Interesting news today for security professionals:
When thinking about advanced in aviation, wind-tunnels are a necessary step. The cost of disaster is simply too high not to test extensively before deployment. It is a world far removed from the common software development lifecycle.
Oobject shows some fine examples, including one from the Wright brothers:
The interior and exterior of wind tunnels have unusual design requirements that often make them accidental architectural masterpieces.
Test environments as masterpieces? I like the sound of that. Perfect material for presentations to developers who scoff at the idea of testing.
Managing security sure can be a tricky business. What happens when you have to investigate in places that are sensitive or politically tricky? There is no perfect answer. Consider the situation of a South African group called the Scorpions that was created in 1999 and charged with fighting organized crime and corruption:
Earlier this month, a court provisionally charged the former police chief with corruption, accepting bribes worth 1.2m rand ($160,000, £80,000) and defeating the course of justice, after investigations by the Scorpions.
Two problems jump out here:
Combine those two and you end up with a tricky situation, especially when they are going after a former police chief.
South Africa’s security minister has tabled a proposal in parliament calling for the FBI-style Scorpions special investigations unit to be disbanded.
This row over the right level of independence needed for security investigations will be an interesting one to watch.
German train, maybe from Munich, slowed with a exasperated squeal into a dusty dark soot colored station labeled Budapest. I don’t remember if I paused but soon I was standing in a small room below high black boards watching a blur of yellow letters, listening to the click of unfamiliar cities. It was early night and I was struggling not to feel scared, or maybe struggling to scare myself into believing I was on a genuine adventure and not just a poorly planned vacation. What if no one was there when I arrived? Where was I going? I had never heard of Miskolc until one fateful night in Paris.
Summer of 92. Illuminated, two towers of Notre Dame stared with a cold face. I joined a leisurely flow of tourists at the far side of the plaza who milled along, absorbing shades of grey and green. My fatigue boredom and curiosity led me to pause when I noticed a man sitting an uncomfortable distance from a woman. Their body language was awkward, as if in a disagreement. I reached a hand down to feel the unmistakable rough chill of granite and then sat down no more than twenty meters from them. I was drawn to look beside me and saw the woman had a kind but empty, longing stare very unlike those you might find on a faithful gargoyle observing above. The man spoke broken English. Too far to make out the conversation, I still surmised they were strangers. He harassed her as she tried to enjoy a peaceful evening alone.