Keypad Quotes

Running a bit late meet at my place around 7?' Smiling at the phone, my fingers fumbling over the keypad quickly, 'Yup-see you there!' I deleted the exclamation mark and counted to thirty before I allowed myself to press send.

I hung my head. Ranger was next on the list. “Yo,” Ranger said when he answered. “Small problem.” “No kidding. Your car just went off the screen.” “It sort of burned up.” Silence. “And you know that keypad you gave me? It was in the car.” “Babe.

Chase punched a code into the keypad above the elevator call button, and the doors to the service elevator slid open. “The code is 6969.” “How will I ever remember that?” I teased.

Dan was shorter than me, especially as I was wearing sky blue silk stilettos. He appeared to be my age or a few years older,stocky, and thick necked with swirling tattoos just visible beneath the blue collar of his uniform.Dan gave me a plain once over as he walked me to an elevator and placed his palm against a glass screen. The screen retracted to reveal keypad. Dan then punched in a series of numbers and he said- “You’re very big.”I gave him a cursory smile, “Yes. I ate all my vegetables as a child.

Phones with numerical keypads worked best for dialing phone calls. Incidentally, phone calls tend to be the primary function of a phone. 'Smartphones' completely ignore these basic facts, resulting in some of the least intelligent devices I've seen yet. Oh the irony.

I go back to my desk, flip open my cell, and stare at the keypad. I want to hear his voice so badly, to be connected to him, to ask him why and how and what I can do to make it better. But you can‘t force someone to love you.

He could finally reach the stadium door unimpeded, but no one had given him the code for this keypad. Unsteady fingers put in the Raven digits over and over and over. He knew it was wrong. He didn’t know why it wouldn’t work. He couldn’t stop trying.

Inside was a ten-digit keypad. A combination lock. One through nine, plus zero, laid out like a telephone. A possible 3,628,800 variants. It

Kidnappings made for ransom were fast and messy; guns pointed at your head, urgent demands. Not keypads on the door and enough food to last through one of George R.R. Martin's long winters.

Remember the toys that let out a funny sound when you squeeze them? Most people are like that. They don’t know what they’re saying. Some chemicals squeeze their brain and they blurt out words through their mouth or keypad. Don’t get affected by their praise or criticism.

Protected by a security gate and an electronic keypad. You

The more our fingers are getting skilled on keypad the more we are losing the art of holding the pen.

Incidentally, I spent some time on the Purell website, where you can find a list of ninety-nine places germs lurk (in-flight magazines, movie tickets, gas-pump keypads, hotel room a/c controls, and on and on). It's hilarious and terrifying. The only place they don't mention is the Purell dispensers themselves. You know they're coated with germs. It's one of health's cruelest catch-22s.

Just above the line, a telegraph operator sat perilously on the steep river bank, his keypad in hand and a strand of copper wire running up the hill behind him to a pole where he had made a connection with the main line, ready to tell the world when the race began.

I think of the countless Nike offices around the world. At each one, no matter the country, the phone number ends in 6453, which spells out Nike on the keypad. But, by pure chance, from right to left it also spells out Pre's best time in the mile, to the tenth of a second: 3:54.6

Neil grabbed his bag and climbed out. Jean walked him to the door and put in another numbered password. The light over the keypad flashed green, so Jean tugged open the door. Instead of going in, he looked back at Neil. "Take a look at the sky. You won't see it again until you leave." "I've seen it," Neil said.

His bed was made with a beige duvet. A neat desk with an elaborate computer set up on it. Three large screens and a keypad and wireless mouse in the middle. There was a tiny dog bed next to the desk and a potted plant in the corner. Artwork on the walls. It was a nice apartment—minus the view. He was obviously clean and had good enough taste.

Ray, we don’t have much time,” I said. “We need to access the EDA intranet node hidden here in the store. It’s an emergency.” Ray only hesitated for a split second. “Behind the UFO poster on the back wall.” I turned and located the one he was talking about—a framed reprint of Mulder’s “I Want to Believe” poster from The X-Files. I took it down, revealing what appeared to be a small titanium safe embedded in the brick wall behind it, with a keypad at its center.

