Taking the Human out of the Loop, or Give My Regards to Captain Dunsail (by gins, 23 Apr 14)

Taking the Human out of the Loop, or Give My Regards to Captain Dunsail (by gins, 23 Apr 14)

Almost every week we read of another disaster, and all too often, the cause is not mechanical, but human - a cruise ship off Italy, a jet over the Indian Ocean, and more recently, a ferry off the coast of Korea.   Closer to home, and covered only by the local papers, are the ones that impact our local communities - a highway fatality, or an amber alert.   As a society, we run a fine balance between autonomy and control, between the value of a human life and the power of technology to protect it.   But what if we’ve now reached an inflection point, where the machine, and by extension, the Internet of Things, is now ready to become our protector?  Where we now have the ability to secure our skies, our waters, and even our highways and schools.  Sure, there are times when the machines fail, but this is more the exception, and the odds that the human may fail in judgment are in fact far greater.

The technologies are available today – just look at Google’s autonomous vehicles and the states that have embraced them, jets that can land on their own and the transition of global navigation to GPS, and sensors that can track people and objects based on Bluetooth Low Energy, ensuring that your loved ones have arrived safely at school.  In fact, I’m taking delivery shortly of a BMW i3 that includes something called Active Driving Assistant and Active Cruise Control, as well as other under-the-hood Teutonic magic.  On my way into work, it will vibrate if I’ve left a lane, brake I’m too close to the car in front of me (even if distracted), and even warn me if a pedestrian crosses my path.   Not quite Google, but a heck of a lot cheaper!

BMW Active Driving Assistant

Bluetooth 4.0 Low Energy - Internet of Things

Google

BMW i3

Are we giving up that much by turning over control to something that doesn’t get tired, stress-out over the kids, get overly emotional, and can react in a millisecond?   Throughout history, humans have embraced technology – fire, plumbing, steam, electricity, and modern medicine.   Isn’t this just the next logical step?   We’re not talking about a world of Skynet, ARIAA, and the M-5, but if you ask anyone who has experienced some form of calamity firsthand, I’m sure you’d get no pushback.

M-5

There Will Come Soft Rains (by gins, 4 Aug 2026)

At CES, the Internet of Things was all the rage, and just yesterday, Google announced the intent to purchase Nest for a whopping $3.2B (which in fact was close to its valuation after the latest funding round).  I won't rehash the various pros/cons of the transaction on privacy or positive steps forward to the connected home, or make humor of it..... "Dave... I don't approve of your surfing habits.... I'm going to freeze you out tonight."  It hits home in more ways than one, since we've installed two Nests and four Protects.

But the first thing I thought about, looking forward to ultimate positives and negatives, was a short story from Bradbury, published years before I was born, at a time when the smart home was truly science fiction...

In the living room the voice-clock sang, Tick-tock, seven o'clock, time to get up, time to get up, seven o'clock! as if it were afraid that nobody would. The morning house lay empty. The clock ticked on, repeating and repeating its sounds into the emptiness. Seven-nine, breakfast time, seven-nine!

In the kitchen the breakfast stove gave a hissing sigh and ejected from its warm interior eight pieces of perfectly browned toast, eight eggs sunnyside up, sixteen slices of bacon, two coffees, and two cool glasses of milk.

"Today is August 4, 2026," said a second voice from the kitchen ceiling, "in the city of Allendale, California." It repeated the date three times for memory's sake. "Today is Mr. Featherstone's birthday. Today is the anniversary of Tilita's marriage. Insurance is payable, as are the water, gas, and light bills."

Somewhere in the walls, relays clicked, memory tapes glided under electric eyes.

Eight-one, tick-tock, eight-one o'clock, off to school, off to work, run, run, eight-one! But no doors slammed, no carpets took the soft tread of rubber heels. It was raining outside. The weather box on the front door sang quietly: "Rain, rain, go away; rubbers, raincoats for today..." And the rain tapped on the empty house, echoing.

Outside, the garage chimed and lifted its door to reveal the waiting car. After a long wait the door swung down again.

At eight-thirty the eggs were shriveled and the toast was like stone. An aluminum wedge scraped them into the sink, where hot water whirled them down a metal throat which digested and flushed them away to the distant sea. The dirty dishes were dropped into a hot washer and emerged twinkling dry.

Nine-fifteen, sang the clock, time to clean.

Out of warrens in the wall, tiny robot mice darted. The rooms were acrawl with the small cleaning animals, all rubber and metal. They thudded against chairs, whirling their mustached runners, kneading the rug nap, sucking gently at hidden dust. Then, like mysterious invaders, they popped into their burrows. Their pink electric eyes faded. The house was clean.

Ten o'clock. The sun came out from behind the rain. The house stood alone in a city of rubble and ashes. This was the one house left standing. At night the ruined city gave off a radioactive glow which could be seen for miles.

Ten-fifteen. The garden sprinklers whirled up in golden founts, filling the soft morning air with scatterings of brightness. The water pelted windowpanes, running down the charred west side where the house had been burned evenly free of its white paint. The entire west face of the house was black, save for five places. Here the silhouette in paint of a man mowing a lawn. Here, as in a photograph, a woman bent to pick flowers. Still farther over, their images burned on wood in one titanic instant, a small boy, hands flung into the air; higher up, the image of a thrown ball, and opposite him a girl, hands raised to catch a ball which never came down.

The five spots of paint—the man, the woman, the children, the ball—remained. The rest was a thin charcoaled layer. 

(c) Ray Bradbury, 1950