Natural Philosophy – The Celestial Monochord

Harry Smith, Freeman Tilden, and Revelation

When a Park Ranger gives you their schpiel about a petroglyph or battleground, think Freeman Tilden. He was That Guy — the one who first articulated an expansive vision for what the job of Public Service Interpreter ought to be all about.

Tilden was an outsider — not a professional teacher, park ranger, or naturalist, but a journalist and novelist.

He was born the son of a newspaperman in 1883 (Krakatoa blew when Freeman was four days old). Beginning work as a child under his father’s wing, he learned every gory detail in the production of turn-of-the-20th-century newspapers.

Gradually, his attention shifted to poetry, fiction, travel writing, and economics. He wrote his first best-selling novel at age 46. As a sought-after public speaker, Tilden grew to understand the visiting mind — the psychology of a person seeking an encounter with history and nature.

Freeman Tilden realized that people need a revelator.

—

Since 1987, the Anthology of American Folk Music, originally released by Folkways Records, has belonged to the venerable old Smithsonian Institution. This seems ironic to many who envision the 1952 six-album collection as an uncanny avant-garde semi-sacred text. And the set comes bundled with the soul of its editor, eccentric to the marrow.

You probably know the routine — Harry Smith shredded one of the only big rolls of cash he ever had and threw it down a sewer grate. He maintained vials of his semen, perhaps for their aesthetic value. By contrast, maybe, the Smithsonian used to welcome John Glenn into its Air & Space Museum after business hours so the senator could commune with his old space capsule.

Folkways founder Moe Asch (himself an oddball) understood his strange business and hired exactly the right editor for the Anthology.

Smith was a hypnotist collector and we are walking antiques. His Anthology has a way of snatching people up and hurling their lives into new trajectories. It achieves this partly via a deep and sprawling sense of a great unveiling (an apocalypse, for my Greek readers).

Harry Smith understood that people need a revelator.

—

In 1957, the National Park Service published Freeman Tilden’s landmark Interpreting Our Heritage. Its prose is a bit stiff for my tastes, but Interpreting Our Heritage is written as a handbook of insights to guide you through your long career as, for example, a Park Ranger.

The book’s “Six Principles of Interpretation” defined the modern practice of public service interpretation and its spirit can still be glimpsed today at the heart of the field’s mission.

I’ll leave it to others to check if Harry met Freeman or whether either was aware of each other. I’d bet against it, but it’s hard to imagine a more striking and prominent exemplar of Tilden’s 1957 “Six Principles” than Smith’s 1952 Anthology.

—

Below is the complete, unedited text of Tilden’s “Six Principles of Interpretation” from his book Interpreting Our Heritage. To put my thumb on the scale a bit, I’ve added the headings, written with Smith’s Anthology in mind.

Speak to the Listener’s Inner Reality
1. Any interpretation that does not somehow relate what is being displayed or described to something within the personality or experience of the visitor will be sterile.

Interpretation is Revelation
2. Information, as such, is not interpretation. Interpretation is revelation based upon information. But they are entirely different things. However, all interpretation includes information.

Interpretation is Multimedia Art
3. Interpretation is an art which combines many arts, whether the materials presented are scientific, historical, or architectural. Any art is in some degree teachable.

The Aim is Provocation
4. The chief aim of interpretation is not instruction, but provocation.

The Whole Person Receives the Whole Revelation
5. Interpretation should aim to present a whole rather than a part and must address itself to the whole man rather than any phase.

We Owe Children Their Own Revelation and Provocation
6. Interpretation addressed to children should not be a dilution of the presentation to adults but should follow a fundamentally different approach. To be at its best, it will require a separate program.

It would be a worthy task for someone (me, perhaps, if I ever retire) to chase down, one by one, good examples in the life of the Anthology of these principles in action.

—

The Whitney Museum produced a series of audio guides to accompany its exhibition of Harry Smith’s art early this year. Greil Marcus, who found the boxed set in 1970, spoke for the episode on the Anthology. I hope you listen to it.

I was at a reading in a Minneapolis bookstore early this year where Marcus read from his newest book, Folk Music — the first time I’d seen him in person since the 2007 Dylan Symposium in Minneapolis.

I’ve found that listening to him think in his own voice transforms how I hear his writing. His reading style and, it turns out, his writing style are disarmingly passionate, searching, and unguarded.