Just because your baby can tap a touch screen to change a picture does not mean that he should, that it is a developmentally useful or appropriate activity for him. In fact, research suggests that the process of tapping a screen or keypad and engaging with the screen activity may itself be rerouting brain development in ways that eliminate development of essential other neural connections your child needs to develop reading, writing, and higher-level thinking later.

Playing the maze game on Microsoft Encarta, downloading Simpsons episodes on IRC, geocities and angelfire websites so shitty it was beyond hilarious, violent stick figure animations made with Macromedia Flash on StickDeath, StickSuicide and SFDT, no moderation on forums, what was a place for elitists and sophisticated outcasts primarily from western countries became streamlined starting with kids getting cellphones around 2000 and texting each other on a keypad that wasn't made for it. By 2003 or 4 hardly any kids went outside during summer.

It’s the cemetery where my father is already buried. “Great,” I say. “Just make sure you leave your forwarding address.” I hold the keypad away from my ear and punch the pound button. “Got another call coming in,” I lie. “At this hour?” “It’s an escort service,” I joke. “I don’t like to keep Peaches waiting . . .” “You’re going to be the death of me, Leo,” my mother says with a sigh. “Sons of Abraham Cemetery. Got it,” I say. “I love you, Ma.” “I loved you first,” she replies. “So what am I supposed to tell my podiatrist about Irene?” “If she keeps wearing heels she’ll wind

Aton poured a glass of amber liquid from a crystal decanter. “Do you know how I was able to grow my empire so quickly, so efficiently?” The General rolled the khaki sleeve up his right arm and punched a series of alphanumeric symbols into the keypad embedded in his powerful forearm. “Service, alpha, nine, kilo, four, five, delta, security protocol, voice print, command, shut down all non-essential systems, routine maintenance. Reboot and activate all systems upon further command.” The General’s ocular implants powered down, and his sullen, muddy-brown eyes twitched to life, fixing upon Aton. “The carrot and the stick, sir.

The list of these outrages is nauseatingly long, but they point to the way white people, particularly white women, in these supposedly liberal destination cities, with the ease of 911, have warmed to a new way to use the police—still often an overwhelmingly white power—as their muscle, as a cudgel against Black people who stir within them even the slightest unease. The police have become instruments of their intolerance, a way to swing the ax without using one’s hands. There is no longer a need to yell or taunt or spit. One need only dial. Keypad tones are the new barking hounds. White wrath can hide behind a phone call and a blue wall. These women now even have their own pejorative, Karen, personified by the woman who called the police on Christian Cooper, a Black birdwatcher in Central Park. It is all about white power over Black bodies.

He threw up his hands and said, "And you know I fucking love you. So?" I looked into his right eye, then his left, back and forth. "Why do you love me?" I knew what I wanted, but on his side, I didn't want it to be because I could be so bad for him. I didn't want to be a pretty fist that he could bang himself into. I leaned against the wall, my head right by the keypad. "If we're going to take a run at this, it has to be more than good sex and your masochism." I wasn't sure he was going to answer. I wasn't sure he had a reason, and he could be so hard to read. But then he smiled. "Because everyone on this shithole planet says a lot of pretty words to make themselves look good while they do awful things", he said. "You're the opposite." It was a good answer. A good thing to say. I peered from one eye to the other, back and forth, harder than I had looked into Clark's eyes or the gun's. Birdwine's left one was rimmed in black and violet, still swollen. I watched his pupils expand as I leaned up. There was a fair amount of crazy present, sure, but in the darkness of his eyes I saw myself reflected clearly. I was real to him. He saw me all the way down to the bottom and knew every awful thing I'd done. More - he knew all that I was capable of doing, and yet, he looked at me like I was something worthy and good. "Come upstairs," I said. There was a promise in the words that spoke to more than sex. I thought it was implicit. But he only waited, silent. He didn't even blink, until my own eyes felt dry and itchy on his behalf. Finally I added, "Yes. Okay. Yes. I fucking love you." "Oh yeah," he said, and punched the entry code in for my door.

