New York Post
보수 성향
IT/기술
How to watch Apple TV’s ‘Cape Fear’ series for free: Release date, cast
Javier Bardem steps into the character once portrayed by Robert De Niro.
🇺🇸 미국 · IT/기술 · "ROBERT" · 총 6건
필터 보기현재 지수
50.0
0 = 부정 우세
50 = 중립
100 = 긍정 우세
최근 7일 기준 11,558건을 분석한 결과, 뉴스 심리지수는 50.0(균형)입니다. 긍정 1건(0.0%)·중립 11,556건(100.0%)·부정 1건(0.0%)이며, 중립 비중이 뚜렷하게 높습니다. 성향 지수는 종합 18.8(중도 균형)입니다.
Javier Bardem steps into the character once portrayed by Robert De Niro.
Pope Leo's Magnifica Humanitas addresses AI, Catholic social teaching, war and peace, and the technocratic paradigm threatening human dignity today.
This is The Stepback, a weekly newsletter breaking down one essential story from the tech world. For more on AI mischief, follow Robert Hart. The Stepback arrives in our subscribers' inboxes at 8AM ET. Opt in for The Stepback here. How it started Hacking the first generation of AI chatbots was a laughably simple affair. […]
In the late 1940s—when computer engineers were grappling with unreliable hardware and noisy transmission environments—a team of engineers inside a modest lab at the University of Manchester, England, confronted a problem so fundamental that it threatened the viability of digital computing itself. Machines could generate bits, but they could not reliably read them back. The inconsistent reading back of memory data did not initially present itself as a grand theoretical challenge. It showed up as something more mundane: inconsistent computing results. Engineers including Frederic C. Williams, Tom Kilburn, and G. E. (Tommy) Thomas traced the failures not to logic errors but to the physical behavior of the machines themselves. The team devised a technique for keeping a transmitter and a receiver synchronized without relying on a separate clock signal. Their innovation, known as Manchester code or phase encoding, encoded each bit with a transition in the middle of the bit period, effectively embedding timing information directly into the data stream to be a self-clocking signal. So, even if the signal degraded or the timing drifted slightly, the receiver could continually keep time based on those regular transitions. By eliminating the need for separate clocks and reducing synchronization errors, Manchester code made data transfer more robust across cables and circuits. Those qualities later made it a natural fit for technologies such as Ethernet and early data storage systems. Its self-clocking nature helped standardize how machines communicate, and it laid the groundwork for modern networking and digital communication protocols. On 13 April 2026, this breakthrough was honored with an IEEE Milestone plaque during a ceremony at the University of Manchester. Dignitaries from IEEE and the university attended the ceremony. Embedding timing in signals Those 1940s Manchester University engineers were working on systems that fed into the Manchester Mark I, one of the first practical stored-program machines. When troubles arose, they used oscilloscopes to probe signals. They found that electrical pulses did not arrive with consistent timing. Memory signals also blurred over time, making them harder to read, and when long runs of identical bits occurred, the waveform flattened into stretches with no transitions. That led to a crucial insight: The problem was not just detecting whether a signal was high or low; the system also lost track of when to sample the signal. Without reliable timing markers, even correctly formed signals were misread. Bits could effectively be lost or miscounted because the system fell out of sync. At first, the engineers tried to tame the hardware. They experimented with stabilizing circuits and more consistent pulse generation, attempting to impose a regular rhythm on an inherently unstable system. But the fixes proved fragile, and the electronics of the day could not maintain the required precision. So the Manchester group took a different approach. If the hardware could not provide a dependable clock, the signal itself would have to carry one. Instead of representing data as static levels, each bit changed state, with a guaranteed transition in the middle. Embedding timing in the signal reduced erratic behavior. Machines were suddenly able to reliably transmit, store, and read back data—an essential step toward practical stored-program computing. Making signals unmistakable The Manchester code addressed several issues at once. Regular transitions allowed continuous timing recovery. Transitions proved easier to detect than static levels, and long runs of identical bits no longer produced flat, ambiguous waveforms. Rather than fighting the imperfections of early electronics, the design worked with them. From lab curiosity to a global standard What began as a local solution in Manchester shaped digital communication systems for decades, including early Ethernet technology, for which timing and shared-medium communication were central challenges. According to Robert Metcalfe, a member of the team that built the first Ethernet system at Xerox PARC in 1973, he and his colleagues relied on Manchester code. “Manchester code solved a fundamental problem for us: timing,” Metcalfe says, explaining that each bit carried its own clock and removed the need for a global synchronized signal. That self-clocking property wasn’t the only benefit provided by the encoding scheme. On a shared coaxial cable, Manchester encoding did more than provide timing. Each transceiver left the medium undriven—effectively “off”—most of the time, allowing packets from other machines to pass without interference. Even during transmission, a station drove the signal only about half the time, leaving the line undriven during the other half of each bit cycle. This distinction—between a driven signal and an undriven line, rather than simple 1s and 0s—allowed receivers to recover both data and clock timing while also monitoring the cable for other activity. If a transceiver detected a signal when it expected the line to be undriven, the signal indicated that another station was transmitting at the same time. In other words, the system could detect collisions in real time and respond accordingly. The idea has proven durable far beyond