangement. The energy is a thermal gradient and not an electronic potential difference.
This is very beanangelic, [Ian].
One question (out of a very large number of questions that suggest themselves): what exactly is the thermal analogue of a transistor?
I should not have to point out that the help file is over there on the left.
//thermal analogue of a transistor?
"A semiconductor is a substance...Its conductance varies depending on the current or voltage applied to a control electrode, or on the intensity of irradiation by infrared (IR), visible light, ultraviolet (UV), or X rays."
So looks like the semiconductor conductance can be controlled by varying the heat. Don't ask me if that's the answer to your question.
And just one random thought, use mercury in tubes, kind of going back to the roots of early computing, using standing waves in mercury to hold data.
Don't ants and termites have the down low on heat diode layers. Leaves are a bit ablative when over stressed.
//Don't ask me if that's the answer to your question. // It isn't, really, because that's talking about using heat to control the flow of electrons, rather than heat to control the flow of heat.
I suppose a thermic transistor (which, annoyingly, can't be called a thermistor because they already exist) could involve a heat pipe, with a central constriction enabling a low-temperature control to freeze the working fluid and prevent the larger flow of heat.
Hasn't someone already made the optical analogue of the transistor? (using lasers and stuff). And aren't light and heat basically the same thing, making this also the heat analogue of the transistor?
//aren't light and heat basically the same thing// Sort of, only not.
You'd want a material with a very low specific heat, and a similarly low enthalpy of crystallization.
If you build a circuit that works on the thermal analogue of charge, rather than thermal analogue of voltage or current, then this could be done. For instance, have a large hot end and a large cold end connected by a very narrow heatpipe. Now coil, around the heatpipe, a coiled coil which will act as the controller (ie, base). If the base is below the freezing point of the heatpipe fluid, then very little heat will be transferred from the large hot end to the large cold end.
What you want is a material which varies its thermal conductivity depending on how hot it is.
Given that hot and cold water already exist in a domestic house's plumbing, is in not possible that weird gurgling noise at 2am is a sign of emergent AI?
I'm tempted to ask why.
Plants already have an electrolyte system of roots and leaves. I'm mean this idea is all a bit la di da, photo-chemical based sentient plants not good enough for you eh ? They have to be all two dimensional trendy stuff.
Heat will still transfer through a solid, admittedly at a lower rate. What is needed is separation. If the base changes shape under temperature then a touching or non touching connection between hot and cold ends can be made.
I don't think there's really a thermal analogy of a transistor, because heat is not conserved. And without kirchhoff's laws, nothing would make any sense.
I believe that's one of the properties of vanadium dioxide.
Are we treating graphene as if it has the same properties as a 'solid', though? The thermal gradients across (in both dimensions) a section of graphene, conductance controlled by a further application or reduction of thermal energy could result in transfer control. In other words, transconductance. Remember that the word 'transistor' is a portmanteau of 'transfer resistor', because of the effect of a controllable resistor. Remember that the use of the terminology of current and voltage in electronics denotes the flow of electrons, and the potential difference of electron energy, respectively (so, if there's a voltage, and you apply a load e.g a resistor, it allows a current of electrons to flow).
All of this is simply managing energy, nothing more. The same could apply to thermal gradients, tiny molecular level gradients. Look up acoustic phonon modes for graphene (acoustic so named only because it resembles in-phase air transmission of energy packets, to distinguish it from the other, optical phonon modes). Transconductance of energy in electronics is established, but a similar thing in thermal differences and thermal currents is likely entirely feasible in a graphene plane.