The phone rang. It was a familiar voice. It was Alan Greenspan. Paul O'Neill had tried to stay in touch with people who had served under Gerald Ford, and he'd been reasonably conscientious about it. Alan Greenspan was the exception. In his case, the effort was constant and purposeful. When Greenspan was the chairman of Ford's Council of Economic Advisers, and O'Neill was number two at OMB, they had become a kind of team. Never social so much. They never talked about families or outside interests. It was all about ideas: Medicare financing or block grants - a concept that O'Neill basically invented to balance federal power and local autonomy - or what was really happening in the economy. It became clear that they thought well together. President Ford used to have them talk about various issues while he listened. After a while, each knew how the other's mind worked, the way married couples do. In the past fifteen years, they'd made a point of meeting every few months. It could be in New York, or Washington, or Pittsburgh. They talked about everything, just as always. Greenspan, O'Neill told a friend, "doesn't have many people who don't want something from him, who will talk straight to him. So that's what we do together - straight talk." O'Neill felt some straight talk coming in. "Paul, I'll be blunt. We really need you down here," Greenspan said. "There is a real chance to make lasting changes. We could be a team at the key moment, to do the things we've always talked about." The jocular tone was gone. This was a serious discussion. They digressed into some things they'd "always talked about," especially reforming Medicare and Social Security. For Paul and Alan, the possibility of such bold reinventions bordered on fantasy, but fantasy made real. "We have an extraordinary opportunity," Alan said. Paul noticed that he seemed oddly anxious. "Paul, your presence will be an enormous asset in the creation of sensible policy." Sensible policy. This was akin to prayer from Greenspan. O'Neill, not expecting such conviction from his old friend, said little. After a while, he just thanked Alan. He said he always respected his counsel. He said he was thinking hard about it, and he'd call as soon as he decided what to do. The receiver returned to its cradle. He thought about Greenspan. They were young men together in the capital. Alan stayed, became the most noteworthy Federal Reserve Bank chairman in modern history and, arguably the most powerful public official of the past two decades. O'Neill left, led a corporate army, made a fortune, and learned lessons - about how to think and act, about the importance of outcomes - that you can't ever learn in a government. But, he supposed, he'd missed some things. There were always trade-offs. Talking to Alan reminded him of that. Alan and his wife, Andrea Mitchell, White House correspondent for NBC news, lived a fine life. They weren't wealthy like Paul and Nancy. But Alan led a life of highest purpose, a life guided by inquiry. Paul O'Neill picked up the telephone receiver, punched the keypad. "It's me," he said, always his opening. He started going into the details of his trip to New York from Washington, but he's not much of a phone talker - Nancy knew that - and the small talk trailed off. "I think I'm going to have to do this." She was quiet. "You know what I think," she said. She knew him too well, maybe. How bullheaded he can be, once he decides what's right. How he had loved these last few years as a sovereign, his own man. How badly he was suited to politics, as it was being played. And then there was that other problem: she'd almost always been right about what was best for him. "Whatever, Paul. I'm behind you. If you don't do this, I guess you'll always regret it." But it was clearly about what he wanted, what he needed. Paul thanked her. Though somehow a thank-you didn't seem appropriate. And then he realized she was crying.

The robot is equipped with an embedded computer (Fig. 1.12). The precise specification of the computer is not important but we do assume certain capabilities. The computer can read the values of the sensors and set the power of the motors. There is a way of displaying information on a small screen or using colored lights. Signals and data can be input to the computer using buttons, a keypad or a remote control.