From the Whitney podcast, below are three Marcus quotes on the Smith Anthology’s message and effect:

It was a sensibility [the Anthology] passed on to people where it said to them that there’s more in this music — there’s more in this country—than you ever imagined. So seek and ye shall find. Go out looking.

There’s more to America than you ever suspected. There are different kinds of people than those you’ve ever met. There are different kinds of people hiding inside people you have met. You don’t really know this country and [Harry’s mission was] to show it to you.

And that opened the door. And I think that would happen to anybody who comes across this production, this art statement, this remapping of America.

—

If you buy my premise, it’s probably less Harry Smith and more the Anthology that exemplifies Tilden’s “Six Principles of Public Service Interpretation.” Rest a Smokey-the-Bear hat on top of your copy of the boxed set.

Smith himself wouldn’t have lasted long working at the Grand Canyon or, god forbid, the Statue of Liberty. For the best-documented part of his life, it was hard to predict how tolerant or tolerable Smith might be toward company. He was an artist, ethnographer, alchemist, and much else — a satirist, say — but not a docent.

So, who would be our exemplar of a Tilden-style American Folk Music Public Service Interpreter? Very likely, bloggers need not speculate, as surely the Federal Government already employs some excellent, under-recognized examples. I’d love to hear your suggestions.

To count as an AFM-PSI, I think you should actively decide to conduct yourself as something like an interpreter in public service focusing on the folk genre.

Greil Marcus seems an excellent candidate, but is he a folk guy or a rock guy? As a writer, is he an educator or an artist? Are these distinctions even close to meaningful? He absolutely would look great in the hat. Mike Seeger, of course, was born wearing that mountie hat and is almost surely who I’d pick. I miss that guy every day of my life.

More than anyone I’m aware of, Dom Flemons has been taking up Mike’s mission of educating, entertaining, and maybe most of all, converting audiences to the cause. I’ve had a post about him in the back of my mind for nearly 20 years. Maybe, ironically, old Freeman Tilden will shake it loose.

Otherwise, I’d consider Robert Cantwell — an American-folk-music-focussed public-sector teacher and professional mind-blower. Strangely enough, and for whatever it’s worth, it was Cantwell’s book Ethnomimesis that I had on me as I watched the towers fall on 9/11.

—

Pivoting around the annual Festival of American Folk Life held on the National Mall in Washington, DC, Ethnomimesis offers still more candidates for Tilden-style interpreters of folk music.

Most prominent is Ralph Rinzler, the “founder and for many years presiding genius of the Festival of American Folklife.” Rinzler distributed the work of revelation throughout the multi-medium folk artists and festival goers themselves. Stimulating the imaginations and bodies of everyone present made for whole-person revelatory provocations.

Interestingly, a passage in Ethnomimesis seems to suggest that Rinzler kind of … fired … the young Cantwell from his book contract. Maybe all this polymorphous stimulation didn’t sit well with Cantwell’s boss or his boss’s bosses. Perhaps someone saw Cantwell’s styles of writing and thinking as not quite public enough for Public Service.

Regardless, Cantwell’s contract, like Harry Smith’s life, remind me that there must surely be daily tensions between Tilden’s apocalyptic goals and the institutional agendas that public service interpreters must satisfy throughout their careers, day after tightly contained day.

Is The Universe Expanding?

Library of Congress image, catalog no. Lamb 2272

This is the first — and probably last — in a series, Ask The Celestial Monochord, where readers get the answers they deserve, given that they asked The Celestial Monochord. A reader writes (without asking anything at all):

Just wanted to let you know about an article in the Sept.-Oct. 2007 issue of “American Scientist,” p. 383: “Modern Cosmology: Science or Folktale?” by Michael J. Disney. I found it interesting because it agrees with my view that current theories do not form a stable paradigm, or, as I’ve said to people (who disbelieve me, of course), “In 20-40 years, the universe will no longer be expanding.” I have no idea, of course, what theory will take its place.

Well … you’re probably crackers, although I haven’t read the article. I did take a few classes in the philosophy of science in grad school, though, so my crackers have something your crackers haven’t got — a diploma, as Professor Marvel would say.

I see at least two ways that old ideas are abandoned in science. One happened to cold fusion. The idea is interesting for a little while, but sooner or later it just turns out to be BS, and is chucked overboard. You seem to be saying that will happen to universal expansion, and if so, I bet you’re wrong.