The idea of growing graphene 'transistors' is likely possible by formation biases at the molecular level. The way we make electronic transistors today is quite crude. The way they were originally made was even cruder, and quite heroic. I'll link to an oral history of Carl David Todd and his involvement in making transistors in the early days. I'm fairly sure any of us here in the halfbakery will find it a good read, so have a go at it (over several pages, but fascinating). And remember, this isn't so long ago - we haven't been doing transistors for very long at all, so don't allow their established present-day industry ways seem mysterious.
Finally, if we're going to grow intentionally deformed graphene forms, well, there are many precedents in nature that follow a 'planar' topology of growing cells in a sheet, and having a specific surface to those cells on one side. I thought of plants, leaves, because that's fairly obvious, although my first thought was a butterfly wing, but the scales on that are highly complex in themselves and deviate from what I was trying to get at by having a 'growable' graphene plane. Maybe an algal growth on agar or something would work better than geranium leaves, I don't know.
Another thing. The future, as time goes by, forwards, we'll be requiring more electricity generation. As robots and AGI take over and displace people and their jobs, as production and the general availability of goodies increases, and as life transitions into a post Industrial Age of meaningless pointless waiting to hurry up and die because everything is too expensive and there's no money and nobody wants anything you could possibly do, we'll find the requirement to generate electricity increasing. This means that electricity could become the prime currency (no pun intended) and the makers and gatekeepers of electricity could and are already hiking up the cost of electricity to painfully unaffordable levels.
One thing we'll have to do is to diversify technology away from being electrical-only. What we do with electricity is to treat it as energy, but a manageable energy, that can be made to do things we want it to do, and gain value from the results. Well, it doesn't necessarily have to be electrical potential difference.
Using water and water wheels and waterfalls etc to make an amplifier or a switch (or many switch-controlled- switches, i.e a computer), while maybe possible, is a bit silly. Heat, however, is the perennial enemy of the electronic circuit - transistors in particular are only at their specification at a specific temperature, and the act of doing their work creates (unwanted) heat. We could concentrate on just using the heat. Kirchhoff Slaw still applies (come to think of it, as would Thevenins and Nortons), as long as there are instantaneous distributed differences (those being controlled and manipulated).
Isn't heat that abstracted indescribable pattern. As soon as you transistorize the pattern it is not heat any more just another turtle and the next turtle down becomes heat heading into the dark matter of things.
The infinite patterns of energy mean boxing them perfectly means the last turtle is very very slippery.
It depends. On a large scale - that of domestic objects all around us, the thermal gradient behaviour is perceived as having certain properties that we're fairly used to. The room is cold, turn it up. The elecricity bill arrives. Turn the heat down again, the room is freezing again. That sort of dynamic. The bigger scale - thermal gradients resulting in weather - is not intuitive enough to predict accurately without the immense investment in supercomputing that we have now, and even then, well, you've seen weather reports. The astronomical scale of thermal energy is interesting, and possibly one of the most important fundamental energies to keep track of beside gravity. However, at the molecular level, and particularly on an unusual planar surface such as graphene, thermal difference acts more like a fundamental energy and not in the way that we think of 'heat'. This idea is all about doing transistor action, using graphene, knocking energy about that whilst atomic doesn't have to be electronic.
A multi-layered logic layer. Heat is a bit flighty, being pushed around by all the other energy patterns, I imagine the graphene heat wires would be be quite wide to stabilise the heat flow.
Or, it could be that flighty heat is a desirable property in doing this sort of thing. (Also, single layer, and analogue, so not necessarily multi layer, or binary states).
I was thinking more of having both electron logic ( or another logic mechanism) and heat logic in/on the one layer. Doesn't the brain have the neural network and a slow tidal chemical flood logic.
And the brain is actually a single sheet - one plane - but screwed up in a ball, like scrunching up a sheet of paper.