The computer was primitive. It had the words “MacBook Pro” on it, and a keypad full of letters and numbers, and a lot of arrows pointing in every possible direction. It seemed like a metaphor for human existence

I know who you’re talking about…” he says as his thumbs swipe away at the digital keypad. “Tabitha Brighton. Yeah, this chick.” Glancing over his shoulder, I nod. “Yes, that’s her.” “Goddamn. Where can I get one of these?” he jokes, eyeing the photograph with approval.

Go to my place. It’s unit 912. There’s a keypad on the wall next to the door. Type in your name backward and it will open.” Type in my name backward and his door will open. Like my mouth is open. Like the top of my head is open, because it just exploded. “What?

I think of the countless Nike offices around the world. At each one, no matter the country, the phone number ends in 6453, which spells out Nike on the keypad. But, by pure chance, from right to left it also spells out Pre’s best time in the mile, to the tenth of a second: 3:54.6.

The computer was primitive. It had the words 'Macbook Pro' on it, and a keypad full if letters and numbers, and a lot of arrows pointing in every possible direction. It seemed like a metaphor for human existence.

What are we doing here?” Kat whispered. Stacy started down the corridor. “You don’t have to whisper. We’re alone.” Stacy stopped in front of the door with a keypad. She typed in a code and the door unlocked with an audible click. Kat entered. It was a corner office with a pretty great view up Park Avenue. Stacy flicked on the lights. The office was done in early American Elitism. Rich burgundy leather chairs with gold buttons sat atop a forest-green oriental carpet. Paintings of foxhunts hung on dark wood paneling. The expansive desk was pure oak. A large antique globe rested next to it. “Someone

I’m counting my drawer when Regn comes into the office. I hear her before she enters. I listen for her. The sound of the keypad, the sound of three doors. I saw her pull up on my way in. The anticipation is what I love. The details. The security of knowing she’s arrived and will be here for the day. Even if we don’t have the leisure of time, we have time. It is the unspoken acknowledgments to self. The constant checking and watching for expressions, inflections in the voice, mannerisms. It is a gradual advance. The more we are restrained, the stronger it grows. It is innocence and age that allows the affection to mature, naturally, as it should. Something inside stirs, the heart itself is attracted, much before the body responds. Knowing Regn looks forward to seeing me as much as I do her makes me happy.

I want you, chula,” I say, my voice hoarse. She presses against my erection, the pleasure/pain almost unbearable. But when I start to pull her panties down, she stills my hand and pushes it away. “I…I’m not ready for that. Alex, stop.” I move off her and sit back in the seat, waiting for my body to cool down. I can’t look at her as she adjusts her straps, covering her body again. Shit, I went too fast. I told myself not to get too excited, to keep my wits when I’m with this girl. Raking my hand through my hair, I let out a slow breath. “I’m sorry.” “No, I’m sorry. It’s not your fault. I urged you on and you have every right to be pissed off. Listen, I just got out of a relationship with Colin and I’ve got a lot of stuff going on at home.” She puts her face in her hands. “I’m so confused.” She grabs her purse and opens the door. I follow her, my black shirt open and flying in the wind behind me like a vampire’s cape. Either that or the grim reaper’s. “Brittany, wait.” “Please…open the door to the garage. I need my car.” “Don’t go.” I press the keypad code. “I’m sorry,” she says once more. “Stop sayin’ that. Listen, no matter what happened, I’m not with you just to get into your pants. I got carried away with the way we clicked tonight, your vanilla scent that I wanted to keep inhalin’ forever and…shit, I really messed this up, didn’t I?” Brittany climbs inside her car. “Can we take it slow, Alex? This is going way too fast for me.” “Yeah,” I say, nodding. I keep my hands in my pockets, resisting the urge to pull her out of the car. And dammit if Brittany doesn’t drive away.

Selling NSM and Wurlitzer Jukebox We are Selling NSM Jukebox OEM Keypad, Jukebox, Pool Table, Billiard table, Pinball Machine, Arcade Games,Video Games and Amusement games products in Australia.

