Artigos de revistas sobre o tema "Moving Metals Limited"

Conventional plasmonic devices involve metals, but metal-based plasmonic resonances are mainly limited to λres < 1 μm, and thus metals interact effectively only with light in the UV and visible ranges. We show that highly doped ZnO can exhibit λres ≥ 1 μm, thus moving plasmonics into the IR range. We illustrate this capability with a set of thin (d = 25–147 nm) Al-doped ZnO (AZO) layers grown by RF sputtering on quartz glass. These samples employ a unique, 20-nm-thick, ZnON buffer layer, which minimizes the strong thickness dependence of mobility (μ) on thickness (d). A practical waveguide structure, using these measurements, is simulated with COMSOL Multiphysics software over a mid-IR wavelength range of 4–10 μm, with a detailed examination of propagation loss and plasmon confinement dimension. In many cases, Lplas < λlight, thus showing that IR light can be manipulated in semiconductor materials at dimensions below the diffraction limit.

AbstractHeat transfer analysis has been carried out in the Magnetohydrodynamic (MHD) boundary layer formed near the wavy rough plate moving in x-direction. Due to the presence of metallic nanoparticle in the fluid and enhanced surface area of the plate as a consequence of surface texture, an increase in heat transfer rates is expected. However, the calculation of these enhanced rates of heat transfer is not straightforward because the convection phenomena become more complicated due to the motion of nanoparticle in the base fluid and also the waviness of the plate surface. The contribution of nanoparticle toward convective heat transfer is manifold which requires a suitable model in order to capture the correct physics. Famous Tiwari and Das model has been utilised in the current study. Percent increase in the rate of heat transfer is calculated for the nanoparticle of different metals, such as MWCNT, SWCNT, Al2O3, TiO2 and Ag. Appreciable increase in the rate of heat transfer is observed, which is 24% at the most for Al2O3 nanoparticle. The effect of applied magnetic field on the velocity profile, skin friction coefficient, and Nusselt number has also been presented through graphs. The concentration of the nanoparticle has been limited up to 10%.

The carbides and nitrides of transition metals, are excellent candidates for hard coatings for tribological applications. Recently a novel pulsed laser deposition (PLD) technique has been developed for the room temperature growth of particulate free titanium carbide (TiC) coatings on bearing steels. On a completely different scale from ball bearing applications, moving microelectricalmechanical systems (MEMS) face issues of limited lifetime as a result of rapid wear of the silicon components. The integration of hard tribological coatings into moving MEMS structures should greatly increase the functional lifetime of these devices. The same PLD technique has been used to deposit TiC thin film onto MEMS test structures consisting of multilayer coatings on Si substrates, and patterned 3-D Si substrates. This procedure for growing TiC appears to be compatible with conventional MEMS fabrication procedures.

AbstractThe discontinuous precipitation (DP) belongs to a group of diffusive solid state phase transformations during which the formation of a new phase is heterogeneous and limited to a migrating reaction front (RF). The use of analytical electron microscopy provided reliable information that there is no differences in the diffusion rate at the stationary grain boundary and moving RF of DP reaction. On the other hand, the use of “in situ” transmission electron microscopy observations indicated the importance of stop-go motion or oscillatory movement of the RF.During 2004-2016 period more or less 280 papers were published in which the terms “discontinuous precipitation, “cellular precipitation”, discontinuous coarsening” appeared either in the abstract or in key-words.In the present contribution, the research on the DP reaction will be reviewed taking into account new aspects of theories and modelling, new evidences and findings, effect of various factors including third element, external stresses, plastic deformation and GB orientation, occurrence in less known systems and alloys like: superalloys, nitrided Fe-based alloys and Cu-based alloys. Finally, some suggestions for the future research will be formulated.

Near eutectic tin-silver (SnAg) is currently the alloy of choice for electroplated lead-free solder bumping and Cu pillar capping. While lead-tin (PbSn) is still used in some applications, there has been considerable momentum in moving away from the use of lead in semiconductor packaging. Both solders are normally electroplated as alloys with specific compositions to target a desired melting point. Since the deposition potentials of lead and tin are very close together, they plate with similar characteristics. This makes it possible for PbSn plating systems to use a consumable anode system where the anode composition matches the desired deposit composition. Metals are replenished into the bath in much the same ratio they are consumed. In a SnAg plating bath, the deposition potential of Ag is much more positive than Sn, so very low potential is required for Ag deposition. The plating rate of Ag is generally mass transfer limited. The plating rate of Sn is current controlled. While similar in concept to systems using consumable anodes for plating other metals, the SnAg alloy system presents some unique challenges. Because it is more noble, the Ag+ will deposit onto the Sn anode material by displacement reaction, and passivation will occur. Thus, the Sn anodes cannot come in contact with the Ag+ in the bath. Historically this problem is overcome by using an inert anode and metals replenishment by liquid concentrate. This paper outlines a method for plating SnAg using a consumable Sn anode, thereby reducing cost of ownership (CoO) and increasing bath stability compared to conventional SnAg wafer level packaging (WLP) plating.

Since its inception as an analytical technique some 30 years ago atomic absorption spectrometry has become a firmly established method for the analysis of trace metals. Graphite furnace atomic absorption spectrometry provides the analyst with the capability of analysis of solutions containing μg l-1levels of the analyte, but, because of the transient nature of the signals, a sophisticated approach to the data aquisition and handling of data is required. Most modern commercial graphite furnace atomic absorption spectrometers have built in microprocessors for this purpose but they often have limited capability for extensible user programs and limited data storage facilities. In this communication we describe the use of an Apple IIe microcomputer for the acquisition of data from a Pye Unicam SP9 graphite furnace atomic absorption spectrometer. Details of the interface which utilizes an in-house designed AD converter, and an overview of the Pascal and assembler programs employed are given. The system allows the user to record, store and dump the graphical display of the furnace signalsfor all analyses performed. Files containing details of peak height, and area are formatted on an eight-column spreadsheet. Details of sample type, concentrations of standards, dilutions and replication are entered from the keyboard. The calibration graph is constructed using a moving quadratic fit routine and the concentrations of the analyte in unknown solutions calculated. In addition to this, greater processing power and integration of the data into other analytical schemes can be achieved by exporting the data to other software packages and computers. Details of data transfer between the Apple IIe and an Amstrad PC 1512 are given. Some examples of the use of the system in the development of an analytical methodfor silver in plant material are given.

Lasers are in use in the material processing industry for well over 30 years now. The way in which the temperature is distributed inside the material is of prime importance in laser material processing, as it directly affects the heating/cooling rates and thermal gradients. Optimization of different laser processes requires control over heating/cooling rate and thermal gradient. Different processes have different requirements of heating/cooling rate and thermal gradient. Knowing these parameters and relevant metallurgical information, one can predict the microstructure and hence control the material properties. To date, majority of laser processing is carried out by using either circular or rectangular beam. At present, the variation in temperature distribution to control the heating/cooling rates and thermal gradients is caused by the variation either in laser power or in scanning speed. Variations in these parameters are often limited by other processing conditions. Although different beam intensity distributions with circular or rectangular laser beams have been studied to improve the process, no other beam geometries have been investigated. The effect of laser beam geometry on laser processing of materials has received very little attention. This article presents an investigation of the effects of different beam geometries including circular, rectangular, and triangular shapes on heating of metallic materials. Finite-element modelling technique has been used to simulate the transient effects of a moving beam for laser surface heating of metals. The temperature distributions, cooling rates, and thermal gradients have been calculated. Some of the results have been compared with the experimental data.

Most of our knowledge of supernovae comes from studies of their optical radiation. Very high quality optical spectra have been available for several years now. The new data have aided the development of theoretical models of supernova explosions, particularly Type I events, which until recently, were very poorly understood. Type II explosions, which are believed to arise from core collapse in massive stars (Woosley, this volume;, produce optical spectra which can be simply interpreted in terms of a nearly blackbody continuum with prominent lines of hydrogen superimposed. The Type II atmosphere is of near solar composition, expanding at a characteristic velocity of 5000 km/s and at least bears some resemblance to a more familiar stellar atmosphere. Type I supernovae produce a much more violent expansion and the optical spectrum cannot be so easily accounted for. The progress made in the last few years stems mostly from the work of David Branch (Branch 1980,1981; Branch et. al. 1982,1983,1985). His synthetic spectra for Type I’s showed that the spectrum can be explained in terms of the resonance lines of mostly singly ionised metals. The lines are formed in matter moving with a bulk velocity of about 11,000 km/s and at a characteristic temperature of approximately 10,000 K. Furthermore, Branch concluded that the density profile in this region should be relatively steep and that the matter was very deficient in hydrogen and helium. As we shall see, this description fits very well with the hypothesis that Type I supernovae originate in the incineration of white dwarfs. Following the focus of recent developments this discussion will be mainly limited to the early evolution of Type I models of this kind, although many of the important features of the radiation transport are directly relevant to Type II explosions.

This paper describes a new development of an incremental, robot based sheet metal forming process for the production of sheet metal components for limited-lot productions and prototypes. The kinematic based generation of the shape is implemented by means of two industrial robots, which are interconnected to a cooperating robot system. Compared to other incremental sheet metal forming machines this system offers a high geometrical form flexibility without the need of any workpiece dependent tools. The principle of the procedure is based on flexible shaping by means of a freely programmable path-synchronous movement of two robots. So far, the final shape is produced by the incremental infeed of the forming tool in depth direction and its movement along the contour in lateral direction on each level. The counter tool, with its simple geometry, was used to support the sheet metal on the backside by moving synchronously along the outer contour, constantly on the same level. This corresponds to a fixed backplate used in other incremental sheet metal forming processes. Due to the use of a new robot system with extended control algorithms for cooperating robots, it will be possible to release the counter tool from its constant path on the outer contour and support the forming tool right on the opposite side of the sheet to generate a predefined gap between the two hemispherical tools. This way at each moment a small part of a full die, as it is used in other processes, is simulated without the need of producing a workpiece dependent die. The extended payload of the new robot system gives the opportunity to form steel blanks, for the first time.

This paper describes new developments in an incremental, robot-based sheet metal forming process (‘Roboforming’) for the production of sheet metal components in small batch sizes. The dieless kinematic-based generation of a shape is implemented by means of two industrial robots which are interconnected to a cooperating robot system. Compared to other incremental sheet metal forming machines, this system offers high geometrical form flexibility without the need of any part-dependent tools. The industrial application of incremental sheet metal forming is still limited by certain constraints, e.g. the low geometrical accuracy and number of formable alloys. One approach to overcome the stated constraints is to use the advantages of metal forming at elevated temperatures. For the temperature input into the sheet metal, there are different approaches like heating with warm fluids, a laser beam or using direct resistance heating. This paper presents results of the research project ‘Local heating in robot-based incremental forming’, funded by the German Research Foundation (DFG), where the heating of the current forming zone by means of direct resistance heating is examined as a variation of the Roboforming process. In order to achieve a local limitation of the heating on the current forming zone, the electric current flows into the sheet at the electric contact of the forming tool and the sheet metal. Thus the forming tool is part of the electric circuit. In current literature Authors report about results from experiments using single-point incremental forming, where the forming tool and the clamping frame of the sheet are connected to the power source. In order to further limit the heating on the forming zone, a new approach will be presented in this paper, where a second tool is used to support the forming and heating process, as both tools can be connected to the power source, making a current flow through the rest of the sheet and the clamping frame unnecessary. With the use of two tools the current flow and thus the heated zone of the sheet can be manipulated. Additionally the advantages of the supporting tool, already shown in forming at room temperature, such as increased geometrical accuracy and maximum draw angle can be used. Starting with a description of the new process setup for steel forming at about 600 °C, results of experiments evaluating the influence of the supporting tool on the forming process at elevated temperatures and the resulting geometrical accuracy will be presented in this paper. Therefore, different process parameters as forming temperature, cooling and relative positioning of the both tools have been varied.

At present, the development of through-mask micro-electrochemical machining is only limited to static machining, where the size of the tool is usually the same as that of the workpiece. However, in the electrochemical processing, metal with good electrical conductivity is chosen as the tool electrode, and it is usually very expensive. Based on the cost consideration, a moving tool with small size may be preferred. Finite element method is used in this paper to create the electric field model of through-mask micro-electrochemical machining with moving tool. The effects of the parameters, such as applied voltage, mask thickness, on the machining shape are investigated. The results show that the higher the applied voltage, the larger the machining depth and width, and also the better the aspect ratio. When the thickness of the mask is thin, the electric field is unevenly distributed and the lateral corrosion is more serious. There is an island-like phenomenon, which is related to the masking of the mask. When the moving speed is relatively slow, the relative processing time is longer. The current density accumulated on the surface of the workpiece is thus higher and the material removal rate is higher. As the processing time increases, the machining depth becomes deeper, and the forward corrosion rate is slow down.

An external electromagnet plus moving PM (permanent magnet) FPCB (flexible printed circuit board) micromirror is proposed in this paper that can overcome two limitations associated with the previous FPCB micromirror with a configuration of an external PM plus moving coil, i.e., (1) it reduces the overall width beyond the mirror plate, and (2) increases the maximum rotation angle. The micromirror has two external electromagnets underneath an FPCB structure (two torsion beams and a middle seat) with two moving PM discs attached to the back and a metal-coated mirror plate bonded to the front of the FPCB middle seat. Modeling and simulation were introduced, and the prototype was fabricated and tested to verify the design. The achieved performance was better than that of the previous design: a maximum resonant rotation angle of 62° (optical) at a driving voltage of ±3 V with a frequency of 191 Hz, the required extra width beyond the mirror plate was 6 mm, and an aperture of 8 mm × 5.5 mm with a roughness of <10 nm and a flatness of >10 m (ROC, radius of curvature). The previous FPCB micromirror’s performance was: strain limited maximum rotation angle was 40° (optical), the extra width beyond the mirror plate was 14.7 mm, and had an aperture of 4 mm × 4 mm with a similar roughness and flatness.

Fourier transform infrared spectroscopy is a widely used instrument to analyze and test different materials including organic and inorganic. Most of current commercial Fourier transform infrared spectrometers are limited in miniaturization and scanning velocity by their macroscopic components. MEMS FTIR spectroscopy is one of the important applications of translational actuator-driven systems by using MEMS technology. The critical component in MEMS FTIRs is the large displacement translating micromirror and its actuator. The paper presents a large displacement and high-surface quality micromirror. The micromirror consists of a micromagnetic actuator and a micromirror plate. The mirror plate and the actuator are fabricated separately and bonded together afterwards, and its size is 3.6 × 3.6 mm2 high-surface quality square mirror plate and a 1cm2 moving part. The microactuator’s moving part is fabricated using MetalMUMPS, and its fixed part includes a ring permanent magnet and a solenoid to realize a large displacement. The mirror plate is fabricated using polished silicon coated with metal layer with high-surface prototypes that are fabricated and experimentally tested. A maximum stroke of 400 μm has been achieved in pull-in whereas only 140 μm stroke have been measured for a 4 to 5-volt DC-controlled displacement, and the resonance frequency is 10 Hz.

The aim of this study was to report on 2 patients in whom metal-on-metal (MOM) facet replacements failed, with subsequent positive findings on allergy testing. Motion-preserving devices have been used with limited success when instrumentation is indicated in the mobile spine. MOM-bearing surfaces in orthopedics were developed to increase implant longevity, yet have been associated with numerous adverse outcomes, including local tissue reactions, pseudotumors, metallosis, and the need for revision surgery. Five patients with spinal stenosis and low-grade spondylolisthesis were randomized to undergo facet replacement surgery with the ACADIA facet replacement system at the authors’ institution. Two patients experienced a return of neurological symptoms after a pain-free interval (< 2 years) with development of local tissue reaction and positive findings on allergy testing to cobalt, the metal in the MOM-bearing surface. Both patients underwent successful removal of the implant and revision to titanium posterior spinal fusion and interbody fusion without further complication.Motion-preserving devices have been designed and trialed for specific indications in the mobile spine. Given the adverse results from MOM devices in hip arthroplasty and now the early reports with MOM facet replacements, caution is warranted when moving forward with any MOM joint–bearing surface. Both patients presented here had an unusual tissue reaction locally and subsequent positive allergy testing results to cobalt. These 2 patients appear to have developed a delayed hypersensitivity reaction to the metal, likely from fine debris at the MOM interface.

AbstractThe understanding of the chemical evolution of the Galaxy relies on the stellar chemical composition. Accurate atmospheric parameters is a prerequisite of determination of accurate chemical abundances. For late type stars with known distance, surface gravity (log g) can be calculated from well-known relation between stellar mass, Teff, and absolute bolometric magnitude. This method weakly depends on model atmospheres, and provides reliable log g. However, accurate distances are available for limited number of stars. Another way to determine log g for cool stars is based on ionisation equilibrium, i.e. consistent abundances from lines of neutral and ionised species. In this study we determine atmospheric parameters moving step-by-step from well-studied nearby dwarfs to ultra-metal poor (UMP) giants. In each sample, we select stars with the most reliable Teff based on photometry and the distance-based log g, and compare with spectroscopic gravity calculated taking into account deviations from local thermodinamic equilibrium (LTE). After that, we apply spectroscopic method of log g determination to other stars of the sample with unknown distances.

Metal additive manufacturing can produce geometrically complex parts with effective cost. The high thermal gradients due to the repeatedly rapid heat and solidification cause defects in the produced parts, such as cracks, porosity, undesired residual stress, and part distortion. Different techniques were employed for temperature investigation. Experimental measurement and finite element method-based numerical models are limited by the restricted accessibility and expensive computational cost, respectively. The available physics-based analytical model has promising short computational efficiency without resorting to finite element method or any iteration-based simulations. However, the heat transfer boundary condition cannot be considered without the involvement of finite element method or iteration-based simulations, which significantly reduces the computational efficiency, and thus the usefulness of the developed model. This work presents an explicit and closed-form solution, namely heat sink solution, to consider the heat transfer boundary condition. The heat sink solution was developed from the moving point heat source solution based on heat transfer of convection and radiation. The part boundary is mathematically discretized into many heats sinks due to the non-uniform temperature distribution, which causes non-uniform heat loss. The temperature profiles, thermal gradients, and temperature-affected material properties are calculated and presented. Good agreements were observed upon validation against experimental molten pool measurements.

This paper describes research that has investigated a process for forming flanged sheet metal parts without dedicated tooling by repeated localized deformation—an incremental process. The complete formation of a shrink flange over a former by a grooved roller, moving around the flange in a series of passes, is analysed by the finite element method and reasonable agreement with experimental results shown. Some evidence is presented that the use of a grooved roller can extend the forming limits of a conventional single die pressing operation. The predicted reaction distribution at the fixed edge of a variety of flanges during their incremental formation by different rollers is then examined. It is shown that the most significant reactions are limited to the vicinity of the current position of the roller. This result leads to a proposal that the form tool might be replaced by non-dedicated tooling, to support the component web only in the region near to the roller. This proposal is tested experimentally and the principle of a dieless flange-forming process is successfully demonstrated. Such a process may be of benefit to any industry that produces a variety of flanged parts in small batches, for example airframe manufacture. Further research is proposed to develop a prototype machine based on the principle outlined here.

Although it is quite challenging to image and analyze the spatial distribution of bioaerosols in a confined space, a three-dimensional (3D) modeling system based on the planar laser-induced fluorescence (PLIF) technique is proposed in this paper, which is designed to analyze the temporal and spatial variations of bioaerosol particles in a confined chamber. The system employs a continuous planar laser source to excite the fluoresce, and a scientific complementary metal oxide semiconductor (sCMOS) camera to capture images of 2048 × 2048 pixels at a frame rate of 12 Hz. While a sliding platform is moving back and forth on the track, a set of images are captured at different positions for 3D reconstruction. In this system, the 3D reconstruction is limited to a maximum measurement volume of about 50 cm × 29.7 cm × 42 cm, with a spatial resolution of about 0.58 mm × 0.82 mm × 8.33 mm, and a temporal resolution of 5 s. Experiments were carried out to detect the PLIF signals from fluorescein aerosols in the chamber, and then 3D reconstruction was used to visualize and analyze the diffusion of aerosol particles. The results prove that the system can be applied to clearly reconstruct the 3D distribution and record the diffusion process of aerosol particles in a confined space.