There’s another way, and there, you’re almost certainly right. I think of the “spiral nebulae.” They were noticed and listed and described alongside all the other fuzzy patches in the sky. Once it was realized that they were “island universes,” like our own Milky Way except millions of light years away, they increasingly got called galaxies, but the full transition in both terminology and mental image took decades.

Then galaxies were thought of as nice patches of stars interspersed with some dust and gas. But as time went on, they came to be thought of as dense areas of dark matter, with stars and gas and dust just “floating on top.” Today, a galaxy is no more stars and interstellar clouds than a pint of Guinness is bubbles. Probably, professional astronomers and younger amateur enthusiasts have trouble thinking about galaxies any other way.

It takes a historian of science to go back and try to recover exactly what people meant when they said “galaxy” in, say, 1970. A historian who shows that these “galaxies” have been abandoned might be widely regarded as a nit-picking dilettante among professional astronomers — a judgment that would have its own merits and limitations.

In any case, my point is that some scientific ideas suddenly go extinct, while the rest evolve into new ideas without most people really noticing. I bet universal expansion and the “big bang” (a term already used more in the company of cameras and microphones than other scientists) will meet the latter fate — as will almost everything in science. And that’s one of the things that recommends science as a way of making sense of the world — its thinking simply grows up in response to new information.

Sidewalk Fulgurite

While taking a walk two weekends ago, a strange scar on the sidewalk caught my eye at Colfax and 24th in Minneapolis.

The scar was something like 3 meters long and in about 5 segments, each about 2 cm deep and up to about 5 cm wide. It was as if a steamshovel had been carelessly dragged along the sidewalk. But the scar was strangely branched. It was hard to imagine what kind of tool could have carved it, even intentionally.

On closer examination, I found the edges of the scar almost completely encrusted with black glass, some of which was easy to pick loose. (The photos below were taken the following weekend, when the scar was filled with organic rubbish.)

Fulgurite_pieces_1

It took me ten minutes of standing around staring at the sidewalk — sometimes peering at it very closely on my hands and knees (much to the puzzlement of passersby) — to convince myself that this was created by lightning. It’s fulgurite. Whatever made it not only dug a small trench in a municipal sidewalk, it also burned the sand in the sidewalk’s concrete into glass.

The scar is immediately below an ordinary city powerline pole, and I can’t completely discount the possibility that the scar was created by a downed powerline. I did poorly in the electricity sections of my college physics classes, but my sense is that there’s a number of problems with a powerline origin for the scar — not the least of which is that powerlines just don’t have the juice to do the job. More likely, the pole attracted the lightning.

Fulgurite is usually found on sand beaches, and online photos of it make it look a little like coral. I think the loose quality of sand eases lightning’s path and allows for the dramatically-shaped objects usually associated with fulgurite. Sidewalk fulgurite is not unheard of, as this PDF reprint of a 1947 article in Rocks and Minerals attests.

Community Radio

t-shirt designed by Saelee Oh

available from Lemonade Maid

Yesterday, on my morning commute, I was listening to KFAI, a community radio station in Minneapolis — not the local NPR station, mind you, but a real hippy-blues Hmong-issues reggae-ass CD-skipping community station.

The show was The FUBAR Omniverse, which is hosted by someone named Blanche and often features spacy art-house Brian Eno ambient I-don’t-know-what. But yesterday, being the week of the pledge drive, Blanche was reminiscing about old times.

She recalled the time, many years ago, that she played a 17th-century whaling sea shanty on the radio. She immediately got an angry phone call from a concerned listener who objected that The FUBAR Omniverse was “encouraging whaling.” Blanche wondered aloud whether the governments of Japan and Norway were listening to The FUBAR Omniverse … and if so, what the ominous consequences might be.

In fairness, I do recall, around that time, the Mississippi River down by the Federal Building being mobbed with frenzied KFAI listener-members waving make-shift harpoons, their eyes wild with blubber-lust. They must’ve heard that song.

And so, anyway … before we get our first nastygram, The Celestial Monochord strongly supports buying CD’s of sea shanties, being nice to whales, and giving money to community radio.

Redwood Trees and Chia Pets

My wife Jenny and I were mentioned in the San Francisco Chronicle yesterday.