Can I help it if my thumbs are too big for that tiny keypad?” “You should have been in Atlanta right after she got her iPhone and texted all of us her plans to ‘masterbate penis primavera,

K began to fume with anger every time he had to repeat the bland routine of special offers and efficacies of products. The back-of-the-mind scenarios of applying napkins began to be replaced with violent sexual acts - sadomasochistic, brutal and twisted. Instead of being cosseted in a woman's hot embrace, he now imagined ripping her clothes off, biting at the very tits that he had once coveted until he drew blood, fisting their pussies wearing barbed gloves, kicking them in the teeth, watching the gore drip down their proud queenly chins and putting an end to their teasing, access-denying smiles. It fetched him more story-ideas but for how long? The anguish that burgeoned during the day could not be watered down by the porn videos he had committed to memory with repeated viewing; it couldn't be flushed out with the joy of literary creation that had, till now, been feeding equally upon his happiness, sadness and neutrality. The tipping point had arrived, the moment when the grimy tar of impatience would boil over, flooding everything - pen, paper, keypad, life itself.

Dave pulled out a small pry bar and gently pried the face off the keypad. He then took out a small drill and drilled out the brackets holding the keypad in place. This exposed the wiring behind, and he unplugged the wire harness from the keypad and set it aside. He took out his datapad and a new wire harness, which he plugged into the datapad and then into the harness he had unplugged from the keypad. After punching a few buttons on the datapad, he looked at Thomas and said, “Should only take a few minutes. The computer in my datapad is logging in to the main computer system right now and requesting that it open the door for us.” “Requesting?

Caravaggio to another. I’m sure that’s crossed Ariosto’s mind, Coffin considered. Wonder if he’s more focused on retrieving this one, or if he thinks it’s gone forever, like the Palermo Adoration. Coffin scanned the interior as he took his first step inside. Three officers, one detective, one frantic priest, one missing altarpiece. Three flanking chapels on either side of the nave, each with a piece of art or relic as the focal point, chairs aligned in each, and empty prayer candles, one confessional booth, made of dark, oiled wood, much younger than the church itself, curtain in the front right corner must lead to offices, no holy water in the font, telephone beside the entrance, alarm keypad, motion sensors two feet off the ground along the periphery and across the altar, no locks on the ground-floor windows, not good,

When we reach the fence, we see the Dauntless standing in our headlight beams, blocking the gate. Their blue armbands stand out against the rest of their clothing. I try to keep my expression pleasant. I will not be able to fool them into thinking I’m Amity with a scowl on my face. A dark-skinned man with a gun in hand approaches Marcus’s window. He shines a flashlight at Marcus first, then Christina, then me. I squint into the beam, and force a smile at the man like I don’t mind bright lights in the eyes and guns pointed at my head in the slightest. The Amity must be deranged if this is how they really think. Or they’ve been eating too much of that bread. “So tell me,” the man says. “What’s an Abnegation member doing in a truck with two Amity?” “These two girls volunteered to bring provisions to the city,” Marcus says, “and I volunteered to escort them so that they would be safe.” “Also, we don’t know how to drive,” says Christina, grinning. “My dad tried to teach me years ago but I kept confusing the gas pedal for the brake pedal, and you can imagine what a disaster that was! Anyway, it was really nice of Joshua to volunteer to take us, because it would have taken us forever otherwise, and the boxes were so heavy--” The Dauntless man holds up his hand. “Okay, I get it.” “Oh, of course. Sorry.” Christina giggles. “I just thought I would explain, because you seemed so confused, and no wonder, because how many times do you encounter this--””Right,” the man says. “And do you intend to return to the city?” “Not anytime soon,” Marcus says. “All right. Go ahead, then.” He nodes to the other Dauntless by the gate. One of them types a series of numbers on the keypad, and the gate slides open to admit us. Marcus nods to the guard who let us through and drives over the worn path to Amity headquarters. The truck’s headlights catch tire tracks and prairie grass and insects weaving back and forth. In the darkness to my right I see fireflies lighting up to a rhythm that is like a heartbeat. After a few seconds, Marcus glances at Christina. “What on earth was that?” “There’s nothing the Dauntless hate more than cheerful Amity babble,” says Christina, lifting a shoulder. “I figured if he got annoyed it would distract him and he would let us through.” I smile with all my teeth. “You are a genius.” “I know.” She tosses her head like she’s throwing her hair over one shoulder, only she doesn’t have enough to throw. “Except,” says Marcus. “Joshua is not an Abnegation name.” “Whatever. As if anyone knows the difference.