For the additive manufacturing (AM) of metal objects, the powder-based fusion (PBF) method is routinely utilized to fabricate macroscale parts. On the other hand, electrochemical additive manufacturing (ECAM), in which metallic structures are deposited through the electrochemical reduction of metal ions, is a promising technique for producing micro- and nanoscale objects. However, a gap exists in terms of fabricating mesoscale objects within the current AM techniques. The PBF method is limited by fabrication precision due to pronounced residual stresses, and most current ECAM systems are difficult to scale up to print mesoscale objects. In the present paper, the novel design of a low-cost ECAM 3D printer based on a microfluidic system is proposed for fabricating mesoscale metal parts. The meniscus-guided electrodeposition approach is utilized, in which a meniscus is formed between the print head and substrate, and electrodeposition is confined within the meniscus. A 3D object is fabricated by the meniscus moving with the print head according to the programmed pattern and the material subsequently being deposited at the designated locations. The key to the proposed design is to maintain a mesoscale meniscus, which normally cannot be sustained by the electrolyte surface tension with a print nozzle having a mesoscale diameter. Therefore, a microfluidic system, called the fountain pen feed system, constituting a semi-open main channel and comb structure, was designed to maintain a mesoscale meniscus throughout the printing process. Two materials, copper and nickel, with various geometric shapes were attempted to print by the proposed ECAM system, and, during the printing process, both fluid leaking and meniscus breaking were completely prevented. Free standing tilted copper pillars with controlled angles were printed to show the ability of the proposed design in fabricating 3D structures. A copper circuit was also printed on a non-conductive substrate to demonstrate a possible application of the proposed ECAM system in the fabrication of functional electronics.

A large volume of research on lithium–oxygen (Li–O2) batteries (LOBs) has been conducted in the recent decades, inspired by their high energy density and power density. However, these future generation energy-storage devices are still subject to technical limitations, including a squat round-trip efficiency and a deprived rate-capability, due to the slow-moving electrochemical kinetics of both the oxygen evolution reaction (OER) and oxygen reduction reaction (ORR) over the surface of the cathode catalyst. Because the electrochemistry of LOBs is rather complex, only a limited range of cathode catalysts has been employed in the past. To understand the catalytic mechanisms involved and improve overall cell performance, the development of new cathode electrocatalysts with enhanced round-trip efficiency is extremely important. In this context, transition metal carbides and nitrides (TMCs and TMNs, respectively) have been explored as potential catalysts to overcome the slow kinetics of electrochemical reactions. To provide an accessible and up-to-date summary for the research community, the present paper reviews the recent advancements of TMCs and TMNs and its applications as active electrocatalysts for LOBs. In particular, significant studies on the rational design of catalysts and the properties of TMC/TMN in LOBs are discussed, and the prospects and challenges facing the continued development of TMC/TMN electrocatalysts and strategies for attaining higher OER/ORR activity in LOBs are presented.

This paper describes the details of a quantitative experimental and numerical study on the influence of solidification conditions, including the apparent interfacial heat transfer coefficient (IHTC) between the die and solidifying metal, on the resulting local microstructure. Multiple runs of the commercial casting simulation package, ProCASTTM, are used to model the mold filling and solidification events employing a range of IHTC values. The simulation results are used to estimate the centreline cooling curve at various locations through the casting. The centreline cooling curve, together with the die temperature and the thermodynamic properties of the alloy are then used as inputs to compute the solution to the Stefan problem of a moving phase boundary, thereby providing the through-thickness cooling curves at each chosen location of the casting. Finally, the local cooling rate is used to calculate the resulting grain size and skin thickness via previously established relationships. A comparison of the predicted and experimentally determined grain size profiles enables the determination of the apparent IHTC, which, in this study, was approximately 12000 W/m2·K. Additional useful observations from the numerical study suggest that the IHTC has a significant influence on the skin thickness and grain size in both the skin and core regions of the casting, while the effect of die temperature is limited to influencing the skin grain size only.

We have proposed a distributed array antenna (DAA) system for high-speed satellite communications. The DAA system uses multiple small tracking antennas and combines the transmission signals in-phase to increase the antenna gain. DAA system has a problem that the undesired radiation at the sidelobe direction increases as the antenna gain at the main lobe direction increases. In the mobile environment, the conventional technique can suppress the undesired radiation in the limited condition because of changing the direction of the undesired radiation according to the movement of the mobile station. This paper proposes a DAA technique that suppresses the undesired radiation by setting a transmission plate at each antenna aperture and moving them via adaptive control. The transmission plate consisting of a metal patch or slot retransmits electromagnetic waves and changes the amplitude and phase of the waves. To change the radiation patters of each antenna, the transmission plate rotates according to movement of the mobile station. After combining these changed signals, the adaptive control selects the rotate angle of the transmission plate to decrease the undesired radiation at the sidelobe direction. The antenna gain on the main lobe direction after combining is achieved with lower loss because the insertion loss through the transmission plate is smaller. The proposed technique offers more than $2.4$ dB improvement with three antennas and more than $3.5$ dB improvement with four antennas assuming each consists of $8 ¥times 8$ patches.

Temperature distribution gradient in metal powder bed additive manufacturing (MPBAM) directly controls the mechanical properties and dimensional accuracy of the build part. Experimental approach and numerical modeling approach for temperature in MPBAM are limited by the restricted accessibility and high computational cost, respectively. Analytical models were reported with high computational efficiency, but the developed models employed a moving coordinate and semi-infinite medium assumption, which neglected the part dimensions, and thus reduced their usefulness in real applications. This paper investigates the in-process temperature in MPBAM through analytical modeling using a stationary coordinate with an origin at the part boundary (absolute coordinate). Analytical solutions are developed for temperature prediction of single-track scan and multi-track scans considering scanning strategy. Inconel 625 is chosen to test the proposed model. Laser power absorption is inversely identified with the prediction of molten pool dimensions. Latent heat is considered using the heat integration method. The molten pool evolution is investigated with respect to scanning time. The stabilized temperatures in the single-track scan and bidirectional scans are predicted under various process conditions. Close agreements are observed upon validation to the experimental values in the literature. Furthermore, a positive relationship between molten pool dimensions and powder packing porosity was observed through sensitivity analysis. With benefits of the absolute coordinate, and high computational efficiency, the presented model can predict the temperature for a dimensional part during MPBAM, which can be used to further investigate residual stress and distortion in real applications.

Gyroscopes are one of the next killer applications for the MEMS (Micro-Electro-Mechanical-Systems) sensors industry. Many mature applications have already been developed and produced in limited volumes for the automotive, consumer, industrial, medical, and military markets. Plenty of high-volume applications, over 100 million per year, have been calling for low-cost gyroscopes. Bulk silicon is a promising candidate for low-cost gyroscopes due to its large scale availability and maturity of its manufacturing industry. Nevertheless, it is not suitable for a real monolithic IC integration and requires a dedicated packaging. New designs are supposed to eliminate the need for magnets and metal case package, and allow for a real monolithic MEMS-IC (Integrated Circuit) electronic system. In addition, a drastic cost reduction could be achieved by utilizing off-the-shelf plastic packaging with lead frames for the final assembly. The present paper puts forward the design of a novel tri-axial gyroscope based on rotating comb-drives acting as both capacitive sensors and actuators. The comb-drives are comprised of a single monolithic moving component (rotor) and fixed parts (stators). The former is made out of different concentrated masses connected by curved silicon beams in order to decouple the motion signals. The sensor was devised to be fabricated through the PolyMUMPs® process and it is intended for working in air in order to semplify the MEMS-IC monolithic integration.

Purpose – The purpose of this paper is to demonstrate importance of usage of sector indices which provides insight for sector specific investment strategies and direction for suitable policy formulation for the Indian industry. It investigates long run, short run and causality relationships between eight identified sector indices and Sensex for the post subprime period. Design/methodology/approach – The study uses Vector Error Correction Model (VECM) for econometric analysis. It employs Generalized Impulse Response and Variance Decomposition analysis for developed multivariate framework in order to provide information about precise interplay of the sector indices. Findings – Long-term relationships between sector indices were determined by the usage of VECM indicating minimal benefits from diversifying investments to different sectors. Limited lead – lag short run relationships between sector indices were observed. Banking index played a predominant and integrating role in moving other indices. During this period of recovery; most sectors were protected and provided marginally better returns due to robust Banking policy. Realty and Metal were other significant drivers influencing remaining sectors contemporaneously. The study for the post subprime crisis period helps to understand the importance and behavior of interrelated sector indices and Sensex in the dynamic economic environment. Practical implications – The study clearly provides direction for sector specific investment strategies and policy formulation. Originality/value – The study highlights utility and importance of usage of sector indices. No study using sector indices for the Indian economy have been done earlier employing VAR for the post subprime crisis period.

In this study, the preform and die designs of hot forging process were proposed for a long-flat slide block. This block is assembled to the linear slide for carrying the moving table. Three different billet geometry designs were proposed to obtain good die filling. The volume of the flash is limited to 30% with a flash thickness design in 3 mm. The forging die was designed with four ejectors to push up the forged part smoothly. The proposed billet geometries and die design were evaluated using CAE simulation. The simulation results indicated that the suitable perform design is able to achieve better material flow. The flash flow control is able to reduce the forming load and improve the die filling. The forging experiments were carried out to verify the proposed method, the experiment results showed good agreement with the CAE simulations. For the Improvement of wear and corrosion resistances of Inconel718 (In718) surface, high velocity oxygen fuel (HVOF) thermal spray coating of micron-sized WC-Cr-C-Ni powder was coated onto Inconel718 surface and laser heat-treatment of the coating was carried out. Porous coating of porosity 2.2±0.4% was prepared by HVOF coating, and it was improved by laser heat-treatment, reducing the porosity to 0.35±0.08%. Micro-hardness of laser heat-treated coating increased more than four times compared to the surface of In718. Friction coefficient decreased by HVOF coating and laser heat-treatment. Wear resistance improved, decreasing the wear depth by the coating and laser heating. The interface between coating and In718 was compacted, and elements diffused from both coating and inconel718 substrate to interface, forming metal rich buffer zone (interface) and enhancing the adhesion of coating. Corrosion resistance improved by coating in sea water 3.5% NaCl solution and in 1M HCl acid, but it worsened in 1M NaOH base. For the improvement of wear and corrosion resistances of Inconel718, HVOF WC-metal power coating and laser heat-treatment are recommended.

A depth profile study of nitrided steels containing Ti or V sputtered in the surface layer was performed by means of laser ablation inductively coupled plasma atomic emission spectrometry. An Nd:YAG laser was used in the Q-switched mode and operated at 355 and 266 nm. The laser ablation patterns were obtained on the material surface by moving the ablation cell relative to the laser beam by means of an XY-translator. Depth resolution was obtained by using successive limited numbers of ablation cycles. The corresponding transient signals of Ti or V and Fe were measured simultaneously with a dual monochromator. The effect of the number of cycles, the laser power and laser wavelength on the time-dependent behaviour of the Ti or V and Fe line intensities was studied along with the erosion rate. It was found that the erosion rate was lower than 0.6 μm per cycle and depended on the depth of penetration. Emission of sputtered Ti and V was mainly observed in an external layer of less than 2 μm. The laser wavelength did not modify the shape of the crater but significantly changed the line intensity of Fe. The Fe line intensity was also enhanced during the ablation of the nitrided steel compared with the ablation of untreated steel. This study contributes to the knowledge of behaviour of the modified metal surface during interaction with the laser radiation, which is important for development of the method for determination of composition of nitrided surface layers.

The investigation of glacier motion over short time periods for relatively long duration and over large longitudinal extent can yield valuable insight into the dynamics of glacier surging, basal sliding, ice stream development, and calving mechanisms. In this paper, we discuss techniques for monitoring short term horizontal and vertical motion employed on the often highly-fractured surface of Variegated Glacier, Alaska, prior to its recent surge (1980—84) and on the fast-moving outlet glacier — ice stream system of Jakobshavns Glacier, Greenland. The short period measurements described here were made continuously over one to several months, and, in many cases, encompass seasonal and longer term fluctuations as well. The positions of a relatively large number of surface markers (15-35) were followed as functions of time. Application of standard terrestrial surveying techniques and modern microwave and UHF positioning methods to these short period studies are discussed. We then describe methods of reduction and analysis on the resulting large data sets, which may be treated as quasi-stationary time series. Examples of correlation with other glacier variables, such as basal water pressure, seismicity, and stream discharge are given and the propagation of movement events discussed. The meaning of the term ‘short period’ is relative to the size and mean velocity of an ice mass. On a small, fast-moving glacier, such as Variegated, close to the time of surge, speeds of 0.5 to 65 m/day allow accurate measurement of surface velocity, uplift, and strain over hourly time intervals. Motion studies over similar time periods may be accurately performed on lower Jakobshavns Glacier, where average speeds of 20 m/day are present. On the other hand, 50—70 km from terra firma on upper Jakobshavns Glacier, speeds are much reduced and stable control is difficult to establish. In a region such as this short period becomes daily to weekly, or even longer if absolute velocities are required. Several factors are critical in the planning and successful completion of comprehensive short period motion study with a minimum of manpower. Choice of instrument type, location of control, marker construction and size, placement of markers on a highly-crevassed surface, and accuracy requirements all require careful consideration and are described in detail in this paper. On Variegated and lower Jakobshavns Glaciers standard theodolites and electronic distance meters (EDM) were used to determine the horizontal and vertical position of a surface marker from either the glacier margin or from a moving control point, on the ice itself, whose location was simultaneously monitored. Mean flow azimuth and plunge were determined by complete surveys made daily or weekly. Shorter period surveys were often limited to the measurement of either distances only or angles only, depending on the component of motion along the line of measurement. Interpolation among these data sets for a given point yields accurate velocity, strain-rate, and vertical motion. The motion of a larger number of points could be determined from a few survey stations in this manner - for example, up to 30 markers were surveyed from 2 stations continuously over a three month period, covering a longitudinal distance of 15 km along the glacier. Markers, consisting of poles drilled into the surface, metal and plastic tetrahedron, cloth drapes and dye bombs, were emplaced on foot, when feasible. At other times, however, the highly-fractured surface of these fast moving glaciers required deployment from a hovering helicopter. Many of the markers were equipped with fixed retro-reflecting prisms to facilitate EDM measurement. Remote light systems on control points allowed surveying during periods of darkness (when, invariably, interesting events tended to occur). On upper Jakobshavns Glacier, markers were located using a microwave, or UHF, positioning system installed on board a helicopter. The decrease in accuracy of such measurements relative to standard methods required longer time periods between positioning, but, even at these lower frequencies, significant fluctuations were observed. Guidance capabilities of the positioning systems allowed rapid reoccupation of marker sites on the vast ice surface and also allowed rapid mapping of surface topography and terminus position, Results show several interesting features of glacier dynamics: large fluctuations in velocity over periods of hours to days, rapid and substantial uplift of the surface, and the subsequent propagation of these movement events and kinematic-type waves along the surface; large seasonal DC shifts in velocity and interesting development of marginal and medial shear zones. Digitization and time-series analysis of the resulting data sets allow identification of significant periods of oscillation in glacier motion and quantitative description of the propagation of high-frequency disturbances. Correlation with continuous records of other variables on Variegated Glacier, observed by various investigators from University of Alaska and Washington and Caltech, such as borehole water level, seismicity, stream discharge, and small-scale strain and tilt, enables the first detailed observational description of a surging glacier to be made, and a detailed comparison with theoretical ideas. A new amendment to Murphy’s Law regarding such short period motion studies is also presented.

The investigation of glacier motion over short time periods for relatively long duration and over large longitudinal extent can yield valuable insight into the dynamics of glacier surging, basal sliding, ice stream development, and calving mechanisms. In this paper, we discuss techniques for monitoring short term horizontal and vertical motion employed on the often highly-fractured surface of Variegated Glacier, Alaska, prior to its recent surge (1980—84) and on the fast-moving outlet glacier — ice stream system of Jakobshavns Glacier, Greenland. The short period measurements described here were made continuously over one to several months, and, in many cases, encompass seasonal and longer term fluctuations as well. The positions of a relatively large number of surface markers (15-35) were followed as functions of time. Application of standard terrestrial surveying techniques and modern microwave and UHF positioning methods to these short period studies are discussed. We then describe methods of reduction and analysis on the resulting large data sets, which may be treated as quasi-stationary time series. Examples of correlation with other glacier variables, such as basal water pressure, seismicity, and stream discharge are given and the propagation of movement events discussed.The meaning of the term ‘short period’ is relative to the size and mean velocity of an ice mass. On a small, fast-moving glacier, such as Variegated, close to the time of surge, speeds of 0.5 to 65 m/day allow accurate measurement of surface velocity, uplift, and strain over hourly time intervals. Motion studies over similar time periods may be accurately performed on lower Jakobshavns Glacier, where average speeds of 20 m/day are present. On the other hand, 50—70 km from terra firma on upper Jakobshavns Glacier, speeds are much reduced and stable control is difficult to establish. In a region such as this short period becomes daily to weekly, or even longer if absolute velocities are required.Several factors are critical in the planning and successful completion of comprehensive short period motion study with a minimum of manpower. Choice of instrument type, location of control, marker construction and size, placement of markers on a highly-crevassed surface, and accuracy requirements all require careful consideration and are described in detail in this paper.On Variegated and lower Jakobshavns Glaciers standard theodolites and electronic distance meters (EDM) were used to determine the horizontal and vertical position of a surface marker from either the glacier margin or from a moving control point, on the ice itself, whose location was simultaneously monitored. Mean flow azimuth and plunge were determined by complete surveys made daily or weekly. Shorter period surveys were often limited to the measurement of either distances only or angles only, depending on the component of motion along the line of measurement. Interpolation among these data sets for a given point yields accurate velocity, strain-rate, and vertical motion. The motion of a larger number of points could be determined from a few survey stations in this manner - for example, up to 30 markers were surveyed from 2 stations continuously over a three month period, covering a longitudinal distance of 15 km along the glacier.Markers, consisting of poles drilled into the surface, metal and plastic tetrahedron, cloth drapes and dye bombs, were emplaced on foot, when feasible. At other times, however, the highly-fractured surface of these fast moving glaciers required deployment from a hovering helicopter. Many of the markers were equipped with fixed retro-reflecting prisms to facilitate EDM measurement. Remote light systems on control points allowed surveying during periods of darkness (when, invariably, interesting events tended to occur).On upper Jakobshavns Glacier, markers were located using a microwave, or UHF, positioning system installed on board a helicopter. The decrease in accuracy of such measurements relative to standard methods required longer time periods between positioning, but, even at these lower frequencies, significant fluctuations were observed. Guidance capabilities of the positioning systems allowed rapid reoccupation of marker sites on the vast ice surface and also allowed rapid mapping of surface topography and terminus position,Results show several interesting features of glacier dynamics: large fluctuations in velocity over periods of hours to days, rapid and substantial uplift of the surface, and the subsequent propagation of these movement events and kinematic-type waves along the surface; large seasonal DC shifts in velocity and interesting development of marginal and medial shear zones. Digitization and time-series analysis of the resulting data sets allow identification of significant periods of oscillation in glacier motion and quantitative description of the propagation of high-frequency disturbances. Correlation with continuous records of other variables on Variegated Glacier, observed by various investigators from University of Alaska and Washington and Caltech, such as borehole water level, seismicity, stream discharge, and small-scale strain and tilt, enables the first detailed observational description of a surging glacier to be made, and a detailed comparison with theoretical ideas.A new amendment to Murphy’s Law regarding such short period motion studies is also presented.

