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In 1975 Chinese survey teams remeasured Mount Everest, the highest of the Himalayan mountains. Like the British in 1852, they used the age-old technique of “carrying in” sea level: surveyors marched inland from the coast for thousands of miles, stopping at increments of as little as a few feet to measure their elevation, and marking each increment with two poles. To measure the difference in elevation between poles, surveyors used an optical level—a telescope on a level base—placed halfway between the poles. They sighted each pole, reading off measurements that were then used to calculate the change in elevation over each increment. In sight of the peaks they used theodolites telescopes for measuring vertical and horizontal angles—to determine the elevation of the summit.[hl:4][hl:3][hl:2][hl:1]The Chinese, however, made efforts to correct for the errors that had plagued the British.[/hl:1][/hl:2][/hl:3][/hl:4] One source of error is refraction, the bending of light beams as they pass through air layers of different temperature and pressure. Because light traveling down from a summit passes through many such layers, a surveyor could sight a mirage rather than the peak itself. To reduce refraction errors, the Chinese team carried in sea level to within five to twelve miles of Everest's summit, decreasing the amount of air that light passed through on its way to their theodolites. The Chinese also launched weather balloons near their theodolites to measure atmospheric temperature and pressure changes to better estimate refraction errors. Another hurdle is the peak's shape. When surveyors sight the summit, there is a risk they might not all measure the same point. In 1975 the Chinese installed the first survey beacon on Everest, a red reflector visible through a theodolite for ten miles, as a reference point. One more source of error is the unevenness of sea level. The British assumed that carrying in sea level would extend an imaginary line from the shore along Earth's curve to a point beneath the Himalayas. In reality, sea level varies according to the irregular interior of the planet. The Chinese used a gravity meter to correct for local deviations in sea level.
By the sixteenth century, the Incas of South America ruled an empire that extended along the Pacific coast and Andean highlands from what is now Ecuador to central Chile. While most of the Incas were self-sufficient agriculturists, the inhabitants of the highland basins above 9,000 feet were constrained by the kinds of crops they could cultivate. Whereas 95 percent of the principal Andean food crops can be cultivated below 3,000 feet, only 20 percent reproduce readily above 9,000 feet. Given this unequal resource distribution, highland Incas needed access to the products of lower, warmer climatic zones in order to enlarge the variety and quantity of their foodstuffs. [hl:1]In most of the preindustrial world, the problem of different resource distribution was resolved by long-distance trade networks over which the end consumer exercised little control.[/hl:1] Although the peoples of the Andean highlands participated in such networks, they relied primarily on the maintenance of autonomous production forces in as many ecological zones as possible. The commodities produced in these zones were extracted, processed, and transported entirely by members of a single group.This strategy of direct access to a maximum number of ecological zones by a single group is called vertical economy. Even today, one can see Andean communities maintaining use rights simultaneously to pasturelands above 12,000 feet, to potato fields in basins over 9,000 feet, and to plots of warm-land crops in regions below 6,000 feet. This strategy has two principal variations. The first is “compressed verticality,” in which a single village resides in a location that permits easy access to closely located ecological zones. Different crop zones or pasturelands are located within a few days walk of the parent community. Community members may reside temporarily in one of the lower zones to manage the extraction of products unavailable in the homeland. In the second variation, called the “vertical archipelago,” the village exploits resources in widely dispersed locations, constituting a series of independent production “islands.” In certain pre-Columbian Inca societies, groups were sent from the home territory to establish permanent satellite communities or colonies in distant tropical forests or coastal locations. There the colonists grew crops and extracted products for their own use and for transshipment back to their high-altitude compatriots. In contrast to the compressed verticality system, in this system, commodities rather than people circulated through the archipelago."
It is an odd but indisputable fact that [line:2][hl:2]the seventeenth-century English women[/hl:2][/line:2] who are generally regarded as among the forerunners of modern feminism are almost all identified with the Royalist side in the conflict between Royalist and Parliamentarians known as the English Civil Wars. Since Royalist ideology is often associated with the radical patriarchalism of seventeenth-century [line:9][hl:1]political theorist Robert Filmer—a patriarchalism[/hl:1][/line:9] that equates family and kingdom and asserts the divinely ordained absolute power of the king and, by analogy, of the male head of the household—historians have been understandably puzzled by the fact that Royalist women wrote the earliest extended criticisms of the absolute subordination of women in marriage and the earliest systematic assertions of women's rational and moral equality with men. Some historians have questioned the facile equation of Royalist ideology with Filmerian patriarchalism; and indeed, there may have been no consistent differences between Royalist and Parliamentarians on issues of family organization and women's political rights, but in that case one would expect early feminists to be equally divided between the two sides.Catherine Gallagher argues that Royalism engendered feminism because the ideology of absolute monarchy provided a transition to an ideology of the absolute self. She cites the example of the notoriously eccentric author Margaret Cavendish (1626-1673), duchess of Newcastle. Cavendish claimed to be as ambitious as any woman could be, but knowing that as a woman she was excluded from the pursuit of power in the real world, she resolved to be mistress of her own world, the “immaterial world” that any person can create within her own mind—and, as a writer, on paper. In proclaiming what she called her “singularity,” Cavendish insisted that she was a self-sufficient being within her mental empire, the center of her own subjective universe rather than [hl:4]a satellite orbiting a dominant male planet[/hl:4]. In justifying this absolute singularity, Cavendish repeatedly invoked the model of the absolute monarch, a figure that became a metaphor for the self-enclose, autonomous nature of the individual person. Cavendish's successors among early feminists retained her notion of woman's sovereign self, but they also sought to break free from the complete political and social isolation that her absolute singularity entailed.
Ready4