local networks. Manchester code is being used aboard the Voyager spacecraft, which are now cruising through interstellar space—underscoring its reliability in extreme environments. The code also has found its way into everyday consumer electronics. Infrared remote controls for televisions and audio equipment commonly rely on Manchester code through protocols such as RC-5, developed by Philips in the early 1980s. The protocol encodes commands as timed infrared signals transmitted by a handset’s integrated circuit and LED, allowing devices to reliably interpret button presses even through noise and signal distortion. Manufacturers across Europe—and many in the United States—adopted the approach, extending Manchester code into the home. Why the Milestone matters An IEEE Milestone designation recognizes technologies with enduring impact. Manchester code qualifies because it solved a foundational timing problem at a critical moment in computing history. Without a way to embed timing in the data itself, early digital systems would have remained fragile and unreliable. Manchester code helped transform them into dependable machines, and it enabled much of today’s digital communication. “Manchester code solved a fundamental problem for us: timing,” —Robert Metcalfe, an Ethernet inventor Key participants at the plaque dedication ceremony included Tom Coughlin, 2024 IEEE president; Duncan Ivison, University of Manchester president and vice chancellor, and Nagham Saeed, chair of the IEEE U.K. and Ireland Section. Talks by Kees Schouhamer Immink (the 2017 IEEE Medal of Honor laureate probably best known for his work that made compact discs and other high-density digital media practical) and Peter Green (Manchester’s deputy dean for the engineering faculty) highlighted the code’s lasting impact on digital data storage and communications. The IEEE Milestone plaque for the Manchester code reads: “At this site in 1948–1949, Manchester code was invented for reliably encoding digital data stored on the Manchester Mark I computer’s magnetic drum. It became a standard for computer magnetic tapes and floppy disks and was used in digital communications, including the Voyager 1 and 2 spacecraft and early Ethernet networks. It found wide use in domestic remote controllers, radio frequency identification (RFID) tags, and many control network standards.” Administered by the IEEE History Center and supported by donors, the Milestone program recognizes outstanding technical developments worldwide. The IEEE U.K. and Ireland Section sponsored the nomination.
Editor’s note: If you’d like to pinpoint the instant when the world entered the nuclear age, 5:29:45 a.m. Mountain War Time on 16 July 1945, is an excellent choice. That was the moment when human beings first unleashed the power of the nucleus in an immense, blinding ball of fire above a gloomy stretch of desert in the Jornada del Muerto basin in New Mexico. Emily Seyl’s Trinity: An Illustrated History of the World’s First Atomic Test (The University of Chicago Press) offers hundreds of startlingly vivid photographs of the Manhattan Project that emerged from a 20-year restoration effort. This excerpt and the accompanying photos record the massive effort to capture the awesome detonation of “the Gadget.” aspect_ratioReprinted with permission from Trinity: An Illustrated History of the World’s First Atomic Test by Emily Seyl with contributions by Alan B. Carr, published by The University of Chicago Press. © 2026 by The University of Chicago. All rights reserved. In the North 10,000 photography bunker, Berlyn Brixner was listening to the countdown on a loudspeaker, his head inside a turret loaded with cameras and film. He was one of the only people instructed to look toward the blast—through his welder’s glasses—ready to follow the path of the fireball as it launched into the sky. The two Mitchell movie cameras at his station would deliver the best footage to come of the Trinity test, used by Los Alamos scientists to make some of the first measurements of the effects of a nuclear explosion. Related: New Trinity Book Uncovers Images of the First Atomic Test When the detonators fired, the cameras captured what Brixner could not have seen—the very first light of a violent, silent sea of energy unfurling into the basin. As 32 blocks of high explosives erupted all together, their incredible force surged inward toward the sleeping plutonium core, compressing the dense sphere of metal instantaneously from all sides and bringing its atoms impossibly close together. A carefully timed burst of neutrons sowed momentary, uncontrolled chaos, and then, as quickly as it began, the fission chain reaction ended. Footage from a high-speed Fastax camera in Brixner’s bunker, shot through a thick glass porthole, shows a translucent orb bursting through the darkness less than a hundredth of a second after detonation, as a rush of heat, light, and matter blew apart the Gadget. When the brightness faded enough for witnesses to make out ground zero, they saw a wall of dust rise up around a brilliant, shape-shifting, multicolored ball of flames—forming a fiery cloud that shot into the sky atop a twisting stream of debris. The camera footage tells a story no less dramatic but hundreds of times more intricate, preserving the moment for scientists to return to again and again to measure and describe the behavior of the fireball and other visible effects with exacting detail. On balance, the photography effort was a huge success, despite only 11 of the 52 cameras producing satisfactory images. By arranging those cameras at intentionally staggered distances, complementary angles, and with a broad spectrum of frame rates and focal lengths, the Spectrographic and Photographic Measurements Group was able to piece together a remarkably complete picture of their subject. On 12 July 1945, Herbert Lehr, a U.S. Army sergeant and electrical engineer assigned to Los Alamos, delivered the plutonium core to the McDonald ranch house, where the bomb was assembled. Los Alamos National Laboratory According to the group’s leader, Julian Mack, the more than 100,000 frames that were captured still “give no idea of the brightness, or of time and space