The simulation of the propagation of ultrasonic waves in a moving fluid will improve the efficiency of the ultrasonic flow monitoring and that of the in-service monitoring for various reactors in several industries. The most recent simulations are mostly limited to 3D representations of the insonified volume but without really considering the temporal aspect of the flow. The advent of high-performance computing (HPC) now makes it possible to propose the first 4D simulations, with the representation of the inspected medium evolving over time. This work is based on a highly accurate double simulation. A first computational fluid dynamics (CFD) simulation, performed in previous work, described the fluid medium resulting from the mixing of hot jets in a cold opaque fluid. There have been many sensor developments over the years in this domain, as ultrasounds are the only method able to give information in an opaque medium. The correct design of these sensors, as well as the precise and confident analysis of their measurements, will progress with the development of the modeling of wave propagation in such a medium. An important parameter to consider is the flow temperature description, as a temperature gradient in the medium deflects the wave path and may sometimes cause its division. We develop a 4D wave propagation simulation in a very realistic, temporally fluctuating medium. A high-performance simulation is proposed in this work to include an ultrasonic source within the medium and to calculate the wave propagation between a transmitter and a receiver. The analysis of the wave variations shows that this through-transmission setup can track the jet mixing time variations. The steps needed to achieve these results are described using the spectral-element-based numerical tool SPECFEM3D. It is shown that the low-frequency fluctuation of the liquid metal flow can be observed using ultrasonic measurements.

ABSTRACTDuring the industrial scale-up of bioprocesses it is important to establish that the biological system has not changed significantly when moving from small laboratory-scale shake flasks or culturing bottles to an industrially relevant production level. Therefore, during upscaling of biomass production for a range of metal transformations, including the production of biogenic magnetite nanoparticles byGeobacter sulfurreducens, from 100-ml bench-scale to 5-liter fermentors, we applied Fourier transform infrared (FTIR) spectroscopy as a metabolic fingerprinting approach followed by the analysis of bacterial cell extracts by gas chromatography-mass spectrometry (GC-MS) for metabolic profiling. FTIR results clearly differentiated between the phenotypic changes associated with different growth phases as well as the two culturing conditions. Furthermore, the clustering patterns displayed by multivariate analysis were in agreement with the turbidimetric measurements, which displayed an extended lag phase for cells grown in a 5-liter bioreactor (24 h) compared to those grown in 100-ml serum bottles (6 h). GC-MS analysis of the cell extracts demonstrated an overall accumulation of fumarate during the lag phase under both culturing conditions, coinciding with the detected concentrations of oxaloacetate, pyruvate, nicotinamide, and glycerol-3-phosphate being at their lowest levels compared to other growth phases. These metabolites were overlaid onto a metabolic network ofG. sulfurreducens, and taking into account the levels of these metabolites throughout the fermentation process, the limited availability of oxaloacetate and nicotinamide would seem to be the main metabolic bottleneck resulting from this scale-up process. Additional metabolite-feeding experiments were carried out to validate the above hypothesis. Nicotinamide supplementation (1 mM) did not display any significant effects on the lag phase ofG. sulfurreducenscells grown in the 100-ml serum bottles. However, it significantly improved the growth behavior of cells grown in the 5-liter bioreactor by reducing the lag phase from 24 h to 6 h, while providing higher yield than in the 100-ml serum bottles.

In order to minimize the influence of packaging stress on the signal of MEMS pressure sensors, the pressure inlet can be reduced in footprint and mechanically decoupled from the mechanically moving parts. Moreover, the formation of a hermetic seal between the sensor inlet and an external inlet becomes more challenging as the footprint is reduced. Soldering is a preferred solution as a hermetic seal is achievable despite some surface roughness at the surfaces to be joined. However, the metallization on the MEMS, the solder and the metallization on the external inlet must be carefully matched to assure long term stability; the solder will react quickly with the metal layers deposited on the surfaces during the reflow process and later at a reduced rate during storage and application. The formation of intermetallic compounds (IMC) can catastrophically degrade the integrity of a joint if large amounts of voids are formed or the mechanical compliance significantly reduces as a result of the IMC formation. The metallization alternatives for the MEMS in this case were sputtered TiW/Au and NiCr/Au. The TiW and NiCr are adhesion layers whereas the Au is applied as a wetting layer which is normally fully consumed during the soldering process. A thick layer of plated Au, or a thick layer of plated Ni with a thin surface finish layer of Au, were possible metallization alternatives for the external inlet. Dewetting of solder from TiW is frequently mentioned in literature, but less conclusive work is published about soldering to NiCr/Au [1–3]. In particular, limited work has been published on long term effects of soldering to NiCr/Au surfaces using a SAC solder. In this work TiW and NiCr were compared as adhesion layers. In addition, SAC and SnPb were compared as solder, and Au and Ni/Au were compared as metallization on the external inlet. A total of 10–20 assemblies were prepared for each of 12 tested combinations. Half of the assemblies were exposed to high temperature storage (HTS) for ~300 hours at 130–150 °C. Shear testing and inspection of fracture surfaces and cross sections using light microscopy, scanning electron microscopy, and energy-dispersive X-ray spectroscopy were performed for samples

Purpose Wastewater treatment plants (WWTPs) have long-time environmental impacts. The purpose of this paper is to assess the environmental footprint of two advanced wastewater treatment (WWT) technologies in a life cycle and sustainability perspective and identify the improvement alternatives. Design/methodology/approach In this study life cycle-based environmental assessment of two advanced WWT technologies (moving bed biofilm reactor (MBBR) and sequencing batch reactor (SBR)) has been carried out to compare different technological options. Life cycle impacts were computed using GaBi software employing the CML 2 (2010) methodology. Primary data were collected and analysed through surveys and on-site visits to WWTPs. The present study attempts to achieve significantly transparent results using life cycle assessment (LCA) in limited availability of data. Findings The results of both direct measurements in the studied wastewater systems and the LCA support the fact that advanced treatment has the best environmental performance. The results show that the operation phase contributes to nearly 99 per cent for the impacts of the plant. The study identified emissions associated with electricity production required to operate the WWTPs, chemical usage, emissions to water from treated effluent and heavy metal emissions from waste sludge applied to land are the major contributors for overall environmental impacts. SBR is found to be the best option for WWT as compared to MBBR in the urban context. In order to improve the overall environmental performance, the wastewater recovery, that is, reusable water should be improved. Further, sludge utilisation for energy recovery should be considered. The results of the study show that the avoided impacts of energy recovery can be even greater than direct impacts of greenhouse gas emissions from the wastewater system. Therefore, measures which combine reusing wastewater with energy generation should be preferred. The study highlights the major shortcoming, i.e., the lack of national life cycle inventories and databases in India limiting the wide application of LCA in the context of environmental decision making. Research limitations/implications The results of this study express only the environmental impacts of the operation phase of WWT system and sludge management options. Therefore, it is recommended that further LCAs studies should be carried out to investigate construction and demolition phase and also there is need to reconsider the toxicological- and pathogen-related impact categories. The results obtained through this type of LCA studies can be used in the decision-making framework for selection of appropriate WWT technology by considering LCA results as one of the attributes. Practical implications The results of LCA modelling show that though the environmental impacts associated with advanced technologies are high, these technologies produce the good reusable quality of effluent. In areas where water is scarce, governments should promote reusing wastewater by providing additional treatment under safe conditions as much as possible with advanced WWT. The LCA model for WWT and management planning can be used for the environmental assessment of WWT technologies. Originality/value The current work provides a site-specific data on sustainable WWT and management. The study contributes to the development of the regional reference input data for LCA (inventory development) in the domain of wastewater management.

The profile migration of pollutants that occurs most intensively in spring, autumn, and summer with a large amount of precipitation when intensive descending flows of soil moisture take place is of particular importance. The migration of heavy metals is limited by their deposition on geochemical barriers. The study of the profile migration and accumulation of heavy metals showed that metals have an unequal behavior in soils; a change in their content in the profile is noted. The article presents the dynamics of the distribution of moving forms of heavy metals in different soils of the Orenburg region. An equation of exponential regression was proposed. The equation allows assessing the migrative ability of heavy metal by the value of indicator α. There were studied physical and chemical characteristics of the soil, namely its composition, the content of heavy metals, which in total affects the overall state of the soil and plant system. The structure of the system was analyzed and determined by probabilities of the presence of a pollutant in the components of the system. As a result, a complex indicator showing the movement of heavy metals in the soil-plant system was calculated.

Peshawar is the capital of North-West-Frontier-Province (NWFP) and the largest trade centre in the northwestern part of Pakistan. Due to high rate of urbanisation and the sudden influxes of Afghan refugees in the past two decades, the city has become one of the most polluted ones in the South Central Asia. The increased load of transportation with no or limited expansion of roads, unplanned and uncontrolled industrialisation and poor sanitation have caused the atmosphere unprecedently overburdened with smokes and dusts of all kinds. This paper is a part of a detail study carried out to determine heavy metal concentrations in air dust, soil and sewerage of the Peshawar metropolis. In the western part of Peshawar metropolis at 16 chowks (road crossings), air dust samples were collected at nose height and at ground positions in open buckets filled with distilled water for 48 hours. From the same locations, clay/road-mud samples were collected from solidified clay on ground surface. Similarly, soil samples were collected from non-metalled parts at 2 feet depths in subsurface from 10 locations. Correspondingly, sewerage samples were collected from sewerage water and sewerage mud. Vehicular traffic counting was carried out at each chowk for 12 peak hours. At nose height the heavy metal contents showed ppm ranges of: Cr= 0.06-3.2, Co= 0.3-2.4, Ni= 0.17-5.97, Cu= 0.88-8.8, Zn = 0.81-17, Fe = 3-57 and Pb 2-25. The heavy metals concentrations at ground positions were noticed to be higher than at the nose level. The soil samples do not show significant enrichment in heavy metals and are therefore classified as the normal soils. In sewerage water samples the heavy metals concentrations showed ppm ranges of Cr= 0.1-3.81, Co= 0-2, Ni = 0.1 -3, Cu = 0.13-3, Zn = 0.1 - 4.3, Fe = 13 -99 and Pb = 1.81-10. Sewerage mud showed higher concentrations of these metals as compared to sewerage water. A systematic positive variations between the atomic masses of the metals and their concentrations was noticed in air, clay, sewerage water and sewerage mud, indicating that the higher the atomic mass, the higher was the rate of fall/deposition of that particular metal, if available. It was also noticed that compared with water, air is a finer sorting agent for heavy metals. At each chowk, both individual metal and the total dust fall showed positive correlation with the total number of vehicles, indicating that the moving vehicular traffic is the major cause of keeping metals­ loaded dust in the air. However, these vehicles may not be considered as the major source of emanating these metals from their exhausts. The study showed that the major sources of heavy metals in the western part of Peshawar metropolis are small metal shops, workshops, construction projects, rusted bridges, fences and vehicles on the roads as well as the damaged sewerage system.

AbstractCdTe, with a direct band gap of 1.45 eV is well suited to the terrestrial AM1.5 solar irradiance and currently makes up half of the thin film (TF) photovoltaic (PV) market. There are 4 main factors that determine final cost of PV modules: the conversion efficiency, materials amount per unit area of module, production yield, and the economy of scale. It is therefore valuable to investigate alternative and/or innovative deposition techniques and processes which have the potential to impact on these factors. Metal organic chemical vapour deposition (MOCVD) is a powerful technique offering increased process repeatability, achieving a high level of control of materials characteristics. Recent improvements in CdTe devices using atmospheric–pressure (AP) MOCVD have led to efficiencies of 13.3 % using 2 μm absorber layers and 11 % with a 1 μm absorber layer [11, 12]. These results were achieved: by extending the optical band gap of the window layer, using a ternary alloy (Cd0.9Zn0.1S), with intentional p-type doping of the CdTe layers with As, and the use of an in situ (dry) deposited CdCl2 layer and anneal. All layers, except the front and back contact, are grown by a sequential MOCVD process. Furthermore this is a dry process without the need for any etch treatment. The inherent design of the horizontal MOCVD laboratory chambers do not lend themselves well to large scale production. However, the CSER group has designed and built an experimental inline reaction chamber to evaluate AP-MOCVD as an inline production process. Discussion is made based on kinetically limited growth and molar supply models to assess the suitability of the MOCVD process to deposit fast enough for an inline process. The AP-MOCVD inline reactor uses a showerhead to deliver the precursors onto a moving 5 × 7.5 cm2 substrate and preliminary results for deposited layers are given. From these preliminary results it has been extrapolated that a 1 μm thick CdTe layer can be deposited on substrates moving at 60 cm/min.

ABSTRACTMagnetic position sensors are transducers whose output is an electrical signal that is a function of a mechanical motion. They consist of a permanent magnet, a magnetic field sensor, and a moving magnetic circuit. Being contactless, they do not wear out. Unlike optical systems, they are impervious to contamination. With the proliferation of microprocessor control in many on-board automotive applications, magnetic position sensing becomes a crucial function, found e.g. in cam and crankshaft sensors used for ignition timing and engine misfire detection, in brushless electrical motors, in wheel speed sensors and in other applications.This paper first reviews the requirements put on the magnetic field sensors in these applications. Five main types of field sensors are used: Si Hall sensors with integrated amplifiers, GaAs Hall sensors, InSb-based magnetoresistors, anisotropie magnetoresistors (AMR), and metal-multilayer magnetoresistors (GMR). Magnetoresistors are almost always used as differential pairs, either in Wheatstone bridges or with matched constant current sources. The two characteristics of each type of field sensors that matter most are their sensitivity to magnetic field, and the smallest amount of field modulation they can detect, i.e. their resolution, which is mainly limited by the drift of the outputs with temperature. These parameters are measured and reported here on the 5 types of sensors; the work is an update of a 1993 review by the author.

In the world, approximately 800,000 total hip replacements are implanted, while, at least 50,000 hip replacements are performed in the United Kingdom each year. Orthopaedic surgeons have traditionally delayed joint replacement surgery in patients younger than 60 due to its limited survivorship time and biological effect inside the human body. The highest percentage (71%) hip joint failure was caused by aseptic loosening of the femoral and acetabular components and the war rate and debris are the accepted causes of that aseptic loosening. The wear particles, either ion or stable form, can react with proteins and change the pH value of albumin solutions inside the human body, causing damage to the DNA resulting in genotoxicity. There has been a great deal of research into the materials, dimension of the prosthesis, surface roughness, and lubrication effect by surface coating. But it is very rare to apply surface texture technique to a metallic prosthesis bearing surface although it has proven very successful in many engineering applications including automobile industry due to secondary lubrication effect and hydrodynamic effect. A TE 77 high frequency friction simulator has been used for the experiment where specimens were manufactured with 50 mm diameters and 50μm clearance. A dynamic loading was applied synchronized with Hip CD 98 while the temperature was controlled at 37°C. The output data including friction coefficient, friction force and contact pot were recorded in connected computer via COMPEND 2000 software. The surfaces were inspected after and before test under scanning electronic microscopy. The plateau honed surfaces were produced on the moving specimens with controlled load, speed and various grade of emery paper using a specially designed tool. The friction coefficient was recorded 0.035 for the honing surface which was made by 30 kg laod and 60 emery paper, 0.04 for the honing surface profile made by 30 kg load and 150 emery paper and 0.06 for plane surface after one million cycles. The rest of surfaces profiled surface were broken down before one million cycles. That made a conclusion that plateau honing surface made with 30 kg load and 60 emery paper was best surface texture profile (45° honed angle, 40±10μm width and 35±10μm depth honing) for the metal on metal hip prosthesis. The comparison experiment was continue for plane surface and plateau honing surface of 60 emery paper and 30 kg load up to one and half millions cycles. It was found that the friction coefficient (0.03) was further reduced 0.005 after one and half million cycles for plateau honing surface but it was increased nearly double (0.065) for plane surface. The static friction coefficient was also reduced 38% in case of that plateau honing surface. The contact pot profile which is an indicator of fluid film thickness was noticed higher in plateau honing surface. This was evidence that the lubrication distribution was better in plateau honed surface which should provide longer life of joint, reduce wear and improves acceptability of metal on metal hip joints.