Over the past few years there has been a lot of discussion about the animation bubble in Canada, and the booms and busts the industry seems to go through every 7 years or so. This last boom, it could be argued, lasted well over a decade. However , such growth is not without substantial risks. The industry has long argued that one reason why the local animation industry has lagged behind its counterparts across the globe is its inability to compete against low cost animation from Asia. The government, in a bid to address this disparity, has enacted a law requiring broadcasters in Canada to acquire 50 percent of their animation content from local animation studios.

The response appears to have been substantial. According to figures, the total animation content procured from local studios rose from $10 million in 2001 to $180 million in 2011, with no letup anticipated in the next decade. The software tools available today, mostly Flash, allow smaller companies to produce animation at a rate that was not conceivable even 15 years ago. Because of this major shift, entire productions, TV series, and features are being produced almost entirely in house using a crew that is almost entirely Canadian — a smart thing to do because it allows the broadcasters to take advantage of the lucrative Canadian and provincial tax credits available for just this kind of production. As promising as this is for local studios, this increased patronage poses dangers for them, too.

First, local studios risk expanding too fast and overextending themselves financially, since most are small concerns unlike their Asian counterparts. They often need to make substantial capital investment in building technology capability in order to handle the larger volume of work. If, thereafter, the content fails to work with the audience and further episodes get cancelled, such firms can face potentially crippling losses.

A second risk is that these studios will end up creating work that is too specific to local audiences. Given the increased dependency on local broadcasters, the studios run the risk of creating content tailor made for local audiences rather than remaining culture neutral. This substantially reduces the ability of their products to sell beyond local boundaries.

Third, a local studio that secures the contract from one large broadcaster often runs the danger of becoming — and remaining — dependent on that single broadcaster. Even in the best of circumstances, fierce competition from Asian studios makes it difficult for small studios to broaden their customer base internationally: When such firms have nearly guaranteed orders from a single local benefactor, complacency from their current success may arise.