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Terror and Bioterror: 9/11 to 10/4. (Part 1)
Today, of course, marks the 10th anniversary of the attack on the World Trade Center. Everyone old enough to remember it has a story of that day. Here's mine: I was on my way to work as a newspaper reporter. I heard the news, turned my car around, gave my cat extra food, and picked up spare clothes and flat shoes. Later, I heard that two of my cousins, and two acquaintances, were missing. By dusk, I learned my cousins had walked across a bridge into Queens, part of an ash-covered tide of refugees. By midnight, I knew my acquaintances were dead.
So let me tell you, instead, some other peoples' stories of that day and what came after: the terrorism first, and then the fears of a bioterror attack to follow; the relief when no epidemic appeared, and then the sinking shock when it did. The disease detectives of the Centers for Disease Control and Prevention were at the center of that month of horror and confusion. Between now and Oct. 4, the 10th anniversary of the announcement of the anthrax attacks, I'll run excerpts from Chapter 12 of my book Beating Back the Devil, about the disease detectives — the Epidemic Intelligence Service — of the CDC.
We begin in Atlanta, on the morning of Sept. 11, 2001.
- – -
When they had a chance to look back, everyone remembered that it had been a beautiful day. The sky was a pure blue arch, unmarred by cloud. It was warm — in Atlanta, early September is an extension of summer — but there was a cool breeze freshening. The trees were all green; only a few of the dogwoods showed a tinge of red along the edges of their leaves. All the way up the Eastern Seaboard, the weather was perfect.
At the CDC, Epidemic Intelligence Service director Dr. Doug Hamilton was late for Tuesday morning seminar, the mandatory grand rounds for the CDC's trainee disease detectives. The seminar was always held in Auditorium B on the street-front side of the campus. It was the CDC's fanciest conference room, the place where dignitaries were welcomed and new EIS members took their first weeks of training. It had rows of movable chairs, blond wood walls and a ceiling made of rippling, curved acoustical panels that looked like an abstract sculpture. Its central feature was a huge projection screen that stretched across the back of the stage. When EIS members made presentations about their investigations, audiovisual technicians in a darkened-glass control booth built into the room's left wall threw their Powerpoint slides on the screen. When they took questions about their research, the techs patched in a video-conference link to other CDC locations, and projected the questioners' faces on the screens instead.
Tuesday morning seminar always began at 9 a.m. Hamilton arrived about three minutes afterward. As he pulled open the double doors at the back of the auditorium, his boss, Dr. Stephen Thacker, caught up with him and held him back.
"A plane has hit the World Trade Center," Thacker said. "Should we make an announcement?"
Hamilton envisioned a small touring plane losing its bearings in the visual flight corridor down the center of the Hudson and hitting the side of New York City's tallest buildings. He shook his head. "There's nothing we can do," he said. "Let's go on with the seminar."
He slid into a seat in the back row. Ten minutes later, one of the technicians tapped him on the shoulder from behind. "Another plane just hit the World Trade Center," he whispered.
Disbelieving, Hamilton got up and followed him into the control booth. On their desk screens, the techs had turned off the Powerpoints and switched to CNN. The channel was running the same loop of tape, over and over: The first jet, slamming into Tower One of the World Trade Center; the flash of its disintegration; the plume of smoke boiling slowly across the perfect sky. Underneath the image, the newscrawl crept by: Passenger plane hits the World Trade Center, 8:46 a.m.; second plane crashes, 9:02 a.m.
Hamilton watched the loop a dozen times, trying to absorb what he was seeing. Shaken and dazed, he walked back to his seat. Thacker was across the auditorium, next to retired CDC director David Sencer; they always sat in the same spot, halfway up the aisle. Next to Hamilton's empty seat, though, Dr. Denise Koo had settled into the back row. She was in the same division, above Hamilton and below Thacker on the organizational chart.
"You're not going to believe what's happening," he said to her.
The two were deep into a whispered conversation when the technician nudged Hamilton again. It was not long after 9:40 a.m. He didn't bother to lower his voice this time.
"A plane has hit the Pentagon," he said.
The seminar stopped. The speaker sat down. The technicians threw CNN on the huge video screen. The staff in the auditorium, and the ones on the other end of the video links, watched in silence. A few of them left to make family phone calls. A few cried.
Tower Two of the World Trade Center collapsed at 9:59 a.m. Tower One fell 30 minutes later.
By the time the second tower collapsed, Hamilton had reached his fifth-floor office two buildings away to gather email addresses and phone numbers. What was unfolding was a national emergency. The EIS existed to serve in such emergencies. He was sure the group would be summoned to action — though, watching the endlessly replaying tape of the collapsing towers, he was not sure what they could do.
The chime of a high-priority email cut across the mutter of the television. A plane without a flight plan had been detected heading toward Atlanta. The CDC was being evacuated.
Marci Layton had come to work early that morning. She was giving three speeches in Canada the next day, and she wanted to get her slides in order. The workload in the New York City Department of Health was so intense that she knew she would have no spare time once the daily round of calls and meetings started.