IntroductionThe “North” is given explicitly “Nordic” value in extreme metal, as a vehicle for narratives of identity, nationalism and ideology. However, we also contend that “Nordicness” is articulated in diverse and contradictory ways in extreme metal contexts. We examine Nordicness in three key iterations: firstly, Nordicness as a brand tied to extremity and “authenticity”; secondly, Nordicness as an expression of exclusory ethnic belonging and ancestry; and thirdly, Nordicness as an imagined community of liberal democracy.In situating Nordicness across these iterations, we call into focus how the value of the “North” in metal discourse unfolds in different contexts with different implications. We argue that “Nordicness” as it is represented in extreme metal scenes cannot be considered as a uniform, essential category, but rather one marked by tensions and paradoxes that undercut the possibility of any singular understanding of the “North”. Deploying textual and critical discourse analysis, we analyse what Nordicness is made to mean in extreme metal scenes. Furthermore, we critique understandings of the “North” as a homogenous category and instead interrogate the plural ways in which “Nordic” meaning is articulated in metal. We focus specifically on Nordic Extreme Metal. This subgenre has been chosen with an eye to the regional complexities of the Nordic area in Northern Europe, the popularity of extreme metal in Nordic markets, and the successful global marketing of Nordic metal bands and styles.We use the term “Nordic” in line with Loftsdóttir and Jensen’s definition, wherein the “Nordic countries” encompass Norway, Sweden, Iceland, Denmark and Finland, and the autonomous regions of Greenland: the Faroe Islands and the Aland Islands (3). “Nordic-ness”, they argue, is the cultural identity of the Nordic countries, reified through self-perception, internationalisation and “national branding” (Loftsdóttir and Jensen 2).In referring to “extreme metal”, we draw from Kahn-Harris’s characterisation of the term. “Extreme metal” represents a cluster of heavy metal subgenres–primarily black metal, death metal, thrash metal, doom metal and grindcore–marked by their “extremity”; their impetus towards “[un]conventional musical aesthetics” (Kahn-Harris 6).Nonetheless, we remain acutely aware of the complexities that attend both terms. Just as extreme metal itself is “exceptionally diverse” (Kahn-Harris 6) and “constantly developing and reconfiguring” (Kahn-Harris 7), the category of the “Nordic” is also a site of “diverse experiences” (Loftsdóttir & Jensen 3). We seek to move beyond any essentialist understanding of the “Nordic” and move towards a critical mapping of the myriad ways in which the “Nordic” is given value in extreme metal contexts.Branding the North: Nordicness as Extremity and AuthenticityMetal’s relationship with the Nordic countries has become a key area of interest for both popular and scholarly accounts of heavy metal as the genre has rapidly expanded in the region. The Nordic countries currently boast the highest rate of metal bands per capita (Grandoni). Since the mid-2000s, metal scholars have displayed an accelerated interest in the “cultural aesthetics and identity politics” of metal in Northern Europe (Brown 261). Wider popular interest in Nordic metal has been assisted by the notoriety of the Norwegian black metal scene of the early 1990s, wherein a series of murders and church arsons committed by scene members formed the basis for popular texts such as Moynihan and Søderlind’s book Lords of Chaos and Aites and Ewell’s documentary Until the Light Takes Us.Invocations of Nordicness in metal music are not a new phenomenon, nor have such allusions been strictly limited to Northern European artists. Led Zeppelin and Iron Maiden displayed an interest in Norse mythology, while Venom and Manowar frequently drew on Nordic imagery in their performance and visual aesthetics.This interest in the North was largely ephemeral–the use of popular Nordic iconography stressed romanticised constructions of the North as a site of masculine liberty, rather than locating such archetypes in a historical context. Such narratives of Nordic masculinity, liberty and heathenry nevertheless become central to heavy metal’s contextual discourses, and point to the ways in which “Nordicness” becomes mobilised as a particular branded category.Whilst Nordic “branding” for earlier heavy metal bands was largely situated in romantic imaginings of the ancient North, in the late 1980s there emerged “a secondary usage” of Nordic identity and iconography by Northern European metal bands (Trafford & Pluskowski 58). Such “Nordicness” laid far more stress on historical context, national identity and notions of ancestry, and, crucially, a sense of extremity and isolation. This emphasis on metal’s extremity beyond the mainstream has long been a crucial component in the marketing of Nordic scenes.Such “extremity” is given mutually supportive value as “authenticity”, where the term is understood as a value judgement (Moore 209) applied by audiences to discern if music remains committed to its own premises (Frith 71). Such questions of sincerity and commitment to metal’s core continue to circulate in the discourses of Nordic extreme metal. Sweden’s death metal underground, for example, was considered at “the forefront of one of the most extreme varieties of music yet conceived” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32), with both the Stockholm and Gothenburg “sounds” proving influential beyond Northern Europe (Kahn-Harris 106).Situating Nordicness as a distinct identity beyond metal’s commercial appeal underscores much of the marketing of Nordic extreme metal to international audiences. Such discourses continue in contemporary contexts–Finland’s official website promotes metal as a form of Finnish art and culture: “By definition, heavy metal fans crave music from outside the mainstream. They champion material that boldly stands out against the normality of pop” (Weaver).The focus on Nordic metal existing “outside” the mainstream is commensurate with understandings of extreme metal as “on the edge of music” (Kahn-Harris 5). Such sentiments are situated in a wider regional narrative that sees the Nordic region at the geographic “edge” of Europe, as remote and isolated (Grimley 2). The apparent isolation that enables the distinctiveness of “Nordic” forms of extreme metal is, however, potentially undercut by the widespread circulation of “Nordicness” as a particular brand.“Nordic extreme metal” can be understood as both a generic and place-based scene, where genre and geography “cross cut and coincide in complex ways” (Kahn-Harris 99). The Bergen black metal sound, for example, much like the Gothenburg death metal sound, is both a geographic and stylistic marker that is replicated in different contexts.This Nordic branding of musical styles is further affirmed by the wider means through which “Nordic”, “Scandinavian” and the “North” become interchangeable frameworks for the marketing of particular styles of extreme metal. “Nordic metal”, Von Helden thus argues, “is a trademark and a best seller” (33).Nordicness as Exclusory Belonging and AncestryMarketing strategies that rely on constructions of Nordic metal as “beyond the mainstream” at once exotify and homogenise the “Nordic”. Sentiments of an “imagined community of Nordicness” (Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen 279) have created problematic boundaries of who, or what, may be represented in such categories.Understandings of “Nordicness” as a site of generic “purity” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32) are therefore both tacitly and explicitly underscored by projections of ethnic purity and “belonging”. As such, where we have previously considered the cultural capital of the “Nordic” as it emerges as a particular branding exercise, here we examine the exclusory impetus of homogenous understandings of the Nordic.Nordicness in this context connotes explicitly racialised value, which interpellates images of Viking heathenry to enable fantasies of the pure, white North. This phenomenon is particularly evident in the context of Norwegian black metal, which bases its own self-mythologising in explicitly Nordic parameters. Norwegian black metal bands and members of the broader scene have often taken steps to continually affirm their Nordicness through various representational strategies. The widespread church burnings associated with the early Norwegian black metal scene, for instance, can be framed as a radical rejection of Christianity and an embracing of Norway’s Viking, pagan past.The ethnoromanticisation of Nordic regions and landscapes is underscored by problematic projections of national belonging. An interest in pagan mythology, as Kahn-Harris notes, can easily become an interest in racism and fascism (41). The “uncritical celebration of pagan pasts, the obsession with the unpolluted countryside and the distrust of the cosmopolitan city” that mark much Norwegian black metal were also common features of early fascist and racist movements (Kahn-Harris 41).Norwegian black metal has thus been able to link the genre, as a global music commodity, to “the conscious revival of myths and ideologies of an ancient northern European history and nationalist culture” (Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen 279). The conscious revival of such myths materialised in the early Norwegian scene in deliberately racist sentiments. Mayhem drummer Jan Axel Blomberg (“Hellhammer”) demonstrates this in his brief declaration that “Black metal is for white people” (in Moynihan and Søderlind 305); similarly, Darkthrone’s original back cover of Transylvanian Hunger (1994) prominently featured the phrase “Norsk Arisk Black Metal” (“Norwegian Aryan Black Metal”). Nordicness as exclusory white, Aryan identity is further mobilised in the National Socialist Black Metal scene, which readily caters to ontological constructions of Nordic whiteness (Spracklen, True Aryan; Hagen).However, Nordicness is also given racialised value in more tacit, but nonetheless troubling ways in wider Nordic folk and Viking metal scenes. The popular association of Vikings with Nordic folk metal has enabled such figures to be dismissed as performative play or camp romanticism, ostensibly removed from the extremity of black metal. Such metal scenes and their appeals to ethnosymbolic patriarchs nevertheless remain central to the ongoing construction of Nordic metal as a site that enables the instrumentality of Northern European whiteness precisely through hiding such whiteness in plain sight (Spracklen, To Holmgard, 359).The ostensibly “camp” performance of bands such as Sweden’s Amon Amarth, Faroese act Týr, or Finland’s Korpiklaani distracts from the ways in which Nordicness, and its realisations through Viking and Pagan symbolism, emerges as a claim to ethnic exclusivity. Through imagining the Viking as an ancestral, genetic category, the “common past” of the Nordic people is constructed as a self-identity apart from other people (Blaagaard 11).Furthermore, the “Viking” itself has cultural capital that has circulated beyond Northern Europe in both inclusive and exclusive ways. Nordic symbolism and mythologies are invoked within the textual aesthetics of heavy metal communities across the globe–there are Viking metal bands in Australia, for instance. Further, the valorising of the “North” in metal discourse draws on the symbols of particular ethnic traditions to give historicity and local meaning to white identity.Lucas, Deeks and Spracklen map the rhetorical power of the “North” in English folk metal. However, the same international flows of Nordic cultural capital that have allowed for the success and distinctiveness of Nordic extreme metal have also enabled the proliferation of increasingly exclusionary practices. A flyer signed by the “Wiking Hordes” in May of 1995 (in Moynihan and Søderlind 327) warns that the expansion of black and death metal into Asia, Eastern Europe and South America posed a threat to the “true Aryan” metal community.Similarly, online discussions of the documentary Pagan Metal, in which an interviewee states that a Brazilian Viking metal band is “a bit funny”, shifted between assertions that enjoyment should not be restricted by cultural heritage and declarations that only Nordic bands could “legitimately” support Viking metal. Giving Nordicness value as a form of insular, ethnic belonging has therefore had exclusory and problematic implications for how metal scenes market their dominant symbols and narratives, particularly as scenes continue to grow and diversify across multiple national contexts.Nordicness as Liberal DemocracyNordicness in heavy metal, as we have argued, has been ascribed cultural capital as both a branded, generic phenomenon and as a marker of ancestral, ethnonational belonging. Understandings of “Nordic” as an exclusory ethnic category marked by strict boundaries however come into conflict with the Nordic region’s self-perceptions as a liberal democracy.We propose an additional iteration for “Nordicness” as a means of pointing to the tensions that emerge between particular metallic imaginings of the “North” as a remote, uncompromising site of pagan liberty, and the material realities of modern Nordic nation states. We consider some new parameters for articulations of “Nordicness” in metal scenes: Nordicness as material and political conditions that have enabled the popularity of heavy metal in the region, and furthermore, the manifestations of such liberal democratic discourses in Nordic extreme metal scenes.Nordicness as a cultural, political brand is based in perceptions of the Nordic countries as “global good citizens”, “peace loving”, “conflict-resolution oriented” and “rational” (Loftsdóttir and Jensen 2). This modern conception of Nordicness is grounded in the region’s current political climate, which took its form in the post-World War II rejection of fascism and the following refugee crisis.Northern Europe’s reputation as a “famously tolerant political community” (Dworkin 487) can therefore be seen, one on hand, as a crucial disconnect from the intolerant North mediated by factions of Nordic extreme metal scenes and on the other, a political community that provides the material conditions which allow extreme metal to flourish. Nordicness here, we argue, is a crucial form of scenic infrastructure–albeit one that has been both celebrated and condemned in the sites and spaces of Nordic extreme metal.The productivity and stability of extreme metal in the Nordic countries has been attributed to a variety of institutional factors: the general relative prosperity of Northern Europe (Terry), Scandinavian legal structures (Maguire 156), universal welfare, high levels of state support for cultural development, and a broad emphasis on musical education in schools.Kahn-Harris argues that the Swedish metal scene is supported by the strength of the Swedish music industry and “Swedish civil society in general” (108). Music education is strongly supported by the state; Sweden’s relatively generous welfare and education system also “provide [an] effective subsidy for music making” (108). Furthermore, he argues that the Swedish scene has benefited from being closer to the “cultural mainstream of the country than is the case in many other countries” (108). Such close relationships to the “cultural mainstream” also invite a critical backlash against the state. The anarchistic anti-government stance of Swedish hardcore bands or the radical individualism of Norwegian black metal embodies this backlash.Early black metal is seen as a targeted response to the “oppressive and numbing social democracy which dominated Norwegian political life” (Moynihan and Søderlind 32). This spurning of social democracy is further articulated by Darkthrone founder Fenriz, who states that black metal “…is every man for himself… It is individualism above all” (True Norwegian Black Metal). Nordic extreme metal’s emphasis on independence and anti-modernity is hence immediately troubled by the material reality of the conditions that allow it to flourish. Nordicness thus gains complex realisation as both radical individualism and democratic infrastructural conditions.In looking towards future directions for expressions of the “Nordic” in extreme metal scenes, we want to consider how Nordicness can be articulated not as exclusory ethnic belonging and individualist misanthropy, but rather illustrate how Nordic scenes have also proffered sites for progressive, anti-racist discourses that speak to the cultural branding of the North as a tolerant political community.Imaginings of the North as ethnically homogenous or pure are complicated by Nordic bands and fans who actively critique such racialised discourses, and instead situate “Nordic” metal as a site of heterogeneity and anti-racist activism. The liberal politics of the region are most clearly articulated in the music of Swedish hardcore and extreme metal bands, particularly those originating in the northern university town of Umeå. Like much of Europe’s underground music scene, Umeå hardcore bands are often aligned with the anti-fascist movement and its message of tolerance and active anti-racist, anti-homophobic and anti-sexist resistance and protest. Refused is the most well-known example, speaking out against capitalism and in favour of animal rights and civil liberties. Scandinavian DIY acts have also long played a crucial role in facilitating the global diffusion of anti-capitalist punk and hardcore music (Haenfler 287).Nonetheless, whilst such acts remain important sites of progressive discourses in homogenous constructions of Nordicness, such an argument for tolerance and diversity is difficult to maintain when the majority of the scene’s successful bands are made up of white, ethnically Scandinavian men. As such, in moving towards future considerations for Nordicness in extreme metal scenes, we thus call into focus a fragmentation of “Nordicness”, precisely to divorce it from homogenous constructions of the “Nordic”, and enable greater critical interrogation and plurality of the notion of the “North” in metal scholarship.ConclusionThis article has pointed towards a multiplicity of Nordic discourses that unfold in metal: Nordic as a marketing tool, Nordic as an ethnic signifier, and Nordic as the political reality of liberal democratic Northern Europe–and the tensions that emerge in their encounters and intersections. In arguing for multiple understandings of “Nordicness” in metal, we contend that the cultural capital that accompanies the “Nordic” actually emerges as a series of fragmented, often conflicting categories.In examining how images of the North as an isolated location at the edge of the world inform the branded construction of Nordic metal as sites of presumed authenticity, we considered how scenes such as Swedish death metal and Norwegian black metal were marketed precisely through their Nordicness, where their geographic isolation from the commercial centre of heavy metal was used to affirm their “Otherness” to their mainstream metal counterparts. This “otherness” has in turn enabled constructions of Nordic metal scenes as sites of not only metallic purity in their isolation from “commercial” metal scenes, but also ethnic homogeneity. Nordicness, in this instance, becomes inscribed with explicitly racialised value that interpellates images of Viking heathenry to bolster phantasmic imaginings of the pure, white North.However, as we argue in the third section, such exclusory narratives of Nordic belonging come into conflict with Northern Europe’s own self image as a site of progressive liberal democracy. We argue that Nordicness here can be taken as a political imperative towards socialist democracy, wherein such conditions have enabled the widespread viability of extreme metal; yet also invited critical backlashes against the modern political state.Ultimately, in responding to our own research question–what is the cultural capital of “Nordicness” in metal?–we assert that such capital is realised in multiple iterations, undermining any possibility of a uniform category of “Nordicness”, and exposing its political tensions and paradoxes. 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Introduction: Brutal?The word “brutal” has associations with cruelty, inhumanity, and aggression. Within the field of architecture, however, the term “Brutalism” refers to a post-World War II Modernist style, deriving from the French phrase betón brut, which means raw concrete (Clement 18). Core traits of Brutalism include functionalist design, daring geometry, overbearing scale, and the blatant exposure of structural materials, chiefly concrete and steel (Meades 1).The emergence of Brutalism coincided with chronic housing shortages in European countries ravaged by World War II (Power 5) and government-sponsored slum clearance in the UK (Power 190; Baker). Brutalism’s promise to accommodate an astonishing number of civilians within a minimal area through high-rise configurations and elevated walkways was alluring to architects and city planners (High Rise Dreams). Concrete was the material of choice due to its affordability, durability, and versatility; it also allowed buildings to be erected quickly (Allen and Iano 622).The Brutalist style was used for cultural centres, such as the Perth Concert Hall in Western Australia, educational institutions such as the Yale School of Architecture, and government buildings such as the Secretariat Building in Chandigarh, India. However, as pioneering Brutalist architect Alison Smithson explained, the style achieved full expression by “thinking on a much bigger scale somehow than if you only got [sic] one house to do” (Smithson and Smithson, Conversation 40). Brutalism, therefore, lent itself to the design of large residential complexes. It was consequently used worldwide for public housing developments, that is, residences built by a government authority with the aim of providing affordable housing. Notable examples include the Western City Gate in Belgrade, Serbia, and Habitat 67 in Montreal, Canada.Brutalist architecture polarised opinion and continues to do so to this day. On the one hand, protected cultural heritage status has been awarded to some Brutalist buildings (Carter; Glancey) and the style remains extremely influential, for example in the recent award-winning work of architect Zaha Hadid (Niesewand). On the other hand, the public housing projects associated with Brutalism are widely perceived as failures (The Great British Housing Disaster). Many Brutalist objects currently at risk of demolition are social housing estates, such as the Smithsons’ Robin Hood Gardens in London, UK. Whether the blame for the demise of such housing developments lies with architects, inhabitants, or local government has been widely debated. In the UK and USA, local authorities had relocated families of predominantly lower socio-economic status into the newly completed developments, but were unable or unwilling to finance subsequent maintenance and security costs (Hanley 115; R. Carroll; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth). Consequently, the residents became fearful of criminal activity in staircases and corridors that lacked “defensible space” (Newman 9), which undermined a vision of “streets in the sky” (Moran 615).In spite of its later problems, Brutalism’s architects had intended to develop a style that expressed 1950s contemporary living in an authentic manner. To them, this meant exposing building materials in their “raw” state and creating an aesthetic for an age of science, machine mass production, and consumerism (Stadler 264; 267; Smithson and Smithson, But Today 44). Corporeal sensations did not feature in this “machine” aesthetic (Dalrymple). Exceptionally, acclaimed Brutalist architect Ernö Goldfinger discussed how “visual sensation,” “sound and touch with smell,” and “the physical touch of the walls of a narrow passage” contributed to “sensations of space” within architecture (Goldfinger 48). However, the effects of residing within Brutalist objects may not have quite conformed to predictions, since Goldfinger moved out of his Brutalist construction, Balfron Tower, after two months, to live in a terraced house (Hanley 112).An abstract perspective that favours theorisation over subjective experiences characterises discourse on Brutalist social housing developments to this day (Singh). There are limited data on the everyday lived experience of residents of Brutalist social housing estates, both then and now (for exceptions, see Hanley; The Pruitt-Igoe Myth; Cooper et al.).Yet, our bodily interaction with the objects around us shapes our lived experience. On a broader physical scale, this includes the structures within which we live and work. The importance of the interaction between architecture and embodied being is increasingly recognised. Today, architecture is described in corporeal terms—for example, as a “skin” that surrounds and protects its human inhabitants (Manan and Smith 37; Armstrong 77). Biological processes are also inspiring new architectural approaches, such as synthetic building materials with life-like biochemical properties (Armstrong 79), and structures that exhibit emergent behaviour in response to human presence, like a living system (Biloria 76).In this article, we employ an autoethnographic perspective to explore the corporeal effects of Brutalist buildings, thereby revealing a new dimension to the anthropological significance of these controversial structures. We trace how they shape the physicality of the bodies interacting within them. Our approach is one step towards considering the historically under-appreciated subjective, corporeal experience elicited in interaction with Brutalist objects.Method: An Autoethnographic ApproachAutoethnography is a form of self-narrative research that connects the researcher’s personal experience to wider cultural understandings (Ellis 31; Johnson). It can be analytical (Anderson 374) or emotionally evocative (Denzin 426).We investigated two Brutalist residential estates in London, UK:(i) The Barbican Estate: This was devised to redevelop London’s severely bombed post-WWII Cripplegate area, combining private residences for middle class professionals with an assortment of amenities including a concert hall, library, conservatory, and school. It was designed by architects Chamberlin, Powell, and Bon. Opened in 1982, the Estate polarised opinion on its aesthetic qualities but has enjoyed success with residents and visitors. The development now comprises extremely expensive housing (Brophy). It was Grade II-listed in 2001 (Glancey), indicating a status of architectural preservation that restricts alterations to significant buildings.(ii) Trellick Tower: This was built to replace dilapidated 19th-century housing in the North Kensington area. It was designed by Hungarian-born architect Ernő Goldfinger to be a social housing development and was completed in 1972. During the 1980s and 1990s, it became known as the “Tower of Terror” due to its high level of crime (Hanley 113). Nevertheless, Trellick Tower was granted Grade II listed status in 1998 (Carter), and subsequent improvements have increased its desirability as a residence (R. Carroll).We explored the grounds, communal spaces, and one dwelling within each structure, independently recording our corporeal impressions and sensations in detailed notes, which formed the basis of longhand journals written afterwards. Our analysis was developed through co-constructed autoethnographic reflection (emerald and Carpenter 748).For reasons of space, one full journal entry is presented for each Brutalist structure, with an excerpt from each remaining journal presented in the subsequent analysis. To identify quotations from our journals, we use the codes R- and N- to refer to RB’s and NC’s journals, respectively; we use -B and -T to refer to the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower, respectively.The Barbican Estate: Autoethnographic JournalAn intricate concrete world emerges almost without warning from the throng of glass office blocks and commercial buildings that make up the City of London's Square Mile. The Barbican Estate comprises a multitude of low-rise buildings, a glass conservatory, and three enormous high-rise towers. Each modular building component is finished in the same coarse concrete with burnished brick underfoot, whilst the entire structure is elevated above ground level by enormous concrete stilts. Plants hang from residential balconies over glimmering pools in a manner evocative of concrete Hanging Gardens of Babylon.Figure 1. Barbican Estate Figure 2. Cromwell Tower from below, Barbican Estate. Figure 3: The stairwell, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate. Figure 4. Lift button pods, Cromwell Tower, Barbican Estate.R’s journalMy first footsteps upon the Barbican Estate are elevated two storeys above the street below, and already an eerie calm settles on me. The noise of traffic and the bustle of pedestrians have seemingly been left far behind, and a path of polished brown brick has replaced the paving slabs of the city's pavement. I am made more aware of the sound of my shoes upon the ground as I take each step through the serenity.Running my hands along the walkway's concrete sides as we proceed further into the estate I feel its coarseness, and look up to imagine the same sensation touching the uppermost balcony of the towers. As we travel, the cold nature and relentless employ of concrete takes over and quickly becomes the norm.Our route takes us through the Barbican's central Arts building and into the Conservatory, a space full of plant-life and water features. The noise of rushing water comes as a shock, and I'm reminded just how hauntingly peaceful the atmosphere of the outside estate has been. As we leave the conservatory, the hush returns and we follow another walkway, this time allowing a balcony-like view over the edge of the estate. I'm quickly absorbed by a sensation I can liken only to peering down at the ground from a concrete cloud as we observe the pedestrians and traffic below.Turning back, we follow the walkways and begin our approach to Cromwell Tower, a jagged structure scraping the sky ahead of us and growing menacingly larger with every step. The estate has up till now seemed devoid of wind, but even so a cold begins to prickle my neck and I increase my speed toward the door.A high-ceilinged foyer greets us as we enter and continue to the lifts. As we push the button and wait, I am suddenly aware that carpet has replaced bricks beneath my feet. A homely sensation spreads, my breathing slows, and for a brief moment I begin to relax.We travel at heart-racing speed upwards to the 32nd floor to observe the view from the Tower's fire escape stairwell. A brief glance over the stair's railing as we enter reveals over 30 storeys of stair casing in a hard-edged, triangular configuration. My mind reels, I take a second glance and fail once again to achieve focus on the speck of ground at the bottom far below. After appreciating the eastward view from the adjacent window that encompasses almost the entirety of Central London, we make our way to a 23rd floor apartment.Entering the dwelling, we explore from room to room before reaching the balcony of the apartment's main living space. Looking sheepishly from the ledge, nothing short of a genuine concrete fortress stretches out beneath us in all directions. The spirit and commotion of London as I know it seems yet more distant as we gaze at the now miniaturized buildings. An impression of self-satisfied confidence dawns on me. The fortress where we stand offers security, elevation, sanctuary and I'm furnished with the power to view London's chaos at such a distance that it's almost silent.As we leave the apartment, I am shadowed by the same inherent air of tranquillity, pressing yet another futuristic lift access button, plummeting silently back towards the ground, and padding across the foyer's soft carpet to pursue our exit route through the estate's sky-suspended walkways, back to the bustle of regular London civilization.Trellick Tower: Autoethnographic JournalThe concrete majesty of Trellick Tower is visible from Westbourne Park, the nearest Tube station. The Tower dominates the skyline, soaring above its neighbouring estate, cafes, and shops. As one nears the Tower, the south face becomes visible, revealing the suspended corridors that join the service tower to the main body of flats. Light of all shades and colours pours from its tightly stacked dwellings, which stretch up into the sky. Figure 5. Trellick Tower, South face. Figure 6. Balcony in a 27th-floor flat, Trellick Tower.N’s journalOutside the tower, I sense danger and experience a heightened sense of awareness. A thorny frame of metal poles holds up the tower’s facade, each pole poised as if to slip down and impale me as I enter the building.At first, the tower is too big for comprehension; the scale is unnatural, gigantic. I feel small and quite squashable in comparison. Swathes of unmarked concrete surround the tower, walls that are just too high to see over. Who or what are they hiding? I feel uncertain about what is around me.It takes some time to reach the 27th floor, even though the lift only stops on every 3rd floor. I feel the forces of acceleration exert their pressure on me as we rise. The lift is very quiet.Looking through the windows on the 27th-floor walkway that connects the lift tower to the main building, I realise how high up I am. I can see fog. The city moves and modulates beneath me. It is so far away, and I can’t reach it. I’m suspended, isolated, cut off in the air, as if floating in space.The buildings underneath appear tiny in comparison to me, but I know I’m tiny compared to this building. It’s a dichotomy, an internal tension, and feels quite unreal.The sound of the wind in the corridors is a constant whine.In the flat, the large kitchen window above the sink opens directly onto the narrow, low-ceilinged corridor, on the other side of which, through a second window, I again see London far beneath. People pass by here to reach their front doors, moving so close to the kitchen window that you could touch them while you’re washing up, if it weren’t for the glass. Eye contact is possible with a neighbour, or a stranger. I am close to that which I’m normally separated from, but at the same time I’m far from what I could normally access.On the balcony, I have a strong sensation of vertigo. We are so high up that we cannot be seen by the city and we cannot see others. I feel physically cut off from the world and realise that I’m dependent on the lift or endlessly spiralling stairs to reach it again.Materials: sharp edges, rough concrete, is abrasive to my skin, not warm or welcoming. Sharp little stones are embedded in some places. I mind not to brush close against them.Behind the tower is a mysterious dark maze of sharp turns that I can’t see around, and dark, narrow walkways that confine me to straight movements on sloping ramps.“Relentless Employ of Concrete:” Body versus Stone and HeightThe “relentless employ of concrete” (R-B) in the Barbican Estate and Trellick Tower determined our physical interactions with these Brutalist objects. Our attention was first directed towards texture: rough, abrasive, sharp, frictive. Raw concrete’s potential to damage skin, should one fall or brush too hard against it, made our bodies vulnerable. Simultaneously, the ubiquitous grey colour and the constant cold anaesthetised our senses.As we continued to explore, the constant presence of concrete, metal gratings, wire, and reinforced glass affected our real and imagined corporeal potentialities. Bodies are powerless against these materials, such that, in these buildings, you can only go where you are allowed to go by design, and there are no other options.Conversely, the strength of concrete also has a corporeal manifestation through a sense of increased physical security. To R, standing within the “concrete fortress” of the Barbican Estate, the object offered “security, elevation, sanctuary,” and even “power” (R-B).The heights of the Barbican’s towers (123 metres) and Trellick Tower (93 metres) were physically overwhelming when first encountered. We both felt that these menacing, jagged towers dominated our bodies.Excerpt from R’s journal (Trellick Tower)Gaining access to the apartment, we begin to explore from room to room. As we proceed through to the main living area we spot the balcony and I am suddenly aware that, in a short space of time, I had abandoned the knowledge that some 26 floors lay below me. My balance is again shaken and I dig my heels into the laminate flooring, as if to achieve some imaginary extra purchase.What are the consequences of extreme height on the body? Certainly, there is the possibility of a lethal fall and those with vertigo or who fear heights would feel uncomfortable. We discovered that height also affects physical instantiation in many other ways, both empowering and destabilising.Distance from ground-level bustle contributed to a profound silence and sense of calm. Areas of intermediate height, such as elevated communal walkways, enhanced our sensory abilities by granting the advantage of observation from above.Extreme heights, however, limited our ability to sense the outside world, placing objects beyond our range of visual focus, and setting up a “bizarre segregation” (R-T) between our physical presence and that of the rest of the world. Height also limited potentialities of movement: no longer self-sufficient, we depended on a working lift to regain access to the ground and the rest of the city. In the lift itself, our bodies passively endured a cycle of opposing forces as we plummeted up or down numerous storeys in mere seconds.At both locations, N noticed how extreme height altered her relative body size: for example, “London looks really small. I have become huge compared to the tiny city” (N-B). As such, the building’s lift could be likened to a cake or potion from Lewis Carroll’s Alice in Wonderland. This illustrates how the heuristics that we use to discern visual perspective and object size, which are determined by the environment in which we live (Segall et al.), can be undermined by the unusual scales and distances found in Brutalist structures.Excerpt from N’s journal (Barbican Estate)Warning: These buildings give you AFTER-EFFECTS. On the way home, the size of other buildings seems tiny, perspectives feel strange; all the scales seem to have been re-scaled. I had to become re-used to the sensation of travelling on public trains, after travelling in the tower lifts.We both experienced perceptual after-effects from the disproportional perspectives of Brutalist spaces. Brutalist structures thus have the power to affect physical sensations even when the body is no longer in direct interaction with them!“Challenge to Privacy:” Intersubjective Ideals in Brutalist DesignAs embodied beings, our corporeal manifestations are the primary transducers of our interactions with other people, who in turn contribute to our own body schema construction (Joas). Architects of Brutalist habitats aimed to create residential utopias, but we found that the impact of their designs on intersubjective corporeality were often incoherent and contradictory. Brutalist structures positioned us at two extremes in relation to the bodies of others, forcing either an uncomfortable intersection of personal space or, conversely, excessive separation.The confined spaces of the lifts, and ubiquitous narrow, low-ceilinged corridors produced uncomfortable overlaps in the personal space of the individuals present. We were fascinated by the design of the flat in Trellick Tower, where the large kitchen window opened out directly onto the narrow 27th-floor corridor, as described in N’s journal. This enforced a physical “challenge to privacy” (R-T), although the original aim may have been to promote a sense of community in the “streets in the sky” (Moran 615). The inter-slotting of hundreds of flats in Trellick Tower led to “a multitude of different cooking aromas from neighbouring flats” (R-T) and hence a direct sensing of the closeness of other people’s corporeal activities, such as eating.By contrast, enormous heights and scales constantly placed other people out of sight, out of hearing, and out of reach. Sharp-angled walkways and blind alleys rendered other bodies invisible even when they were near. In the Barbican Estate, huge concrete columns, behind which one could hide, instilled a sense of unease.We also considered the intersubjective interaction between the Brutalist architect-designer and the inhabitant. The elements of futuristic design—such as the “spaceship”-like pods for lift buttons in Cromwell Tower (N-B)—reconstruct the inhabitant’s physicality as alien relative to the Brutalist building, and by extension, to the city that commissioned it.ReflectionsThe strength of the autoethnographic approach is also its limitation (Chang 54); it is an individual’s subjective perspective, and as such we cannot experience or represent the full range of corporeal effects of Brutalist designs. Corporeal experience is informed by myriad factors, including age, body size, and ability or disability. Since we only visited these structures, rather than lived in them, we could have experienced heightened sensations that would become normalised through familiarity over time. Class dynamics, including previous residences and, importantly, the amount of choice that one has over where one lives, would also affect this experience. For a full perspective, further data on the everyday lived experiences of residents from a range of different backgrounds are necessary.R’s reflectionDespite researching Brutalist architecture for years, I was unprepared for the true corporeal experience of exploring these buildings. Reading back through my journals, I'm struck by an evident conflict between stylistic admiration and physical uneasiness. I feel I have gained a sympathetic perspective on the notion of residing in the structures day-to-day.Nevertheless, analysing Brutalist objects through a corporeal perspective helped to further our understanding of the experience of living within them in a way that abstract thought could never have done. Our reflections also emphasise the tension between the physical and the psychological, whereby corporeal struggle intertwines with an abstract, aesthetic admiration of the Brutalist objects.N’s reflectionIt was a wonderful experience to explore these extraordinary buildings with an inward focus on my own physical sensations and an outward focus on my body’s interaction with others. On re-reading my journals, I was surprised by the negativity that pervaded my descriptions. How does physical discomfort and alienation translate into cognitive pleasure, or delight?ConclusionBrutalist objects shape corporeality in fundamental and sometimes contradictory ways. The range of visual and somatosensory experiences is narrowed by the ubiquitous use of raw concrete and metal. Materials that damage skin combine with lethal heights to emphasise corporeal vulnerability. The body’s movements and sensations of the external world are alternately limited or extended by extreme heights and scales, which also dominate the human frame and undermine normal heuristics of perception. Simultaneously, the structures endow a sense of physical stability, security, and even power. By positioning multiple corporealities in extremes of overlap or segregation, Brutalist objects constitute a unique challenge to both physical privacy and intersubjective potentiality.Recognising these effects on embodied being enhances our current understanding of the impact of Brutalist residences on corporeal sensation. This can inform the future design of residential estates. Our autoethnographic findings are also in line with the suggestion that Brutalist structures can be “appreciated as challenging, enlivening environments” exactly because they demand “physical and perceptual exertion” (Sroat). Instead of being demolished, Brutalist objects that are no longer considered appropriate as residences could be repurposed for creative, cultural, or academic use, where their challenging corporeal effects could contribute to a stimulating or even thrilling environment.ReferencesAllen, Edward, and Joseph Iano. Fundamentals of Building Construction: Materials and Methods. 6th ed. 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U.S. Department of Housing and Urban Development (HUD), 1996.Niesewand, Nonie. “Architecture: What Zaha Hadid Next.” The Independent, 1 Oct. 1998. 16Feb. 2016 <http://www.independent.co.uk/arts-entertainment/architecture-what-zaha-hadid-next-1175631.html>.Power, Anne. Hovels to Highrise: State Housing in Europe Since 1850. Taylor & Francis, 2005.Segall, Marshall H., Donald T. Campbell, and Melville J. Herskovits. “Cultural Differences in the Perception of Geometric Illusions.” Science 139.3556 (1963): 769-71.Singh, Anita. “Lord Rogers Would Live on This Estate? Let Him Be Our Guest.” The Telegraph, 20 Jun. 2015. 16 Feb. 2016 <http://www.telegraph.co.uk/culture/art/architecture/11687078/Lord-Rogers-would-live-on-this-estate-Let-him-be-our-guest.html>.Smithson, Alison, and Peter Smithson. “But Today We Collect Ads.” Reprinted in L’Architecture Aujourd’hui Jan./Feb (2003): 44.Smithson, Alison, and Peter Smithson. “Conversation with Jane Drew and Maxwell Fry.” Zodiac 4 (1959): 73-81.Sroat, Helen. “Brutalism: An Architecture of Exhilaration.” Presentation at the Paul Rudolph Symposium. University of Massachusetts Dartmouth, MA, 13 Apr. 2005. Stadler, Laurent. “‘New Brutalism’, ‘Topology’ and ‘Image:’ Some Remarks on the Architectural Debates in England around 1950.” The Journal of Architecture 13.3 (2008): 263-81.The Great British Housing Disaster. Dir. Adam Curtis. BBC Documentaries. BBC, London. 4 Sep. 1984.The Pruitt-Igoe Myth. Dir. Chad Friedrichs. First Run Features, 2012.