See, on Christmas morning we were in a Walgreens in San Francisco near Union Square. Jenny was in some aisle looking for certain personal items, and to pass the time I strolled into the toy aisle. Not having had any coffee to speak of, I stared blankly at the Chia Pets and I let my mind wander.

We were about to drive across the Golden Gate Bridge to see the Muir Woods with its towering redwoods. So staring at the Chia Pets, I began to think about redwoods and an astonishing article I’d read last February in the New Yorker. In it, Richard Preston wrote about a biologist named Steve Sillett who climbs and studies the titanic redwoods of Northern California:

In 1995, Sillett … began to explore the old-growth redwood canopy … The general opinion among biologists at the time was that the redwood canopy was a so-called “redwood desert” that contained not much more than the branches of redwood trees. Instead, Sillett discovered a lost world above Northern California.

… There are hanging gardens of ferns, in masses that Sillett calls fern mats. The fern mats can weigh tons when they are saturated with rainwater … Layers of earth, called canopy soil, accumulate over the centuries on wide limbs … and support a variety of animal and plant life. In the crown of a giant redwood named Fangorn, Sillett found a layer of canopy soil that is three feet deep …

Old redwood trees are infested with thickets of huckleberry bushes. In the fall, Sillett and his colleagues stop and rest inside huckleberry thickets, hundreds of feet above the ground, and gorge on the berries. He and his students have also taken censuses of other shrubs growing in the redwood canopy: currant bushes, elderberry bushes, and salmonberry bushes, which occasionally put out fruit, too. Sillett has discovered small trees – wild bonsai – in the canopy. The species include California bay laurel trees, western hemlocks, Douglas firs, and tan oaks. Sillett once found an eight-foot Sitka spruce growing on the limb of a giant redwood.

So, staring at the Chia Pets, I thought about plants growing in soil, but not in the ground. Redwoods are like Chia Pets, I thought. I vaguely wondered how that soil got up there in the canopy of the redwoods, until I remembered that soil is basically broken-down plants — if you have living things up in the canopy, why not dead things, and therefore soil?

Just then, somebody interrupted my train of thought with an “Excuse me.” It was Steve Rubenstein, a staff writer for the Chronicle. He explained that he was doing a story on something like last-minute Christmas shoppers, and he wondered if he could ask me what I was doing in the toy aisle of Walgreens on Christmas morning.

I couldn’t very well tell him about the redwoods and the Sitka spruce tree growing 35 stories above the ground. So I told him I was sorry — that I wished I was doing last-minute Christmas shopping so he could get his story, but the fact was that I was “literally just staring.” When I said I was waiting for my wife, he got really interested, hoping that maybe she was doing last-minute Christmas shopping.

Just then, Jenny appeared, looking for me, with those personal items in hand. This was one of her occasional bad dreams and it had actually come true. Here she is at Walgreens buying personal items and she’s confronted by a reporter from the San Francisco Chronicle — and he really wants to know exactly what she’s doing at Walgreens!

Anyway, here’s how our part of the story appeared, on page B3 of the San Francisco Chronicle for Monday 26 December 2005:

A few places were doggedly open for business, including most Walgreens drugstores, where hardly anyone was buying drugs and where Christmas stuff was already half off, and Christmas day still had most of Christmas still to run.

Kurt Gegenhuber, a visitor from Minneapolis, had his eye on a Chia pet — the pottery that turns into an animal-shaped shrub that people seem to buy at Christmas and no other time. He gazed fondly at a Chia elephant until his wife, Jennifer, wandered along and common sense returned. The elephant went back on the shelf.

“He already got his Christmas gift — a CD player and some discs,” Jennifer said.

It’s amusing that, as we spoke to the reporter, we slightly misrepresented what we were doing in the Walgreens. He, in turn, considerably simplified what we told him in order to make it fit the story. And I suppose there may be some minor details that I’m leaving out of the present account, just to make a better blog post. That’s journalism, kid.

Darwin and Relativism

In a recent NPR segment on religious anti-Darwinism, a young person-of-faith declared that evolution could never be finally, completely proven, whereas Creationism has already been completely proven — “because the Creator,” she explained, “is in my heart.”