Layton was one of the department's assistant commissioners and the chief of its bureau of communicable diseases. She had just passed 40, a slender, energetic woman with curly, center-parted light-brown hair and huge blue eyes. She was a graduate of Duke Medical School who had done residency in Syracuse and an infectious-disease fellowship at Yale; in between academic stints, she had volunteered in clinics in Nepal, Thailand and Alaska.
The New York health department was housed in a 10-story while marble pile decorated with pylons and columns on the outside and elaborate Art Deco detailing inside, down to octagonal brass door handles embossed with "City of New York." It faced south across a small park toward City Hall and Wall Street; the World Trade Center, eight blocks away, filled the view. Layton had worked there for nine years, since arriving in the summer of 1992 as an EIS officer. Her predecessor in her Yale fellowship had been assigned there and persuaded her to ask for the slot after him. In New York, he said, every disease she had seen in the Third World would show up on her doorstep.
The health department lies in a part of the city that is seldom quiet. Trucks rumble by day and night, heading for the Manhattan and Brooklyn Bridges. A subway line runs directly underneath the building. Planes on approach to LaGuardia and Kennedy pass constantly overhead. Still, the boom that shook Layton's office about an hour after her arrival was disorientingly loud. It sounded, she thought, as though a plane had crashed.
Shortly afterward, her phone rang. It was her parents in Baltimore. They wanted to be sure she was okay.
She listened to what they were describing, and then she put down the phone and walked to the other side of the building, to windows that faced southwest. She saw the gaping holes in the sides of the towers and the fires bellying out of them. Bodies were falling from the floors above.
The next time she had a moment to look out the window, it was 2 a.m.
In the panic that followed the attacks, it was hard to get a grip on what was happening. TV reception went out when the buildings fell. Electrical power was patchy; cell phone reception, too. The landlines died at 2 p.m. The health department assumed the towers' collapse would bring thousands of people streaming into emergency rooms. They sent staff out to walk to the closest hospitals, to log the injuries and see what extra staff and supplies were needed.
The answer was, very little. Over two days, four ERs and a burn center would see only 1,688 patients. Most arrived within 8 hours of the attacks; three-fourths were able to walk into the ER and to walk away afterward. The injured were mostly not survivors from the towers; they were passers-by, or first responders who had rushed downtown. Thousands of people had made it out of the buildings, but they mostly worked on floors below the crash sites. The vast majority trapped above, on 17 floors of Tower One and 32 floors of Tower Two, had died.
There seemed to be no wave of trauma victims that would overwhelm city hospitals, so the health department turned to the next set of problems: air quality, water safety, getting care to the homebound elderly and disabled. Restaurant customers and staff in the financial district had fled leaving food on the tables; it was a buffet for rats and insects emboldened by the lack of people in the stores and streets. And there was a further lurking concern. Since the first World Trade Center bombing in 1993, law enforcement, the health department and the city's emergency management office had war-gamed possible terrorist attacks. They had predicted that a conventional assault would be followed by a second, unconventional one, something insidious, something that would be masked by the chaos and disruption. Bioterrorism was their best guess.
Fourteen hours after the towers collapsed, at 2 a.m. on Sept. 12, Layton and her colleagues met to figure out how to detect a bioterror attack before it spawned an epidemic. They assumed it would come with a whimper, not a bang — not a hundred cases of disease in a single place, but a few patients in one emergency room and a single case in another, or in a doctor's office, or in a street-corner clinic. Those were places that would have no connection to each other and would never recognize they were part of a brewing outbreak. Layton needed a way to identify those potential victims, no matter where they were in the city, as soon as they sought help.
New York already had a system that detected public health anomalies, a computer program that analyzed ambulance-transport records to spot emerging trends. But ambulances too had been disrupted by the chaos in the city. Patients who arrived at emergency rooms were not riding in ambulances, but were getting there on their own.
The only alternative would be actually putting health department representatives into emergency rooms, to gather data from doctors while they were evaluating patients. It had been tried before, at the Olympics and at political conventions; it seemed to be effective, though there had never been a bioterrorist attack to test it against. But it was cumbersome and hugely labor-intensive. The health department had nowhere near enough personnel to make it work. Layton called the CDC in Atlanta, and asked it to send any EIS officers it could spare.
Next:The disease detectives fan out across the city, looking for signs of a covert attack.
Flickr/BrendanLoy/CC
Published in News Technologique-Tech News
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Inside the minds of Serial Killer? Sign me in.
First episode was a real slog, the rest of the Season was brilliant.
Wasn't sure about this while watching the pilot, but now I'm three episodes in and I'm shook, this is amazing.
David Fincher at it's finest again.