IntroductionI have been studying the creation of Metro style train travel in Sydney for over a decade. My focus has been on the impact that media has had on the process (see Richardson, “Curatorial”; “Upheaval”; “Making”). Through extensive expert, public, and media research, I have investigated the coalitions and alliances that have formed (and disintegrated) between political, bureaucratic, news media, and public actors and the influences at work within these actor-networks. As part of this project, I visited an underground Métro turning fifty in Montreal, Canada. After many years studying the development of a train that wasn’t yet tangible, I wanted to ask a functional train the simple ethnomethodological/Latourian style question, “what do you do for a city and its people?” (de Vries). Therefore, in addition to research conducted in Montreal, I spent ten days wandering through many of the entrances, tunnels, staircases, escalators, mezzanines, platforms, doorways, and carriages of which the Métro system consists. The purpose was to observe the train in situ in order to broaden potential conceptualisations of what a train does for a city such as Montreal, with a view of improving the ideas and messages that would be used to “sell” future rapid rail projects in other cities such as Sydney. This article outlines a selection of the pathways wandered, not only to illustrate the power of social research based on physical wandering, but also the potential power the metaphorical and conceptual wandering an Actor-Network Theory (ANT) assemblage affords social research for media communications.Context, Purpose, and ApproachANT is a hybrid theory/method for studying an arena of the social, such as the significance of a train to a city like Montreal. This type of study is undertaken by following the actors (Latour, Reassembling 12). In ANT, actors do something, as the term suggests. These actions have affects and effects. These might be contrived and deliberate influences or completely circumstantial and accidental impacts. Actors can be people as we are most commonly used to understanding them, and they can also be texts, technological devices, software programs, natural phenomena, or random occurrences. Most significantly though, actors are their “relations” (Harman 17). This means that they are only present if they are relating to others. These relations and the resulting influences and impacts are called networks. A network in the ANT sense is not as simple as the lines that connect train stations on a rail map. Without actions, relations, influences, and impacts, there are no actors. Hence the hyphen in actor-network; the actor and the network are symbiotic. The network, rendered visible through actor associations, consists of the tenuous connections that “shuttle back and forth” between actors even in spite of the fact their areas of knowledge and reality may be completely separate (Latour Modern 3). ANT, therefore, may be considered an empirical practice of tracing the actors and the network of influences and impacts that they both help to shape and are themselves shaped by. To do this, central ANT theorist Bruno Latour employs a simple research question: “what do you do?” This is because in the process of doing, somebody or something is observed to be affecting other people or things and an actor-network becomes identifiable. Latour later learned that his approach shared many parallels with ethnomethodology. This was a discovery that more concretely set the trajectory of his work away from a social science that sought explanations “about why something happens, to ontological ones, that is, questions about what is going on” (de Vries). So, in order to make sense of people’s actions and relations, the focus of research became asking the deceptively simple question while refraining as much as possible “from offering descriptions and explanations of actions in terms of schemes taught in social theory classes” (14).In answering this central ANT question, studies typically wander in a metaphorical sense through an array or assemblage (Law) of research methods such as formal and informal interviews, ethnographic style observation, as well as the content analysis of primary and secondary texts (see Latour, Aramis). These were the methods adopted for my Montreal research—in addition to fifteen in-depth expert and public interviews conducted in October 2017, ten days were spent physically wandering and observing the train in action. I hoped that in understanding what the train does for the city and its people, the actor-network within which the train is situated would be revealed. Of course, “what do you do?” is a very broad question. It requires context. In following the influence of news media in the circuitous development of rapid rail transit in Sydney, I have been struck by the limited tropes through which the potential for rapid rail is discussed. These tropes focus on technological, functional, and/or operational aspects (see Budd; Faruqi; Hasham), costs, funding and return on investment (see Martin and O’Sullivan; Saulwick), and the potential to alleviate peak hour congestion (see Clennell; West). As an expert respondent in my Sydney research, a leading Australian architect and planner, states, “How boring and unexciting […] I mean in Singapore it is the most exciting […] the trains are fantastic […] that wasn’t sold to the [Sydney] public.” So, the purpose of the Montreal research is to expand conceptualisations of the potential for rapid rail infrastructure to influence a city and improve communications used to sell projects in the future, as well as to test the role of both physical and metaphorical ANT style wanderings in doing so. Montreal was chosen for three reasons. First, the Métro had recently turned fifty, which made the comparison between the fledgling and mature systems topical. Second, the Métro was preceded by decades of media discussion (Gilbert and Poitras), which parallels the development of rapid transit in Sydney. Finally, a different architect designed each station and most stations feature art installations (Magder). Therefore, the Métro appeared to have transcended the aforementioned functional and numerically focused tropes used to justify the Sydney system. Could such a train be considered a long-term success?Wandering and PathwaysIn ten days I rode the Montreal Métro from end to end. I stopped at all the stations. I wandered around. I treated wandering not just as a physical research activity, but also as an illustrative metaphor for an assemblage of research practices. This assemblage culminates in testimony, anecdotes, stories, and descriptions through which an actor-network may be glimpsed. Of course, it is incomplete—what I have outlined below represents only a few pathways. However, to think that an actor-network can ever be traversed in its entirety is to miss the point. Completion is a fallacy. Wandering doesn’t end at a finish line. There are always pathways left untrodden. I have attempted not to overanalyse. I have left contradictions unresolved. I have avoided the temptation to link paths through tenuous byways. Some might consider that I have meandered, but an actor-network is never linear. I can only hope that my wanderings, as curtailed as they may be, prove nuanced, colourful, and rich—if not compelling. ANT encourages us to rethink social research (Latour, Reassembling). Central to this is acknowledging (and becoming comfortable with) our own role as researcher in the illumination of the actor-network itself.Here are some of the Montreal pathways wandered:First Impressions I arrive at Montreal airport late afternoon. The apartment I have rented is conveniently located between two Métro stations—Mont Royal and Sherbrooke. I use my phone and seek directions by public transport. To my surprise, the only option is the bus. Too tired to work out connections, I decide instead to follow the signs to the taxi rank. Here, I queue. We are underway twenty minutes later. Travelling around peak traffic, we move from one traffic jam to the next. The trip is slow. Finally ensconced in the apartment, I reflect on how different the trip into Montreal had been, from what I had envisaged. The Métro I had travelled to visit was conspicuous in its total absence.FloatingIt is a feeling of floating that first strikes me when riding the Métro. It runs on rubber tyres. The explanation for the choice of this technology differs. There are reports that it was the brainchild of strong-willed mayor, Jean Drapeau, who believed the new technology would showcase Montreal as a modern world-scale metropolis (Gilbert and Poitras). However, John Martins-Manteiga provides a less romantic account, stating that the decision was made because tyres were cheaper (47). I assume the rubber tyres create the floating sensation. Add to this the famous warmth of the system (Magder; Hazan, Hot) and it has a thoroughly calming, even lulling, effect.Originally, I am planning to spend two whole days riding the Métro in its entirety. I make handwritten notes. On the first day, at mid-morning, nausea develops. I am suffering motion sickness. This is a surprise. I have always been fine to read and write on trains, unlike in a car or bus. It causes a moment of realisation. I am effectively riding a bus. This is an unexpected side-effect. My research program changes—I ride for a maximum of two hours at a time and my note taking becomes more circumspect. The train as actor is influencing the research program and the data being recorded in unexpected ways. ArtThe stained-glass collage at Berri-Uquam, by Pierre Gaboriau and Pierre Osterrath, is grand in scale, intricately detailed and beautiful. It sits above the tunnel from which the trains enter and leave the platform. It somehow seems wholly connected to the train as a result—it frames and announces arrivals and departures. Other striking pieces include the colourful, tiled circles from the mezzanine above the platform at station Peel and the beautiful stained-glass panels on the escalator at station Charlevoix. As a public respondent visiting from Chicago contends, “I just got a sense of exploration—that I wanted to have a look around”.Urban FormAn urban planner asserts that the Métro is responsible for the identity and diversity of urban culture that Montreal is famous for. As everyone cannot live right above a Métro station, there are streets around stations where people walk to the train. As there is less need for cars, these streets are made friendlier for walkers, precipitating a cycle. Furthermore, pedestrian-friendly streets promote local village style commerce such as shops, cafes, bars, and restaurants. So, there is not only more access on foot, but also more incentive to access. The walking that the Métro induces improves the dynamism and social aspects of neighbourhoods, a by-product of which is a distinct urban form and culture for different pockets of the city. The actor-network broadens. In following the actors, I now have to wander beyond the physical limits of the system itself. The streets I walk around station Mont Royal are shopping and restaurant strips, rich with foot traffic at all times of day; it is a vibrant and enticing place to wander.Find DiningThe popular MTL blog published a map of the best restaurants the Métro provides access to (Hazan, Restaurant).ArchitectureStation De La Savane resembles a retro medieval dungeon. It evokes thoughts of the television series Game of Thrones. Art and architecture work in perfect harmony. The sculpture in the foyer by Maurice Lemieux resembles a deconstructed metal mace hanging on a brutalist concrete wall. It towers above a grand staircase and abuts a fence that might ring a medieval keep. Up close I realise it is polished, precisely cut cylindrical steel. A modern fence referencing another time and place. Descending to the platform, craggy concrete walls are pitted with holes. I get the sense of peering through these into the hidden chambers of a crypt. Overlaying all of this is a strikingly modern series of regular and irregular, bold vertical striations cut deeply into the concrete. They run from floor to ceiling to add to a cathedral-like sense of scale. It’s warming to think that such a whimsical train station exists anywhere in the world. Time WarpA public respondent describes the Métro:It’s a little bit like a time machine. It’s a piece of the past and piece of history […] still alive now. I think that it brings art or form or beauty into everyday life. […] You’re going from one place to the next, but because of the history and the story of it you could stop and breathe and take it in a little bit more.Hold ups and HostagesA frustrated General Manager of a transport advocacy group states in an interview:Two minutes of stopping in the Métro is like Armageddon in Montreal—you see it on every media, on every smartphone [...] We are so captive in the Métro [there is a] loss of control.Further, a transport modelling expert asserts:You’re a hostage when you’re in transportation. If the Métro goes out, then you really are stuck. Unfortunately, it does go out often enough. If you lose faith in a mode of transportation, it’s going to be very hard to get you back.CommutingIt took me a good week before I started to notice how tired some of the Métro stations had grown. I felt my enthusiasm dip when I saw the estimated arrival time lengthen on the electronic noticeboard. Anger rose as a young man pushed past me from behind to get out of a train before I had a chance to exit. These tendrils of the actor-network were not evident to me in the first few days. Most interview respondents state that after a period of time passengers take less notice of the interesting and artistic aspects of the Métro. They become commuters. Timeliness and consistency become the most important aspects of the system.FinaleI deliberately visit station Champ-de-Mars last. Photos convince me that I am going to end my Métro exploration with an experience to savour. The station entry and gallery is iconic. Martins-Manteiga writes, “The stained-glass artwork by Marcelle Ferron is almost a religious experience; it floods in and splashes down below” (306). My timing is off though. On this day, the soaring stained-glass windows are mostly hidden behind protective wadding. The station is undergoing restoration. Travelling for the last time back towards station Mont Royal, my mood lightens. Although I had been anticipating this station for some time, in many respects this is a revealing conclusion to my Métro wanderings.What Do You Do?When asked what the train does, many respondents took a while to answer or began with common tropes around moving people. As a transport project manager asserts, “in the world of public transport, the perfect trip is the one you don’t notice”. A journalist gives the most considered and interesting answer. He contends:I think it would say, “I hold the city together culturally, economically, physically, logistically—that’s what I do […] I’m the connective tissue of this city”. […] How else do you describe infrastructure that connects poor neighbourhoods to rich neighbourhoods, downtown to outlying areas, that supports all sorts of businesses both inside it and immediately adjacent to it and has created these axes around the city that pull in almost everybody [...] And of course, everyone takes it for granted […] We get pissed off when it’s late.ConclusionNo matter how real a transportation system may be, it can always be made a little less real. Today, for example, the Paris metro is on strike for the third week in a row. Millions of Parisians are learning to get along without it, by taking their cars or walking […] You see? These enormous hundred-year-old technological monsters are no more real than the four-year-old Aramis is unreal: They all need allies, friends […] There’s no inertia, no irreversibility; there’s no autonomy to keep them alive. (Latour, Aramis 86)Through ANT-based physical and metaphorical wanderings, we find many pathways that illuminate what a train does. We learn from various actors in the actor-network through which the train exists. We seek out its “allies” and “friends”. We wander, piecing together as much of the network as we can. The Métro does lots of things. It has many influences and it influences many. It is undeniably an actor in an actor-network. Transport planners would like it to appear seamless—commuters entering and leaving without really noticing the in-between. And sometimes it appears this way. However, when the commuter is delayed, this appearance is shattered. If a signal fails or an engine falters, the Métro, through a process mediated by word of mouth and/or social and mainstream media, is suddenly rendered tired and obsolete. Or is it historic and quaint? Is the train a technical problem for the city of Montreal or is it characterful and integral to the city’s identity? It is all these things and many more. The actor-network is illusive and elusive. Pathways are extensive. The train floats. The train is late. The train makes us walk. The train has seeded many unique villages, much loved. The train is broken. The train is healthy for its age. The train is all that is right with Montreal. The train is all that is wrong with Montreal. The artwork and architecture mean nothing. The artwork and architecture mean everything. Is the train overly limited by the tyres that keep it underground? Of course, it is. Of course, it isn’t. Does 50 years of history matter? Of course, it does. Of course, it doesn’t. It thrives. It’s tired. It connects. It divides. It’s functional. It’s dirty. It’s beautiful. It’s something to be proud of. It’s embarrassing. A train offers many complex and fascinating pathways. It is never simply an object; it lives and breathes in the network because we live and breathe around it. It stops being effective. It starts becoming affective. Sydney must learn from this. My wanderings demonstrate that the Métro cannot be extricated from what Montreal has become over the last half century. In May 2019, Sydney finally opened its first Metro rail link. And yet, this link and other ongoing metro projects continue to be discussed through statistics and practicalities (Sydney Metro). This offers no affective sense of the pathways that are, and will one day be, created. By selecting and appropriating relevant pathways from cities such as Montreal, and through our own wanderings and imaginings, we can make projections of what a train will do for a city like Sydney. We can project a rich and vibrant actor-network through the media in more emotive and powerful ways. Or, can we not at least supplement the economic, functional, or technocratic accounts with other wanderings? Of course, we can’t. Of course, we can. 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Managing the Changing Nature of Policymaking Subject to Mediatisation” M/C Journal 18.4 (2015). 7 Aug. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/998>.———. “‘Making it Happen’: Deciphering Government Branding in Light of the Sydney Building Boom.” M/C Journal 20.2 (2017). 7 Aug. 2019 <http://journal.media-culture.org.au/index.php/mcjournal/article/view/1221>.Saulwick, Jacob. “Plenty of Sums in Rail Plans But Not Everything Adds Up.” Sydney Morning Herald 7 Nov. 2011. 17 Apr. 2012 <http://www.smh.com.au/opinion/politics/plenty-of-sums-in-rail-plans-but-not-everything-adds-up-20111106-1n1wn.html>.Sydney Metro. 16 July 2019. <https://www.sydneymetro.info/>.West, Andrew. “Second Harbour Crossing – or Chaos.” Sydney Morning Herald 31 May 2010. 17 Jan. 2018 <http://www.smh.com.au/nsw/second-harbour-crossing--or-chaos-20100530-wnik.html>.