Of course, I puzzled over how this could be understood as proof. What if something else — Darwin, maybe, or perhaps The Destroyer — is in MY heart? Or what if her “heart” changes and she loses faith? How then are we supposed to decide how the biological world came to be the way it is? It would seem that proof based on “hearts” leaves us standing on awfully shaky ground.

The religious opponents of evolution frequently accuse evolution of encouraging “relativism,” although I’ve never heard an explanation of just what this means, as if it were self-evident. It’s not self-evident. Science has an awfully firm bedrock foundation for its knowledge — the world, the physical universe, the empirical field. Science changes its mind about things more often than, say, the Vatican because its understanding of the universe deepens and expands, and because it openly corrects its mistakes.

How is science somehow more “relative” than other forms of knowledge, particularly those based on faith (that is, “the heart”)? Although Christianity has The Bible (actually, a wide variety of Bibles) to turn to for continuity, it’s difficult to see that Biblical study has brought great consistency to Christian thought, either between sects or within a given sect over time. To base belief (that is, what one holds to be the case), on what amounts to culture and desire is relativism so extreme as to make me dizzy.

On July 9th, I had to re-read a paragraph on the front page of the New York Times three or four times.

It was in an article about an editorial written by the archbishop of Vienna, a close confidant of Pope Benedict XVI, in which he asserted, in essence, that Darwinian evolution is not true, and belief in it might not be compatible with Catholic faith. This assertion was apparently encouraged by Benedict, in a betrayal of Pope John Paul II’s general friendliness to evolution and science.

What made me stop and re-read, over and over, was the NYTimes article’s seventh paragraph, which reads, in its entirety:

Darwinian evolution is the foundation of modern biology. While researchers may debate details of how the mechanism of evolution plays out, there is no credible scientific challenge to the underlying theory.

What’s so startling is that these facts were printed in an American newspaper as facts. Most news venues would cut this paragraph on the grounds that “sounds” biased. But it only sounds biased because the facts it contains ordinarily go unreported, or are reported only as the assertions of an expert who is, in turn, contradicted by an opposing expert.

So American journalism has its own trouble with relativism in its tendency to “seem” objective while actually measuring that objectivity by its appearance. It would be better to BE objective regardless of appearance — as the New York Times has done in this case — or even to be openly biased. To be both biased and to pretend to offer objective journalism results in a relativism unlike anything Darwin would have tolerated.

Families of Trees

After five years of working for a professional society of plant biologists, I am starting to get clearer notions about plants. My mother-in-law gave me The Golden Field Guide to Trees of North America. It is an excellent book, and I’ve spent many hours staring at the 1950’s-era color drawings of trees, leaves, fruits, bark, etc.

I’m struck by the “families” of trees. You may know about the classification systems for living things — the basic level being species, such as the Oregon crab apple (Malus fusca) or the Biltmore crab apple (Malus glabrata). The next highest level is genus, such as apple (Malus), ash (Sorbus), and hawthorn (Crataegus) — each having various species within them. Genus and species has always made sense to me.

The next level up (that is, the first of the “higher taxa”), the families, has always been something of a mystery to me — although I’ve heard of some families and I’ve even seen them mentioned in articles I’ve worked on for a living, it hasn’t mattered to me what family a living thing belongs to. Now I get it, thanks to a very small amount of study.

When you say a tree belongs to the family Rosaceae, you mean it’s part of a sprawling, dizzyingly varied, historically pivotal family of plants that includes more than 3,000 species and dozens of genera, including the roses we get on Valentines Day, all apples, cherries, plums, pears, almonds, strawberries, blackberries, raspberries, ashes, hawthorns, and more.

When you say a tree belongs to the family Platanaceae, you mean it’s a sycamore, also known as a plane tree. The family contains only one genus (Platanus) and about six species.

Now I understand that when one biologist says that such-and-such is in this-or-that family, this may be hugely significant information to an informed listener. This confirms the assertion (of the movie Animal House) that “Knowledge is Good.”

Einstein Takes A Test

Bohr Einstein
Niels Bohr and Einstein think about it

In physics, there are often different equations for the same phenomenon, but you can usually do a little algebra and show that the different equations actually come from the same source. This is considered good and normal.

So, it’s a lot more than a bit embarrassing that the two most important ideas in modern physics — quantum mechanics, which are used to describe teeny tiny things, and General Relativity, which is used to describe big-ass things — have no connection at all. They don’t match. To go from one to the other, you have to close one book, put it away, and open another.