scales.” Mack attributed fortune, as much as foresight, to the photographic record that was made, especially during the earliest phase of the blast. Indeed, the explosion was several times more powerful than predicted, and the intensity of its effects overwhelmed many of the cameras and diagnostic instruments. The human observers were similarly overcome. “The shot was truly awe-inspiring,” said Norris Bradbury, the physicist who would succeed Robert Oppenheimer as director of Los Alamos. “Most experiences in life can be comprehended by prior experiences, but the atom bomb did not fit into any preconception possessed by anybody. The most startling feature was the intense light.” Norris Bradbury, the physicist responsible for the final assembly of the Gadget, stands next to the partially assembled bomb at the top of the shot tower. The cables on the outside of the bomb would transmit the signals to trigger the synchronized detonations of conventional explosives, which would then create the inward-directed shock wave that would compress the bomb’s plutonium core. Bradbury would go on to succeed Robert Oppenheimer as director of Los Alamos on 17 October 1945.Los Alamos National Laboratory It is a common sentiment that words and even pictures pale in comparison to the experience of the explosion. Even so, soldiers, scientists, and many other witnesses have added their firsthand accounts—often absorbing and poetic—to complement the trove of hard data collected during the test shot. They describe an intense and blinding brightness that filled the basin with daytime; an ominous, darkening cloud rearing its head in eerie silence; the wait for the invisible wave rushing out from the heart of the Gadget; and the mighty roar that arrived at last, in a thunder, and seemed never to leave. Physicist Isidor Isaac Rabi, watching from 20 miles away, remembered, “It blasted; it pounced; it bored its way right through you.” James Chadwick, head of the British contingent of scientists who joined the Manhattan Project, later said, “Although I had lived through this moment in my imagination many times during the past few years and everything happened almost as I had pictured it, the reality was shattering.” The blast, captured with an assortment of high-speed and motion-picture cameras, shows the fireball expanding between 25 milliseconds and 60 seconds, by which time the mushroom cloud is over 3 kilometers high.Los Alamos National Laboratory And physicist George Kistiakowsky found himself certain that “at the end of the world—in the last millisecond of the Earth’s existence—the last human will see what we saw.”
I first met Robert Woo in 2011, during his third time walking in a powered exoskeleton. The architect had been paralyzed in a construction accident four years earlier, but he was determined to get back on his feet. Watching him clunk across a rehab room in an exoskeleton prototype, the technology felt astonishing. I had the same reaction when reporting on early brain-computer interfaces (BCIs), which enabled paralyzed people to move robotic arms or communicate by thought alone. Both types of bionic technology seemed to verge on magic. But that initial sense of awe, I’ve learned over many years of reporting on these technologies, is only a starting point. What matters is not what these systems can do in a carefully staged demo but how they perform in the real world. Do they work reliably? Can people with disabilities use them for their intended purposes? And what does it actually cost—in time, effort, and trade-offs—to do so? The question isn’t whether the technology looks impressive the first time but whether it holds up on the hundredth. The special report in this issue, “Cyborg Tech From the Inside” takes that perspective seriously. In my feature article on Woo, an exoskeleton super-user who has spent 15 years testing these systems, the story of the technology is inseparable from the story of its use. Woo’s relentless feedback has driven steady, incremental improvements. In Edd Gent’s reporting on the pioneers testing the earliest BCIs, the experience of these extraordinary technologies likewise resolves into something more complex. As one trial participant notes, these early adopters are like the first astronauts, who barely reached space before coming back down to Earth. Together, these stories reframe these individuals not as passive medical patients but as the ultimate beta testers and co-engineers of the bionic age. I saw the gap between demonstration and daily use firsthand when I interviewed Woo in a Manhattan showroom recently, where he was testing a new self-balancing exoskeleton from Wandercraft. The device is a striking advance that kept him upright without crutches, but it also revealed the friction of the real world. As Woo tried to walk out the door, barely an inch of slope on the Park Avenue sidewalk was enough to trigger the machine’s safety sensors and halt his progress. It was a stark reminder of how far these systems must evolve before they fit seamlessly into everyday life. For the people who use them, that seamless integration is the ultimate goal. Getting there will depend not just on technical breakthroughs but on how well these systems hold up outside controlled environments, over time, and under real conditions. Looking from the inside doesn’t make these technologies any less remarkable, but it does change how we judge them—not by what they can do once for a photo but by what they can sustain over a lifetime. That’s the standard their users have been applying all along. Our commitment to evaluating technology from the user’s perspective extends beyond this special report. To provide a necessary corrective to the “techno-solutionism” that often dominates coverage of assistive devices, IEEE Spectrum created the Taenzer Fellowship for Disability-Engaged Journalism, under which six writers with disabilities are contributing articles about the devices they rely on daily. As Special Projects Director Stephen Cass notes, these journalists “aren’t afraid to ask clear-eyed questions about the tech and are deeply aware of how it impacts humans.” You can read the fellows’ work at spectrum.ieee.org/tag/taenzer-fellowship.