Jessica craned her head to take in the imposing, stone building, then lowered her gaze to the gold-plated sign at the base of the steps. “Institute of Methodology”, it read. Inside the heavy iron doors, a woman sat at a desk, her face devoid of expression. “Subject area?” asked the woman. “Uhmm, feminism ... and fiction, I think.” “Turn right.” “Do you have a map?” “No.” “How am I meant to find things?” “Each has their own method; it’s not up to us to prescribe that.” Jessica sighed, readjusted her handbag and turned right. A corridor stretched out before her. She set off, her stiletto boots echoing on the hard wooden floor. The first door she arrived at had the words “Deleuze and Guattari” positioned squarely in the middle. She hesitated, then turned the doorknob. The room was white and empty. A male voice issued from somewhere but she couldn’t tell the direction from which it came. It droned on, with some inflection, but there was no way of knowing where the sentences started and finished. She picked out a few words: a thousand plateaus, becoming, burrowing, but couldn’t piece them into anything meaningful. She backed out of the room, frowning, and asked me, How am I going to learn anything if they only have these voices? I can’t lipread them. And how can I produce something factual if I haven’t heard it all? I might make stuff up. You always make things up anyway. After the barrier of disembodied sound, the silence of the corridor was soothing. Jessica always had difficulty with hearing men’s voices, for their registers were lower. Sometimes, she wondered if this was the reason she’d become interested in feminism: women were simply easier to understand. The next door was labelled “Facets of Phenomenology.” After that was “Post-It Notes and Poststructuralism”, “Interpretation of Geometric Design”, “Knitting Class” and “Cyberspace and Geography.” None of these were very helpful. She wanted something on bodies and writing. She walked on. It was, she soon realised, so terribly easy to lose one’s way. The corridors continued. She turned right most of the time, and occasionally left. Her arches began to ache. After a while she came to the conclusion that she had no idea of where she was. Immediately, a bird appeared and dived down her throat. Trapped, it thudded against her ribs. Breathe, I told her. Breathe. She put a hand out to the wall. Outside another door she heard, a voice with a distinct Australian accent. She checked the label on the door. “Fictocriticism,” it read. The door opened. The bird climbed out of her chest and flew away. A young woman stood before her, wearing bright red lipstick. “We saw your shadow beneath the door.” She pointed to Jessica’s feet. “We don’t like barriers, so come in.” The room was airy and brilliantly lit, with a high ceiling patterned with pressed metal vines and flowers. A man and a handful of women sat at a table covered with papers, bottles of wine, brie, sundried tomatoes and crackers. “Wine?” asked the woman, a bottle in her hand. “It’s from Margaret River.” “Oh yes, please.” Jessica pulled out a chair from the table. The people’s faces looked friendly. “What brings you here?” The woman with red lipstick asked, handing her a glass. “I’m trying to find a writing style that’s comfortable for me to use. I just can’t relate to abstract texts, like those by Deleuze and Guattari.” Jessica eyed the cheese platter on the table. She was hungry. “Help yourself,” said the man. Jessica picked up the cheese knife and a cracker. “You’d like my essay, then, ‘Me and My Shadow.’” It was an older woman speaking, with soft grey hair and luminous eyes. “In it I assert that Guattari’s Molecular Revolution is distancing and, she pushed the pile of paper napkins towards Jessica, ‘totally abstract and impersonal. Though the author uses the first person (‘The distinction I am proposing’, ‘I want therefore to make it clear’), it quickly became clear to me that he had no interest whatsoever in the personal, or in concrete situations as I understand them – a specific person, a specific machine, somewhere in time and space, with something on his/her mind, real noises, smells, aches and pains” (131). Jessica thought about the first room, where Deleuze’s and Guattari’s voices had seemed to issue from nowhere. “Of course,” she said. “If my comprehension comes from reading faces and bodies, it follows that those writers who evince themselves in the text will be the ones that appeal to me.” The rest of the table was silent. “I’m deaf,” Jessica explained. “I’ve no hearing in my left ear and half in my right, but people don’t know until I tell them.” “I’d never have guessed,” said the woman with red lipstick. “I’m good at faking it,” Jessica replied wryly. “It seems to me that, if I only hear some things and make the rest up, then my writing should reflect that.” “We might be able to help you — we write about, and in the style of, fictocriticism.” Two women were talking at once. It was difficult to tell who was saying what. “But what is it?” Jessica asked. “That’s a problematic question. It resists definition, you see, for the form it takes varies according to the writer.” She glanced from one woman to the other. It was hard to keep up. They went on, “Fictocriticism might most usefully be defined as hybridised writing that moves between the poles of fiction (‘invention’/‘speculation’) and criticism (‘deduction’/‘explication’), of subjectivity (‘interiority’) and objectivity (‘exteriority’). It is writing that brings the ‘creative’ and the ‘critical’ together – not simply in the sense of placing them side by side, but in the sense of mutating both, of bringing a spotlight to bear upon the known forms in order to make them ‘say’ something else” (Kerr and Nettlebeck 3). “It began to incorporate narratives and styles that wrote against omniscience in favour of fragmentary, personal perspectives.” Concentrating on cutting and spreading her brie, Jessica couldn’t see who had said this. She looked up, trying to see who had spoken. “In addition,” said a young, slim woman, “The use of autobiographical elements in ficto-criticism that include the body and personal details … realises a subjectivity that is quite different from the controlling academic critical subject with their voice from on high” (Flavell 77). Jessica bit into her cracker. The brie was creamy, but rather too strong. She piled sundried tomatoes onto it. “It is of course, a capacious category,” the man added, “as it must be if it is inspired by the materials and situation at hand. One might urge the interested writer not to feel that their practice has to conform to one or another model, but to have the confidence that the problem characterising the situation before them will surprise them into changing their practices. Like all literature, fictocriticism experiments with ways of being in the world, with forms of subjectivity if you like” (Muecke 15). Jessica nodded, her mouth full of biscuit and brie. Oil dripped from the tomatoes down her fingers. “Yes,” it was the two women in their duet, “in fictocritical writings the ‘distance’ of the theorist/critic collides with the ‘interiority’ of the author. In other words, the identity of the author is very much at issue. This is not to say that an ‘identity’ declares itself strictly in terms of the lived experience of the individual, but it does declare itself as a politic to be viewed, reviewed, contested, and above all engaged with” (Kerr and Nettlebeck 3). “That makes sense,” Jessica thought aloud. “Everything I write is an amalgam of fact and fiction, because I hear some things and make the rest up. Deafness influences the way I process and write about the world, so it seems I can’t avoid my body when I write.” She lifted a napkin from the pile and wiped her oily fingers. “Yet, to use a language of the body, or écriture féminine, is also to run the risk of essentialism, of assuming that, for example when we write long, silky sentences, we are saying that this is how every woman would write. It’s also true that, when writing, we don’t have to be limited to our own bodies – we can go beyond them.” She paused, thinking. “It’s been said that sign language is a form of écriture féminine, for a person who signs literally writes with their hands. Where are my notes?” She ferreted through her handbag, pushing aside tubes of lip gloss and hand cream, a bus pass and mirror, and extracted some folded pieces of paper. “Here, H-Dirksen L. Bauman comments on the possibilites of écriture féminine for the disabled, writing that, The project of recognizing Deaf identity bears similarities to the feminist project of re-gaining a ‘body of one’s own’ through linguistic and literary practices. Sign, in a more graphic way, perhaps, than l’écriture féminine is a ‘writing of/on the body.’ The relation between Sign and l’écriture féminine raises questions that could have interesting implications for feminist performance. Does the antiphonocetric nature of Sign offer a means of averting these essentializing tendency of l’écriture féminine? Does the four-dimensional space of performance offer ways of deconstructing phallogocentric linear discourse? (359) “As Sign is a writing by the body, it could be argued that each body produces an original language. I think it’s this, rather than antiphonocentrism — that is, refusing to privilege speech over writing, as has been the tradition — that represents the destabilising effects of Sign.” “Here’s Jamming the Machinery.” The slim woman pushed a book towards Jessica. “It’s about contemporary Australian écriture féminine.” Jessica opened the covers and began reading: As a counter-strategy, écriture féminine, it is argued, is theoretically sourced in the bodies of women. Here, the body represents one aspect of what it ‘means’ to be a woman, but of course our bodies are infinitely variable as are our socio-historical relations and the way that we live through and make meaning of our particular bodies. Texts, however, are produced through the lived practices of being socially positioned as (among other things) women, so those effects will be inscribed in actively inventing ways for women to speak and write about ourselves as women, rather than through the narrative machinery of patriarchy (Bartlett 1-2). I agree with that, Jessica mused to herself. Even if, on paper, écriture féminine does run the risk of essentialism, it’s still a useful strategy, so long as one remains attentive to the specificity of each individual body. She looked up. The conversation was becoming loud, joyful and boisterous. It was turning into a party. Sadly, she stood. “I’d like to stay, but I have to keep thinking.” She pushed in her chair. “Thank you for your ideas.” “Goodbye and good luck!” they chorused, and replenished their wine glasses. Outside, it was getting dark. She trailed her fingers along the wall for balance. Her sight orientated her; without it, she was liable to fall over, particularly in stilettos. Seeing a movement near the ceiling, Jessica stopped and peered upwards. Dragons! she cried. Sitting in the rafters were three small, pearly white dragons, their scaly hides gleaming in the darkness. Here, she called, stretching out a hand. One dropped, swooping, and landed on her wrist, its talons gripping her arm. Ouch! It looked at her curiously with its small gold eyes, then stretched its wings proudly. Dark blue veins ran across the soft membrane. You’re not very cuddly, she told it, but you are exquisite. Tell me, are you real? For an answer, it leaned over and gently nipped her thumb, drawing blood. Its tail swished like a cat’s in a frisky mood. Stop making things up, I scolded her. This is supposed to be serious. Abruptly, the dragon sprang from her wrist, winging gracefully back to the ceiling. Jessica rubbed her arm and continued, feeling ripples of unevenly applied paint beneath her fingertips. Let me pose a question, I suggested: if a fairy godmother offered you your hearing, would you take it? Well, deafness has made me who I am— You mean, an opinionated, obnoxious, feminist thinker and writer? Yes, exactly. So perhaps I wouldn’t take it. And where would you be without silence, which has given you the space in which to think, and which has shaped you as a writer? Without silence, you wouldn’t have turned to words. Hmmm, yes. She slowed. It’s awfully dark in here now. And quiet. For deaf people, silence has often been yoked together with negative connotations – it’s a cave, a prison, a tomb. Sometimes it can feel like this, but, as you know, at other times it’s liberating. You don’t have to listen to someone yakking on their mobile phone on the bus, nor overhear your flatmate having loud sex in the room above; you can simply switch off your hearing aid and keep reading your book, or thinking your thoughts. In a somewhat similar situation, Stephen Hawking, the theoretical physicist, has said that ‘his disability has given him the advantage of having more time to think,’ although Susan Wendell points out that he is only able to do this ‘because of the help of his family, three nurses, a graduate student who travels with him to maintain his computer-communications systems’ – resources which are unavailable to many disabled people” (109). Thus although disability has been largely theorised as lack, it would seem that the contrary is the case: disability brings with it a wealth of possibility. Jessica slowed, feeling vibrations in the wall and beneath our feet. Her heartbeat quickened. Maybe it’s music. It’s not. It’s irregular. Then we heard the sound, like distant thunder. Get back against the wall, I ordered her. Seconds later a crowd of creatures ran past, rattling the floorboards. They were so black we couldn’t see them. What was that? she asked. They smelled like horses. Musky, but sharp too. Let’s get moving. And I told you to stop making things up. I didn’t make that up! she protested. Her pulse was still rapid, so I kept talking to distract her. The difficulty is to avoid referring to the disabled person as having lost something. Of course, you can lose your hearing, but you gain infinitely more in other ways – your senses of touch, taste, smell and sight are augmented. In the current climate of thinking, this is easier said than done. Lennard Davis indicates with distaste that discussions of disability stop theorists in their tracks. Disability, as it has been formulated, is a construct that is defined by lack. Rather than face this ragged imaged [of the disabled individual], the critic turns to the fluids of sexuality, the gloss of lubrication, the glossary of the body as text, the heteroglossia of the intertext, the glossolalia of the schizophrenic. But almost never the body of the differently abled (5). Theorists of disability consistently point out that, if more effort and energy were directed towards the philosophical implications of the disabled body, a wealth of new material and ideas would emerge that would shatter existing presumptions about the corporeal. For example, there are still immense possibilities thrown up by theorising a jouissance, or pleasure, in the disabled body. As Susan Wendell points out, “paraplegics and quadriplegics have revolutionary things to teach us about the possibilities of sexuality which contradict patriarchal culture’s obsessions with the genitals” (120). Thus if there were more of a focus on the positive aspects of disability and on promoting the understanding that disability is not about lack, people could see how it fosters creativity and imagination. Jessica saw with relief that there was a large bay window at the end of a corridor, looking out onto the Institute’s grounds. She collapsed onto the bench beneath it, which was layered with cushions. The last of the sun was fading and the grass refracted a golden sheen. She unzipped her boots and swung her legs onto the bench. Leaning her head back against the wall, she remembered a day at primary school when she was eleven. She sat on the blue seat beneath the Jacaranda tree, a book open in her lap. It was lunchtime, the sun was warm and purple Jacaranda blossoms lay scattered at her feet, some squidged wetly into the cement. She looked up from the book to watch her classmates playing soccer on the field, shouting and calling. She would have joined them, except that of late she had felt awkwardness, where before she had been blithe. She, who was so used to scrambling over the delightful hardness of wool bales in the shearing shed, who ran up and down the banks of creeks and crawled into ti trees, flakes of bark sticking to her jumper, had gradually, insidiously, learnt a consciousness of her body. She was not like them. We were silent. The electric lights on the walls of the building came on, illuminating sections of the stonework. At the time, she hated being isolated, but it forced to look at the world differently. Spending so much time on her own also taught her to listen to me, her imagination, and because of that her writing flourished. There was a flutter in the hallway. The tiny dragon had returned. It braked in the air, circled, and floated gently onto her skirt. Was this your doing? She asked me suspiciously. Maybe. She held out her palm. The dragon jumped into it, squeaking, its tail whipping lazily. Jessica smiled. References Bartlett, Alison. Jamming the Machinery: Contemporary Australian Women’s Writing. Toowoomba: Association for the Study of Australian Literature, 1998. Bauman, H-Dirksen L. “Toward a Poetics of Vision, Space and the Body.” The Disability Studies Reader. Ed. Lennard J. Davis. Hoboken: Routledge, 2006. 355-366. Davis, Lennard J. Enforcing Normalcy: Disability, Deafness, and the Body. London: Verso, 1995. Flavell, Helen. Writing-Between: Australian and Canadian Ficto-Criticism. Ph.D. Thesis. Murdoch University, 2004. Gibbs, Anna. “Writing and the Flesh of Others.” Australian Feminist Studies 18 (2003): 309–319. Kerr, Heather, and Amanda Nettlebeck. “Notes Towards an Introduction.” The Space Between: Australian Women Writing Fictocriticism. Ed. Heather Kerr and Amanda Nettlebeck. Nedlands: U of Western Australia P, 1998. 1-18. Muecke, Stephen. Joe in the Andamans: And Other Fictocritical Stories. Erskineville: Local Consumption Publications, 2008. Tompkins, Jane. “Me and My Shadow.” Gender and Theory: Dialogues on Feminist Criticism. Ed. Linda Kauffman. Oxford: Basil Blackwell, 1989. 121-139. Wendell, Susan. “Towards a Feminist Theory of Disability.” Hypatia 4 (1989): 104–124.