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Q: Prevent Narrow Non-Breaking Space (n-nbsp) in XSLT output I have an XSLT transform that puts   into my output. That is a narrow-non breaking space. Here is one section that results in nnbsp:

    <xsl:text>§ </xsl:text>
    <xsl:value-of select="$firstsection"/>
    <xsl:text> to </xsl:text>
    <xsl:value-of select="$lastsection"/>

The nnbsp in this case, comes in after the § and after the text to.
§ 1 to 8

(interestingly, the space before the to turns out to be a regular full size space)
This occurs in my UTF-8 encoded output, as well as iso-8859-1 (latin1).
How can I avoid the nnbsp? While the narrow space is visually more appropriate, it doesn't work for all the devices that will read this document.  I need a plain vanilla blank space.
Is there a transform setting? I use Saxon 9 at the command line.
Should I do a another transform.. using a replace template to replace the nnbsp?
Should I re-do my templates like the one above? Example, if I did a concat() would that be a better coding practice?
UPDATE: For those who may find this question someday... as suggested by Michael Kay, I researched the issue further. Indeed, it turns out narrow-NBSP were in the source XML files (and bled into my templates via cut/paste). I did not know this, and it was hard to discover (hat tip to gVim hex view). The narrows don't exactly jump out at you in a GUI editor. I have no control over production of the source XML, so I had to find a way to 'deal with it.' Eric's answer below turned out to be my preferred way to scrub the narrow-nbsp. SED editing was (and is) an another option to consider, but I like keeping my production in XSLT when possible. So Eric's suggestion has worked well for me.

A: You could use the translate() function to replace your nnbsp by something else, but since you are using Saxon 9 you can rely on XSLT 2.0 features and use a character map which will do that kind of things automatically for you, for instance (assuming that you want to replace them by a non breaking space:
<xsl:output use-character-maps="nnbsp"/>
<xsl:character-map name="nnbsp">
   <xsl:output-character character=" " string=" "/>
</xsl:character-map>

Eric

A: The narrow non-breaking space is coming from somewhere: either the source document or the stylesheet. It's not being magically injected by the XSLT processor. If it's in the stylesheet, then get rid of it. If it's in the source document, then transform it away, for example by use of the translate() function.
In fact, pasting your code fragment into a text editor and looking at it in hex, I see that the 202F characters are right there in your code. I don't know how you got them into your stylesheet, but you should (a) remove them, and (b) work out how it happened so it doesn't happen again.

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