In June 2008, Amazon.com filed for a new patent with a Microsoft Kinect–like feature for making purchases with body movements. Anticipating computers and other devices that can track a user’s movements, the new Amazon patent is titled “Movement recognition as input mechanism.” Forget keypads and mice, you may soon be able to make a purchase simply by nodding your head at your computer, Kindle, or cell phone. Industry wags have dubbed it the “1-Nod patent.

Once upon a time, taking photos using rolls of photographic film was the done thing, as were using keypads that took up 40 percent of the front of your mobile phone and having to return a rented DVD by 6 p.m. the following day. What’s meaningful today can become meaningless tomorrow, not because it no longer works but because what people believe and how they think, act and feel change. The context surrounding what works is in sync with the beliefs and behaviours of the people who support it. As businesspeople, innovators, artists and creators, we have two choices. We can simply keep giving customers what works today, or we can make it our business to understand where those people we serve want to go and take them there.

Activation is immediate, takes 10 minutes, and you can set it up on your own. Of course you are welcomed to contact our office for assistance. Watch our tutorial video and step-by-step guides with screenshots. Interactive Voice Response (EVV) is a technology that uses a phone keypad to interact with employees or customers to answer questions on their own. It saves time when a quick and simple questions needs to be answered.

She hadn't handled this much adrenaline in years. Not since the first time she'd stayed at the lab past curfew and had to hot-wire the dorm's keypad to get to her room.

Interactive Voice Response (EVV) is a technology that uses a phone keypad to interact with employees or customers to answer questions on their own. It saves time when a quick and simple questions needs to be answered. Watch our tutorial video and step-by-step guides with screenshots. You will learn how the set-up process works including how to register a local area phone number, clock in and clock out, monitor real time through messages, and pull reports.

The Device consists of a small telescreen, headset, and keypad. It combines the functions of telephone, radio, television, newspaper, and encyclopedia. Users are warned not to attempt to open the housing of the Device, or the power supply will explode. Every Device is keyed to a specific user, by means of electrodes built into the headset that recognize his unique brain-wave pattern. Signals from the Device are relayed by a network of thousands of tiny satellites in Low Earth Orbit, collectively known as the Cloud. The Device is so cheap and so useful that it soon becomes an indispensable part of daily life. It’s impossible to buy, sell, communicate, or travel without one. The Device becomes a de facto national ID card, to be carried at all times. Children are issued their own Device at the age of eight.