As a genre, science fiction deals with possible futures, imagining places and technologies that typically do not exist in audiences’ own lives. Science fiction film takes this directive a step further by creating visual representations of these futures and possibilities, presenting audiences with imagined ideas of what new technologies or unfamiliar places might look like. Thus, although any science fiction text can describe sociocultural and technological futures, science fiction film goes a step further by providing images that viewers do not have to envision for themselves. This difference can enable science fiction films to deliver even more incisive stories and commentaries on futuristic technologies as “sociotechnical assemblages” (Gillespie 18) – that is, as machines whose possibilities stem from humans’ interactions with them as much as from the technologies themselves.Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra maintain that today’s society is already interested in a real-world version of sociotechnologies: they call this interest the “prosthetic impulse” (4). For Smith and Morra, the prosthetic impulse can denote either “ways that the body and technology come into contact with one another” (4) or else any exploration of boundaries between technoculture and “the body, its histories, and its mutability” (6). However, Smith and Morra also warn that the prosthetic impulse often creates unreasonable expectations of what technology can accomplish: a prosthetic can “assume an epic status that is out of proportion with its abilities to fulfill our ambitions for it” (Smith and Morra 2), and the drive to “enhance” human bodies’ capabilities can signify beliefs that abled bodies are the standard, desirable norm (S. Smith).Science fiction films in turn often pick up on real-world ideas such as Smith and Morra’s prosthetic impulse as new ways of visualizing possible futures. Knowledgeable fans could undoubtedly list several examples of prosthetics in favorite sci-fi movies, including those donned by Star Wars’ Luke Skywalker, Star Trek’s Borg collective, Mad Max: Fury Road’s Imperator Furiosa, and many more. However, these films can also heighten the prosthetic’s immoderately “epic status” (Smith and Morra 2) and result in “our fantasies for technological possibility [being] played out across depictions of impairment” (Hung par. 10). In science fiction film, then, the prosthetic impulse can strongly reinforce problematic assumptions about what human beings “need” to have added, augmented, or replaced in order to function according to subjective norms.Steven Spielberg’s 2001 film A.I. Artificial Intelligence, though, expands the implications of the prosthetic impulse even further by broadening the types of bodies, losses, and functions that we imagine prosthetics can address. Set in a dystopian future where human-driven climate change has decimated the environment, world governments have instituted mandatory birth control, and socioeconomic stratification has skyrocketed, A.I. Artificial Intelligence speaks directly to Vivian Carol Sobchack’s 2006 concern that “theoretical use of the prosthetic metaphor tends to transfer agency [from] human actors to human artifacts” (23), though it does so in a novel way.The film’s human characters, or “human actors” to use Sobchack’s term, expend their creativity and resources not to address the issues of environmental catastrophe, starvation, and class warfare that humans themselves have created: instead, they turn to manufacturing advanced robots, or “mechas”, that are literally “human artifacts” (Sobchack 23) created to help humanity avoid the debilitating consequences of its own destructive actions. As a result, the film’s mecha characters, seen most clearly in the “child-substitute mecha” David and the mecha prostitute Gigolo Joe, are positioned as prosthetic humans intended to fill social roles and functions that human beings themselves are incapable of fully satisfying.The Prosthetic HumanEven though it offers a new angle to this concept, A.I. Artificial Intelligence is hardly the only science fiction film concerned with some configuration of the prosthetic impulse. In fact, several other science fiction films incorporate one of three other versions, each building up to more and more complex possibilities before we reach the prosthetic human as envisioned in A.I.The first – and arguably most common – treatment of the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film is found in the partial prosthetic, where technology is depicted as replacing or repairing one visible part of the perceptible bodily whole. Common versions of the partial prosthetic include replacements for limbs or even certain organs, with examples such as Luke Skywalker’s prosthetic hand in Star Wars, the techno-organic Borg collective in Star Trek: The Next Generation, Bucky Barnes’s metal arm in Captain America: The Winter Soldier and other Marvel Cinematic Universe (MCU) films, and Furiosa’s metal arm in Mad Max: Fury Road. The partial prosthetic in science fiction film is the most analogous to real-world prosthetics, despite problematic conflations created by this comparison (S. Smith), and the partial prosthetic is also the one that Mailee Hung is describing when she maintains that in science fiction film “it is technological, or even technophilic, fantasy that is being explored rather than the spectrum of human ability” (par. 11).A second treatment of the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film is visible in the full-body prosthetic, which denotes a technology that completely encloses or envelops the human body. Anne McCaffrey offers an early example of this type with her “Ship Who Sang” series (1961–1969), where “brainships” are created when children with severe physical disabilities but above-average brains can be rescued from euthanasia by having their minds linked with spaceships. Thankfully, later science fiction narratives tend to avoid most of the eugenicist and ableist overtones plaguing McCaffrey’s work. Science fiction films also offer examples of full-body prosthetics that can be departed or disengaged from at will, and these prosthetics may be used to enhance an abled body rather than housing a disabled one. Examples of full-body prosthetics in science fiction film include the boxing robots of Real Steel (2011), the Jaegers of Pacific Rim (2013) and Pacific Rim: Uprising (2018), the genetically-engineered alien bodies operated by remote human pilots in James Cameron’s Avatar (2009), and the police robot MOOSE in Chappie (2015), among others. In these cases, the full-body prosthetic is a technological entity that must be interfaced with by a human consciousness – and sometimes the whole human body – in order to perform some function that the human body alone cannot accomplish.A third way of depicting the prosthetic impulse in science fiction film can be found in what Victor Grech calls Pinocchio Syndrome, or a “reverse prosthetic impulse” (265). Here technological, non-human characters “desire to become human” (Grech 263) and often attempt to gain humanity in the form of a human body, “its histories, and its mutability” (Smith and Morra 6) that will replace their own mechanical components. Examples of this third type include Data of Star Trek: The Next Generation (1987–1994 television, 1994–2002 films) and NDR-113/Andrew of the novelette “Bicentennial Man” (1967), the novel Positronic Man (1992), and the film Bicentennial Man (1999). Data is an android, and Andrew is a service robot, who both explore what it would mean to “be” human and actively pursue different means of achieving humanness – Data through human emotions and NDR-113/Andrew through a fully human body.All three of these science fiction versions – the partial prosthetic, the full prosthetic, and the reverse prosthetic impulse or Pinocchio Syndrome – tend to reinforce Smith and Morra’s warning that the prosthetic, both as an aid and as a technology, can “assume an epic status that is out of proportion with its abilities to fulfill our ambitions for it” (2). Put differently, just because these technologies exist within the films’ storyworlds does not mean that they can fix the characters’ or even the worlds’ problems, and the plots of many science fiction films actually stem from these assumptions.Of these three versions, Grech’s “reverse prosthetic impulse” (265) might initially seem the most applicable to A.I. Artificial Intelligence, particularly because most of the film follows David’s quest to find the Blue Fairy of the Pinocchio tale and petition her to make him “a real boy” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). However, even Grech’s term does not fully cover what Spielberg’s film is attempting through its characters and its setting. Unlike robot characters who embody Grech’s reverse prosthetic impulse, David is not attempting to “become” human: instead, he articulates his struggle as the desire to “become real”, which prioritizes not humanness via a human body but instead David’s self-perceived ability to better fulfill a particular role within a nuclear family. Moreover, unlike the ways in which Data and NDR-113/Andrew fulfill primarily career-adjacent roles in their respective storyworlds – Data as a ship’s officer, NDR-113/Andrew initially as a caretaker and butler – A.I. Artificial Intelligence depicts a world in which mechas are both an “essential” form of labor in a decimated global economy, but can also be constructed to fill specifically social roles such as child or lover. Where robots like Data and NDR-113/Andrew enact a reverse prosthetic impulse in their yearning to “become” human (Grech 263), thus treating humanness and the human body as prosthetics to technology, David as a “child-substitute mecha” and Gigolo Joe as a “lover robot” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) are more like prosthetic humans.In A.I. Artificial Intelligence, humans attempt to replace, enhance, or augment specific interpersonal relationships using “human artifacts” that function like Sobchack’s “human actors” – only, better than those human actors ever could be. David is continually described as a child who demonstrates unconditional love but never loses his temper, catches ill, or grows older; Gigolo Joe describes mecha prostitutes like himself as “the guiltless pleasures of the lonely human being” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) and promises that they will never get pregnant, clingy, or tired of sex. Because David is a “toy boy” and Gigolo Joe is a “boy toy” (Sobchack 2) – both meant to enhance different types of human relationships without the inconveniences that a human actor would bring into the picture – A.I. Artificial Intelligence is also imagining sociocultural structures like the nuclear family or the heterosexual romantic relationship as the wholes, the social bodies, that the prosthetic human will supposedly repair. Here the prosthetic impulse becomes human beings’ drive to use reparative technologies to replace other human beings entirely, rather than simply parts or functions of the human body.David as Prosthetic HumanDavid’s role as a prosthetic human meant to repair or augment human relationships is made clear even before the character himself first appears onscreen. Instead, the film’s initial scene follows Professor Allen Hobby, the scientist who leads the team that later creates David, as he pitches a new mecha of “a qualitatively different order” to a skeptical audience (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Hobby contends that his new robot will be capable of love “like a child for its parents” instead of the “sensuality simulators” already available (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), and moreover, that this kind of love “will be the key by which they [mechas] acquire a kind of sub-consciousness never before achieved. An inner world of metaphor, of intuition, of self-motivated reasoning, of dreams” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). However, these plans are quickly challenged by a female scientist who poses a moral question: “Isn’t the real conundrum [whether] you can get a human to love them back?” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Hobby then cycles through three responses to his peer’s question, all of which point to the ways in which David is positioned as a prosthetic human.First, Hobby stresses that this new mecha will be “a perfect child caught in a freeze-frame: always loving, never ill, never changing” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). His claim implies that families want or need a perfect child, and also that childhood perfection entails unwavering physical health, a permanently positive attitude, and unshakeable devotion to the parent(s) – all features that a real human child, as Sobchack’s “human actor”, cannot provide. Then too, Hobby’s claim that David is a child caught in “freeze-frame” perfection also hints that, as a form of technology, a prosthetic human supersedes many of a biological human’s limitations: just moments later, for example, the film’s audience learns that David’s adoptive family the Swintons have a young son, Martin, who has been placed in a cryogenic chamber until his terminal illness can be treated. For David, being “caught in a freeze-frame” of eternal and “perfect” childhood is beneficial to the Swintons, who will then experience his love and participation in their family unit forever – unlike Martin, who when similarly “frozen” cannot express or reciprocate familial affection at all, and so has been superseded by David.Hobby’s second response to the female scientist’s moral question is to assert that David, as a “child-substitute mecha” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), will answer both a market need and a human one: because world governments issue a limited number of pregnancy licenses, Hobby argues, mechas like David may become many families’ only way of having children. Here, the family unit is imagined as incomplete without offspring, to the extent that there is a species-wide “human need” for children (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) even though global catastrophes such as climate change and mass starvation are unavoidable threats to real children’s future welfare. To this end, Hobby positions a “child-substitute mecha” like David as a prosthetic for the family unit, filling in for children without taking up any of the resources needed to raise an actual member of the population who will then face and inherit unfixable global issues. Moreover, toward the end of A.I. audiences also learn that David was created to look like Hobby’s own dead son, meaning that this entire line of child-substitute mechas has stemmed from Hobby’s own grief – and perhaps his need of a prosthetic to repair it.Finally, Hobby’s last response to his peer’s challenge is to ask: “In the beginning, didn’t God create Adam to love him?” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). This rhetorical question reiterates how Hobby built David, reminding Hobby’s challenger – and by extension the film’s audience – that human actors are technology’s creators. The question’s rhetorical nature also implies that a creator’s status translates to their right to use such created technologies however they choose – regardless of the potential harm to either the prosthetic human or the "real" humans around them.Thus, although most of A.I. Artificial Intelligence does follow David’s journey to become “real”, it is important to realize that this quest actually stems from his being a prosthetic human rather than just Pinocchio Syndrome or a “reverse prosthetic impulse” (Grech 265). The very features of unconditional love, eternal innocence, and unchanging health that initially made David so attractive to the grieving Swintons are the same attributes that later lead to the family’s hostility when Martin does recover, and David is eventually abandoned in the woods – the prosthetic human child ousted for the “real” human child he was intended to replace. David’s longing to become “a real boy” so that Monica Swinton will return his love and welcome him home stems from his realization that he was always just a “technological substitution” (Hung par. 9) for Martin, and because of this, David’s desire to “become real” is better understood as him seeking to become a true part of the whole nuclear family instead of remaining a replacement or attachment to it. Rather than just “desire to become human” (Grech 263), David seeks to move from being a “human artifact” to becoming a “human actor” (Sobchack 23).Gigolo Joe as Prosthetic HumanWhile Gigolo Joe also serves as a prosthetic human in A.I. Artificial Intelligence, he does so in different ways than David. As a “child-substitute mecha”, David was created for intentionally prosthetic ends: even though he “can never be anything more than an approximate substitute” (Rosenbaum 74), he was still made specifically to repair or complete family units like the Swintons, rendering them “whole” by taking the place of an unavailable human child. As a mecha prostitute, though, Gigolo Joe was not created with prosthetic ends in mind: he was made to augment or supplement sexual experiences on a temporary basis, not to replace a long-term human partner or to make a sexual or romantic relationship whole by his presence within it. Also in obvious contrast to David, Gigolo Joe addresses sexual appetite rather than a need for filial love, provides short-term pleasure instead of a long-term connection, and is never intended to be seen by the film’s human characters as a human man instead of a male-shaped mecha. These are crucial differences between the two mechas’ purposes, functions, and target audiences, and Sobchack sums up this disparity by describing David and Gigolo Joe as two different types of “love machines” that remain “[s]uspended between an ironic Kubrickian critique of technological man and his Spielbergian redemption” (12–13).However, these differences between David and Gigolo Joe also translate into their being different kinds of prosthetic human. Where David was created to be a prosthetic human in the context of a childless family, replacing a needed member in order to make that family whole, Gigolo Joe takes the initiative to position himself as a prosthetic human, substituting the technology of his mecha body for the various physiological and/or emotional shortcomings of absent human sexual partners. Then too, where David rejects and attempts to outstrip his status as a “technological substitution” (Hung par. 9) for a human being, Gigolo Joe seems to exult in his part as substitute for human being.Audiences are shown this difference immediately. Where David is introduced through descriptions by Hobby, the scientist who created him and knows exactly what he wants David to accomplish, Gigolo Joe is introduced in person, alongside a nervous young woman who has apparently solicited him for sex. This unnamed woman admits that she has never had sex with a mecha before, and Gigolo Joe quickly discovers bruises from physical abuse by a human partner. In implied contrast to this unseen human partner, Gigolo Joe remains quiet, respectful, and gentle as he navigates the young woman’s communication of her fears and desires: he also assures her first that “once you’ve had a lover robot, you’ll never want a real man again” and then that “you are a goddess ... [and] you deserve much better in your life. You deserve me” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). Both implicitly and explicitly, then, Gigolo Joe promises to provide his client with sexual and pseudo-romantic fulfillment: Sobchack frames this appeal as Gigolo Joe's ability to "satisfy every female sexual need and desire (including the illusion of romance) without wearing out” (5). But Gigolo Joe can only accomplish all of this because he is a perceptible, self-aware substitution for a human man – and a substitution that does not replicate the intentions and behaviors of his clients' "real" human partners.Gigolo Joe returns frequently to this idea that substitution is positive. Later, for instance, he explains to several fascinated teenage boys that mecha prostitutes “are the guiltless pleasures of the lonely human being. You’re not going to get us pregnant or have us to supper with Mommy and Daddy” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), emphasizing that humans do not need to fulfill any social obligations toward mechas precisely because they are not “real” lovers. Gigolo Joe also pitches mecha sex workers by reminding his listeners that “We work under you, we work on you, and we work for you. Man made us better at what we do than was ever humanly possible” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence), suggesting that a substitute sexual partner will offer technological advantages over their human counterparts.Through dialogues and exchanges such as these, Gigolo Joe positions himself as a prosthetic human, acknowledging that he and his sex worker peers were not really meant to “repair” or “complete” human relationships even as he also maintains that mechas do replace human partners in important ways, even if temporarily. However, Gigolo Joe also recognizes the realities of being a prosthetic human in ways that David seems incapable of. For instance, when one of his clients is murdered by her human partner for seeking a replacement lover, Gigolo Joe realizes immediately that the man won’t even be suspected while Gigolo Joe himself automatically takes the blame. Similarly, Gigolo Joe is the one who can tell David that Monica Swinton “loves what you do for her, as my customers love what it is I do for them. But she does not love you. . . You were designed and built specific like the rest of us” (A.I. Artificial Intelligence). David rejects this warning, demonstrating that his creation as a prosthetic human has made him impervious to that same reality, but Gigolo Joe’s positioning himself as a prosthetic human has made him aware that being “designed and built specific” to meet humans’ needs does not negate the dangers that come along with a designed, perfected form of substitution.Prosthetic Humans and the End of HumanityThe ending of AI: Artificial Intelligence has baffled critics and audiences alike since its theatrical release. Are the alien-like Specialists real, or does David imagine these beings as a means of explaining away Hobby’s entire line of child-substitute mechas? Does David actually see Monica again, or is this the robotic equivalent of a comforting dream before he dies? Frances Flannery-Dailey outlines nine possible ways of understanding how the film ends before noting that its ambiguity and length often frustrate audiences, leaving them with a negative impression of the film.No matter which way we try to explain the ending of A.I. Artificial Intelligence, though, it is worth noting the presence of the Specialists, who claim that they are advanced beings that evolved from mechas following humanity’s extinction. Though Flannery-Daily correctly questions whether the Specialists actually exist or else are just dream-specters of David's “death”, their presence at the end of the film suggests at least the possibility of a distant future in which the prosthetic human has completely overtaken and supplanted the “real” humans that David so wanted to join. This potential ending, as well as David’s and Gigolo Joe’s poor treatment by "real" humans throughout the film, all demonstrate that the prosthetic humans in A.I. Artificial Intelligence suffer from more than the “epic status” that Smith and Morra assign to real-world prosthetics (2), or even the shortcomings visible in other versions of the prosthetic impulse as depicted in science fiction films. Instead, A.I. Artificial Intelligence becomes bleak when we realize that these prosthetic humans actually function very well, even when (wrongly) touted as miracle technologies (Smith and Morra 2), and that instead it is humans, their needs, and their visions that have fallen sadly short. Both David and Gigolo Joe do exactly what they were "designed and built specific” to do (A.I. Artificial Intelligence) and more, yet humanity has destroyed both them and itself by the end of the film regardless.ReferencesA.I. Artificial Intelligence. Dir. Steven Spielberg. Warner Bros. Pictures, 2001. Flannery-Dailey, Frances. "Robot Heavens and Robot Dreams: Ultimate Reality in A.I. and Other Recent Films." Journal of Religion & Film 7.2 (2016). 1 July 2019 <https://digitalcommons.unomaha.edu/jrf/vol7/iss2/7>.Gillespie, Tarleton. Custodians of the Internet: Platforms, Content Moderation, and the Hidden Decisions That Shape Social Media. New Haven: Yale University Press, 2018.Grech, Victor. "The Pinocchio Syndrome and the Prosthetic Impulse." Intelligence Unbound: The Future of Uploaded and Machine Minds. Eds. Russel Blackford and Damien Broderick. Malden: Wiley Blackwell, 2014. 263–278.Hung, Mailee. “We Are More than Our Machines.” Bitch Media (24 Aug. 2017). 2 July 2019 <https://www.bitchmedia.org/article/more-our-machines/aesthetics-and-prosthetics-science-fiction>.Rosenbaum, Jonathan. "A Matter of Life and Death: A.I. Artificial Intelligence (Directed by Steven Spielberg)." Film Quarterly 65.3 (2012): 74-78.Smith, Susan. "‘Limbitless Solutions’: The Prosthetic Arm, Iron Man and the Science Fiction of Technoscience." Medical Humanities 42.4 (2016): 259–264.Smith, Marquard, and Joanne Morra. “Introduction.” The Prosthetic Impulse: From a Posthuman Present to a Biocultural Future. Eds. Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra. Cambridge: MIT Press, 2006. 1–15. Sobchack, Vivian. “A Leg to Stand On: Prosthetics, Metaphor, and Materiality.” The Prosthetic Impulse: From a Posthuman Present to a Biocultural Future. Eds. Marquard Smith and Joanne Morra. Cambridge: The MIT Press, 2006. 17–42.Sobchack, Vivian Carol. "Love Machines: Boy Toys, Toy Boys and the Oxymorons of A.I.: Artificial Intelligence." Science Fiction Film and Television 1.1 (2009): 1–13.