For most species of animals, the number of individuals in the species is inversely proportional to the average body size for members of the species: the smaller the body size, the larger the number of individual animals. The tamarin, a small South American monkey, breaks this rule. Of the ten primate species studied in Peru's Manu National Park, for example, the two species of tamarins, saddle-backed and emperor, are the eighth and ninth least abundant, respectively. Only the pygmy marmoset, which is even smaller, is less abundant. The tamarin's scarcity is not easily explained; it cannot be dismissed as a consequence of diet, because tamarins feed on the same mixture of fruit, nectar, and small prey as do several of their more numerous larger counterparts, including the two capuchins known as the squirrel monkey and the night monkey. Although the relative proportions of fruits consumed varies somewhat among species, it is hard to imagine that such subtle differences are crucial to understanding the relative rarity of tamarins. To emphasize just how anomalously rare tamarins are, we can compare them to the other omnivorous primates in the community.In terms of numbers of individuals per square kilometer, they rank well below the two capuchins, the squirrel monkey and the night monkey. And in terms of biomass, or the total weight of the individuals that occupy a unit area of habitat, each tamarin species is present at only one-twentieth the mass of brown capuchins or one-tenth that of squirrel monkeys. To gain another perspective, consider the spatial requirements of tamarins. Tamarins are rigidly territorial, vigorously expelling any intruders that may stray within the sharply defined boundaries of their domains. Groups invest an appreciable part of their time and energy in patrolling their territorial boundaries, announcing their presence to their neighbors with shrill, sweeping cries. Such concerted territoriality is rather exceptional among primates, though the gibbons and siamangs of Asia show it, as do a few other New World species such as the titi and night monkeys. What is most surprising about tamarin territories is their size. Titi monkeys routinely live within territories of 6 to 8 hectares, and night monkeys seldom defend more than 10 hectares, but tamarin groups routinely occupy areas of 30 to 120 hectares. Contrast this with the 1to 2 hectares needed by the common North American graysquirrel, a nonterritorial mammal of about the same size. A group of tamarins uses about as much space as a troop of brown capuchins, though the latter weighs 15 times as much. Thus, in addition to being rare, tamarins require an amount of space that seems completely out of proportion to their size.
Ready4

     It is a counterintuitive but well-documented historical truth that the economies of the classical cultures typically seen as the progenitors of western liberalism and political freedom were all founded on the development and perpetuation of agrarian slavery. Because the cultures of antiquity are often associated with Periclean democracy and Roman republicanism—both oligarchical political systems at least nominally dedicated to principled and representative rule—students of history are often confused to learn that the populations of these societies contained large numbers of disenfranchised individuals who were often indentured to members of the middle and upper classes for a lifetime of brutal servitude.

     Many historians attribute this confusion to the triumphalist mythmaking of previous generations of scholars of classical history; indeed, most interpretations of classical literature and history have been distorted, but one would nonetheless expect modern revisionism and understanding of the concept of presentism to provide balance.

     Historians note that there is little discussion of slavery or its moral significance within classical sources, seemingly because individuals in the classical period saw it as both an economic necessity and inherent to the world's natural order. They cite the example of the writer Heraclitus (535 B.C.E.–475 B.C.E.), a pre-Socratic philosopher. Heraclitus is known as the “Weeping Philosopher,” and he was among the most incisive thinkers working in antiquity but, even so, the omnipresent institution of slavery struck him as an immutable element of human affairs; he wrote that “War is the father of all, the king of all … he turns some into slaves and sets others free,” implying that slavery is beyond the power of political determination—and beyond intellectual moralizing. Heraclitus is not alone in his failure to question the moral underpinnings of a slave society. Aristotle, too, suggested that the taking and keeping of slaves was a component of natural law, a fundamental consequence of military activity rather than a conscious policy that could be actively perpetuated or proscribed by the laws of man. In promoting this view, though, Aristotle demonstrates an unusual degree of circumspection, wondering whether the taking of slaves could be justified if the war in which they were acquired was itself “unjust.” The figures of early modernity saw themselves as heirs to the classical tradition and inherited the Greek and Roman attitudes toward slavery and citizenship as well as their commitments to democracy and rational inquiry, and modern historians have, in their studies of these times, endeavored to avoid the interpretive trap of imposing their modern ethics on the people of ancient times.

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