For example, Einstein showed that gravity is really just geometry. Mass warps space, and so objects tend to slide down the geometrical warps that other objects create, moving closer together. When we look at this, it looks like gravitational attraction. Unfortunately, quantum mechanics thinks of gravity as an effect generated when masses pass little particles back and forth between them. These ideas are no more compatible to physicists than they are to me or you.

Generally, the conflict can just be ignored, but in certain cases, the two worlds collide. When you want to talk about teeny tiny spaces with HUGE gravitational fields — like black holes, or the Big Bang — you’re in real trouble. You need physics that hasn’t been invented yet — you need “quantum gravity” or a “Grand Unified Theory”. People are working on some interesting ideas (like string theory) in trying to develop this new physics, but it’s not clear whether anyone is on the right track or not.

Check your local bookstore for a good article in the July 2005 Sky and Telescope, describing experiments designed to help break the log jam. In terms of the margin of error, quantum mechanics has been confirmed with a lot more precision than General Relativity has. If Einstein’s work could be confirmed way, way down to the umpteenth digit, and if this work revealed some difficulties with the theory, it might help unravel the curtain separating the physics of the very large and the very small. Astronomy is at the forefront of the effort, hence the article in Sky and Telescope.

Philosophy of Science, Part 2 of 2

I got to meet a philosphy of science hero of mine, Joseph Rouse, and talk with him at length. At the end of the conversation, I asked him to sign my copy of one of his books. For a moment, he looked very puzzled — apparently, philosophers of science do not regularly have fans who ask to have their books signed. Once he got the idea, though, he seemed to relish the opportunity.

A minor point in that book keeps coming back to me. Imagine, if you will, that you and a friend are walking along and happen upon two people who are having an argument.

One is insisting, "Snow is white."
The other insists, "Snow is NOT white."

I don’t know why — maybe they’re artists, or meteorologists, or, maybe … zoologists?

Anyway, you and your friend are philospophers of science. You eavesdrop for a while and then get into your own argument.

You insist, "The statement ‘snow is white’ is true."
Your friend insists, "The statement ‘snow is white’ is false."

Now … the question is, what are you two philosophers contributing to this debate that the two orginal debaters could not contribute on their own? Unless you’re very much more careful, the answer is: Diddly Squat.

The problem has to do with what philosophers can do for (or do about) science without either becoming scientists on the one hand or, on the other, being totally irrelevent. If you want to debate whether quarks "really exist," or whether scientist’s conclusions really follow from the evidence they’ve gathered, you are likely to repeat the same arguments scientists themselves debate very regularly and with a much better command of the complications involved than philosophers usually enjoy.

Thinking about this deeply left me finally agreeing that science — if well done — is something I ultimately trust to answer its own questions. It also left me feeling that I should leave the question of the value of the philosophy of science to others.

Philosophy of Science, Part 1 of 2

I studied a lot of philosophy of science in grad school, and I’m very glad I did — it deepened the way I understand a lot of things that are very important to me personally. Still, looking back, most of the big questions I thought I was grappling with then no longer seem important to me, and ring a bit hollow. But two details do seem to keep coming back to me … and if they keep following me around, they must matter somehow.

We spent a lot of time talking about how much the stuff scientists talk about are "social constructs" — stories scientists tell each other as a group of folk that make up a culture — and how much they’re something else having more to do with the universe they study.

Always, during these discussions, some guy or other would get rather aggressive and try to prove that "things exist" by banging his fists on desks, kicking chairs, thumping his chest like an ape, etc.

Eventually, it became clear to me that whether or not desks are, in fact, hard is rarely a question that real scientists debate for very long. More typically, they debate things like, say, how to reconcile two experiments that give different answers for the precise magnitude of dark energy, or whether a certain experiment in a particle accelator really did create a certain particle for a miniscule moment, thereby implying some new form of energy field, and so on. There’s no need for philosophers of science to go around slapping themselves. The real questions are much more subtle.

You can draw whatever Moral of the Story you please. I suppose one lesson is that the most vivid, dramatic, immediately impressive arguments are very often not correct.

Thanks go to "The Bottom Line: The Rhetoric of Reality Demonstrations" by Ashmore, Edwards and Potter, in Configurations: A Journal of Literature, Science, and Technology.