A common criticism of the rhythm video games genre — including series like Guitar Hero and Rock Band, is that playing musical simulation games is a waste of time when you could be playing an actual guitar and learning a real skill. A more serious criticism of games cultures draws attention to the degree of e-waste they produce. E-waste or electronic waste includes mobiles phones, computers, televisions and other electronic devices, containing toxic chemicals and metals whose landfill, recycling and salvaging all produce distinct environmental and social problems. The e-waste produced by games like Guitar Hero is obvious in the regular flow of merchandise transforming computer and video games stores into simulation music stores, filled with replica guitars, drum kits, microphones and other products whose half-lives are short and whose obsolescence is anticipated in the annual cycles of consumption and disposal. This paper explores the connection between e-waste and obsolescence in the games industry, and argues for the further consideration of consumers as part of the solution to the problem of e-waste. It uses a case study of the PC digital distribution software platform, Steam, to suggest that the digital distribution of games may offer an alternative model to market driven software and hardware obsolescence, and more generally, that such software platforms might be a place to support cultures of consumption that delay rather than promote hardware obsolescence and its inevitability as e-waste. The question is whether there exists a potential for digital distribution to be a means of not only eliminating the need to physically transport commodities (its current 'green' benefit), but also for supporting consumer practices that further reduce e-waste. The games industry relies on a rapid production and innovation cycle, one that actively enforces hardware obsolescence. Current video game consoles, including the PlayStation 3, the Xbox 360 and Nintendo Wii, are the seventh generation of home gaming consoles to appear within forty years, and each generation is accompanied by an immense international transportation of games hardware, software (in various storage formats) and peripherals. Obsolescence also occurs at the software or content level and is significant because the games industry as a creative industry is dependent on the extensive management of multiple intellectual properties. The computing and video games software industry operates a close partnership with the hardware industry, and as such, software obsolescence directly contributes to hardware obsolescence. The obsolescence of content and the redundancy of the methods of policing its scarcity in the marketplace has been accelerated and altered by the processes of disintermediation with a range of outcomes (Flew). The music industry is perhaps the most advanced in terms of disintermediation with digital distribution at the center of the conflict between the legitimate and unauthorised access to intellectual property. This points to one issue with the hypothesis that digital distribution can lead to a reduction in hardware obsolescence, as the marketplace leader and key online distributor of music, Apple, is also the major producer of new media technologies and devices that are the paragon of stylistic obsolescence. Stylistic obsolescence, in which fashion changes products across seasons of consumption, has long been observed as the dominant form of scaled industrial innovation (Slade). Stylistic obsolescence is differentiated from mechanical or technological obsolescence as the deliberate supersedence of products by more advanced designs, better production techniques and other minor innovations. The line between the stylistic and technological obsolescence is not always clear, especially as reduced durability has become a powerful market strategy (Fitzpatrick). This occurs where the design of technologies is subsumed within the discourses of manufacturing, consumption and the logic of planned obsolescence in which the product or parts are intended to fail, degrade or under perform over time. It is especially the case with signature new media technologies such as laptop computers, mobile phones and portable games devices. Gamers are as guilty as other consumer groups in contributing to e-waste as participants in the industry's cycles of planned obsolescence, but some of them complicate discussions over the future of obsolescence and e-waste. Many gamers actively work to forestall the obsolescence of their games: they invest time in the play of older games (“retrogaming”) they donate labor and creative energy to the production of user-generated content as a means of sustaining involvement in gaming communities; and they produce entirely new game experiences for other users, based on existing software and hardware modifications known as 'mods'. With Guitar Hero and other 'rhythm' games it would be easy to argue that the hardware components of this genre have only one future: as waste. Alternatively, we could consider the actual lifespan of these objects (including their impact as e-waste) and the roles they play in the performances and practices of communities of gamers. For example, the Elmo Guitar Hero controller mod, the Tesla coil Guitar Hero controller interface, the Rock Band Speak n' Spellbinder mashup, the multiple and almost sacrilegious Fender guitar hero mods, the Guitar Hero Portable Turntable Mod and MAKE magazine's Trumpet Hero all indicate a significant diversity of user innovation, community formation and individual investment in the post-retail life of computer and video game hardware. Obsolescence is not just a problem for the games industry but for the computing and electronics industries more broadly as direct contributors to the social and environmental cost of electrical waste and obsolete electrical equipment. Planned obsolescence has long been the experience of gamers and computer users, as the basis of a utopian mythology of upgrades (Dovey and Kennedy). For PC users the upgrade pathway is traversed by the consumption of further hardware and software post initial purchase in a cycle of endless consumption, acquisition and waste (as older parts are replaced and eventually discarded). The accumulation and disposal of these cultural artefacts does not devalue or accrue in space or time at the same rate (Straw) and many users will persist for years, gradually upgrading and delaying obsolescence and even perpetuate the circulation of older cultural commodities. Flea markets and secondhand fairs are popular sites for the purchase of new, recent, old, and recycled computer hardware, and peripherals. Such practices and parallel markets support the strategies of 'making do' described by De Certeau, but they also continue the cycle of upgrade and obsolescence, and they are still consumed as part of the promise of the 'new', and the desire of a purchase that will finally 'fix' the users' computer in a state of completion (29). The planned obsolescence of new media technologies is common, but its success is mixed; for example, support for Microsoft's operating system Windows XP was officially withdrawn in April 2009 (Robinson), but due to the popularity in low cost PC 'netbooks' outfitted with an optimised XP operating system and a less than enthusiastic response to the 'next generation' Windows Vista, XP continues to be popular. Digital Distribution: A Solution? Gamers may be able to reduce the accumulation of e-waste by supporting the disintermediation of the games retail sector by means of online distribution. Disintermediation is the establishment of a direct relationship between the creators of content and their consumers through products and services offered by content producers (Flew 201). The move to digital distribution has already begun to reduce the need to physically handle commodities, but this currently signals only further support of planned, stylistic and technological obsolescence, increasing the rate at which the commodities for recording, storing, distributing and exhibiting digital content become e-waste. Digital distribution is sometimes overlooked as a potential means for promoting communities of user practice dedicated to e-waste reduction, at the same time it is actively employed to reduce the potential for the unregulated appropriation of content and restrict post-purchase sales through Digital Rights Management (DRM) technologies. Distributors like Amazon.com continue to pursue commercial opportunities in linking the user to digital distribution of content via exclusive hardware and software technologies. The Amazon e-book reader, the Kindle, operates via a proprietary mobile network using a commercially run version of the wireless 3G protocols. The e-book reader is heavily encrypted with Digital Rights Management (DRM) technologies and exclusive digital book formats designed to enforce current copyright restrictions and eliminate second-hand sales, lending, and further post-purchase distribution. The success of this mode of distribution is connected to Amazon's ability to tap both the mainstream market and the consumer demand for the less-than-popular; those books, movies, music and television series that may not have been 'hits' at the time of release. The desire to revisit forgotten niches, such as B-sides, comics, books, and older video games, suggests Chris Anderson, linked with so-called “long tail” economics. Recently Webb has queried the economic impact of the Long Tail as a business strategy, but does not deny the underlying dynamics, which suggest that content does not obsolesce in any straightforward way. Niche markets for older content are nourished by participatory cultures and Web 2.0 style online services. A good example of the Long Tail phenomenon is the recent case of the 1971 book A Lion Called Christian, by Anthony Burke and John Rendall, republished after the author's film of a visit to a resettled Christian in Africa was popularised on YouTube in 2008. Anderson's Long Tail theory suggests that over time a large number of items, each with unique rather than mass histories, will be subsumed as part of a larger community of consumers, including fans, collectors and everyday users with a long term interest in their use and preservation. If digital distribution platforms can reduce e-waste, they can perhaps be fostered by to ensuring digital consumers have access to morally and ethically aware consumer decisions, but also that they enjoy traditional consumer freedoms, such as the right to sell on and change or modify their property. For it is not only the fixation on the 'next generation' that contributes to obsolescence, but also technologies like DRM systems that discourage second hand sales and restrict modification. The legislative upgrades, patches and amendments to copyright law that have attempted to maintain the law's effectiveness in competing with peer-to-peer networks have supported DRM and other intellectual property enforcement technologies, despite the difficulties that owners of intellectual property have encountered with the effectiveness of DRM systems (Moore, Creative). The games industry continues to experiment with DRM, however, this industry also stands out as one of the few to have significantly incorporated the user within the official modes of production (Moore, Commonising). Is the games industry capable (or willing) of supporting a digital delivery system that attempts to minimise or even reverse software and hardware obsolescence? We can try to answer this question by looking in detail at the biggest digital distributor of PC games, Steam. Steam Figure 1: The Steam Application user interface retail section Steam is a digital distribution system designed for the Microsoft Windows operating system and operated by American video game development company and publisher, Valve Corporation. Steam combines online games retail, DRM technologies and internet-based distribution services with social networking and multiplayer features (in-game voice and text chat, user profiles, etc) and direct support for major games publishers, independent producers, and communities of user-contributors (modders). Steam, like the iTunes games store, Xbox Live and other digital distributors, provides consumers with direct digital downloads of new, recent and classic titles that can be accessed remotely by the user from any (internet equipped) location. Steam was first packaged with the physical distribution of Half Life 2 in 2004, and the platform's eventual popularity is tied to the success of that game franchise. Steam was not an optional component of the game's installation and many gamers protested in various online forums, while the platform was treated with suspicion by the global PC games press. It did not help that Steam was at launch everything that gamers take objection to: a persistent and initially 'buggy' piece of software that sits in the PC's operating system and occupies limited memory resources at the cost of hardware performance. Regular updates to the Steam software platform introduced social network features just as mainstream sites like MySpace and Facebook were emerging, and its popularity has undergone rapid subsequent growth. Steam now eclipses competitors with more than 20 million user accounts (Leahy) and Valve Corporation makes it publicly known that Steam collects large amounts of data about its users. This information is available via the public player profile in the community section of the Steam application. It includes the average number of hours the user plays per week, and can even indicate the difficulty the user has in navigating game obstacles. Valve reports on the number of users on Steam every two hours via its web site, with a population on average between one and two million simultaneous users (Valve, Steam). We know these users’ hardware profiles because Valve Corporation makes the results of its surveillance public knowledge via the Steam Hardware Survey. Valve’s hardware survey itself conceptualises obsolescence in two ways. First, it uses the results to define the 'cutting edge' of PC technologies and publishing the standards of its own high end production hardware on the companies blog. Second, the effect of the Survey is to subsequently define obsolescent hardware: for example, in the Survey results for April 2009, we can see that the slight majority of users maintain computers with two central processing units while a significant proportion (almost one third) of users still maintained much older PCs with a single CPU. Both effects of the Survey appear to be well understood by Valve: the Steam Hardware Survey automatically collects information about the community's computer hardware configurations and presents an aggregate picture of the stats on our web site. The survey helps us make better engineering and gameplay decisions, because it makes sure we're targeting machines our customers actually use, rather than measuring only against the hardware we've got in the office. We often get asked about the configuration of the machines we build around the office to do both game and Steam development. We also tend to turn over machines in the office pretty rapidly, at roughly every 18 months. (Valve, Team Fortress) Valve’s support of older hardware might counter perceptions that older PCs have no use and begins to reverse decades of opinion regarding planned and stylistic obsolescence in the PC hardware and software industries. Equally significant to the extension of the lives of older PCs is Steam's support for mods and its promotion of user generated content. By providing software for mod creation and distribution, Steam maximises what Postigo calls the development potential of fan-programmers. One of the 'payoffs' in the information/access exchange for the user with Steam is the degree to which Valve's End-User Licence Agreement (EULA) permits individuals and communities of 'modders' to appropriate its proprietary game content for use in the creation of new games and games materials for redistribution via Steam. These mods extend the play of the older games, by requiring their purchase via Steam in order for the individual user to participate in the modded experience. If Steam is able to encourage this kind of appropriation and community support for older content, then the potential exists for it to support cultures of consumption and practice of use that collaboratively maintain, extend, and prolong the life and use of games. Further, Steam incorporates the insights of “long tail” economics in a purely digital distribution model, in which the obsolescence of 'non-hit' game titles can be dramatically overturned. Published in November 2007, Unreal Tournament 3 (UT3) by Epic Games, was unappreciated in a market saturated with games in the first-person shooter genre. Epic republished UT3 on Steam 18 months later, making the game available to play for free for one weekend, followed by discounted access to new content. The 2000 per cent increase in players over the game's 'free' trial weekend, has translated into enough sales of the game for Epic to no longer consider the release a commercial failure: It’s an incredible precedent to set: making a game a success almost 18 months after a poor launch. It’s something that could only have happened now, and with a system like Steam...Something that silently updates a purchase with patches and extra content automatically, so you don’t have to make the decision to seek out some exciting new feature: it’s just there anyway. Something that, if you don’t already own it, advertises that game to you at an agreeably reduced price whenever it loads. Something that enjoys a vast community who are in turn plugged into a sea of smaller relevant communities. It’s incredibly sinister. It’s also incredibly exciting... (Meer) Clearly concerns exist about Steam's user privacy policy, but this also invites us to the think about the economic relationship between gamers and games companies as it is reconfigured through the private contractual relationship established by the EULA which accompanies the digital distribution model. The games industry has established contractual and licensing arrangements with its consumer base in order to support and reincorporate emerging trends in user generated cultures and other cultural formations within its official modes of production (Moore, "Commonising"). When we consider that Valve gets to tax sales of its virtual goods and can further sell the information farmed from its users to hardware manufacturers, it is reasonable to consider the relationship between the corporation and its gamers as exploitative. Gabe Newell, the Valve co-founder and managing director, conversely believes that people are willing to give up personal information if they feel it is being used to get better services (Leahy). If that sentiment is correct then consumers may be willing to further trade for services that can reduce obsolescence and begin to address the problems of e-waste from the ground up. Conclusion Clearly, there is a potential for digital distribution to be a means of not only eliminating the need to physically transport commodities but also supporting consumer practices that further reduce e-waste. For an industry where only a small proportion of the games made break even, the successful relaunch of older games content indicates Steam's capacity to ameliorate software obsolescence. Digital distribution extends the use of commercially released games by providing disintermediated access to older and user-generated content. For Valve, this occurs within a network of exchange as access to user-generated content, social networking services, and support for the organisation and coordination of communities of gamers is traded for user-information and repeat business. Evidence for whether this will actively translate to an equivalent decrease in the obsolescence of game hardware might be observed with indicators like the Steam Hardware Survey in the future. The degree of potential offered by digital distribution is disrupted by a range of technical, commercial and legal hurdles, primary of which is the deployment of DRM, as part of a range of techniques designed to limit consumer behaviour post purchase. While intervention in the form of legislation and radical change to the insidious nature of electronics production is crucial in order to achieve long term reduction in e-waste, the user is currently considered only in terms of 'ethical' consumption and ultimately divested of responsibility through participation in corporate, state and civil recycling and e-waste management operations. The message is either 'careful what you purchase' or 'careful how you throw it away' and, like DRM, ignores the connections between product, producer and user and the consumer support for environmentally, ethically and socially positive production, distribrution, disposal and recycling. This article, has adopted a different strategy, one that sees digital distribution platforms like Steam, as capable, if not currently active, in supporting community practices that should be seriously considered in conjunction with a range of approaches to the challenge of obsolescence and e-waste. 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