8 Sam insisted they stop off at the baker’s on their way back; she had a feeling they were in for a long day. Once they arrived at the station, she told Bob to go on ahead while she hung around to speak to the desk sergeant. “Do you have anyone free, Nick?” “I can always find someone to help you out, Inspector. What do you need?” “A team of officers, actually. They need to go out to the Chatley farm in Mosser, more to the point, the surrounding area. Knock on the neighbours’ doors, see if they saw any suspicious vehicles in the area in the last few days.” “I can instigate that for you. Leave it with me.” “Good, thanks, Nick. Let me know if they come up with anything. I won’t be holding my breath. I think we have a crafty killer in our midst.” Nick tilted his head and winked. “They all slip up sooner or later, you know that as well as I do.” “How true.” She smiled, turned and tapped the number on the security keypad which released the door. Wearily, she made her way up the stairs to the incident room. She paused, wondering whether she should take a detour to the chief’s office, to keep him up to date. Her stomach rumbled which helped to make up her mind. The chief could wait. The incident room was buzzing, but it quietened down as soon as she entered the room. “Don’t let me stop you. Let’s get lunch underway and chuck around a few ideas while we eat, yes?” Bags rustled and Bob joined Sam at the drinks’ area. He added sugar to the cups. She touched his forehead. “Are you feeling all right?” He tutted. “Bugger off. I thought I’d better show willing, considering you bought the sandwiches.” “Thanks, it’s appreciated. I’m sure the rest of the team will agree.” Between them they handed around the drinks. In between bites and sips, Sam ran through what they had discovered up at the farmhouse. Crap, I wish I’d finished my lunch first. Her stomach objected and she placed half of her sandwich aside, to maybe go back to later. “That’s what we have, ladies and gents. Any suggestions?” Claire raised a hand, lettuce poking out from the corner of her mouth. She finished what she was chewing on and wiped her lips with a serviette. “Sorry about that, boss. Messy eater, I know, Scott’s always saying the same. Going back to the case, do you want me to delve into their backgrounds, the three who knew each other? Would that help?” “Anything we can find out about the three of them is going to help, Claire, so go for it. They’ve been friends for over fifty years, I seem to recall, so they might have a few skeletons in the cupboard to

The computer was primitive. It had the words ‘MacBook Pro’ on it, and a keypad full of letters and numbers, and a lot of arrows pointing in every possible direction. It seemed like a metaphor for human existence.

She had to come back through the bedroom, though, and Kidd pulled a drawing stool over to the laptop bench, sat and waited. Seven or eight minutes later, naked as the day she was born, fresh out of the shower, Grant walked across the bedroom, wiping down her back with a long white terrycloth towel. She was, Kidd thought, a healthy lass. As Kidd watched, she tossed the towel on her bed and walked over to a side table, reached behind it, and must have pushed a button or moved a lever—a built-in bookcase on a sidewall smoothly rotated away from the wall. Grant stepped over to the safe and after punching in a string of numbers on the safe’s keypad, she pulled open the heavy steel door and started taking out jewelry cases.

There should be a very formidable looking door in the room. It's got a text keypad on it. The answer is drawn from our experience. None of the clones should know it. Try not to mistype the answer. Get it wrong enough times and poison gas will flood the room, killing you." There was some whispering from off screen, causing Video Me to look over. "What? Really?" Video Me turned back to the screen. "Okay, turns out there's no poison gas, though I was promised poison gas. Anyway, get the code wrong long enough and the door won't open. You'll starve to death or some other horrible thing can happen. Maybe we'll have a death ray." More whispering from off screen. "Maybe we'll have a death ray," said Video Me tersely to the person off-screen.

Why is the top row of your telephone keypad labeled 1 2 3, whereas the top row of your calculator is 7 8 9? Because both the telephone company and the calculator company say, “That’s the way we do things around here.” Take a look around your home or work environment. See if you can identify how many things you, your family, or your colleagues do in the basic reproductive thinking mode. This may be harder to do than you think. These fossilized reproductive patterns are so strong and seem so “right” that we usually don’t even notice that they are there. Here’s a quick test. I’ll bet that when you pop bread into your toaster, you always do so with the “bottom” of the bread down. Why? There is no real bottom of the bread. It doesn’t make any difference which edge of the bread is up or down when you toast it, but it just seems natural to put the bottom edge down. Why not toast your slice sideways? It might be easier to take out of the toaster when it’s done.

Crap,” he said. “Now we have to wait five minutes.” “No. Try spiking the solenoid.” He shrugged, gave me a dyspeptic scowl, and twisted the keypad off the safe door. It’s meant to be easily removed, so you can change the battery. He pushed on a couple of clips, releasing a plastic cover, then pulled out the black rubber membrane. This exposed a circuit board and a row of eight tiny metal posts.

What happens in the brain, he asked, if the person carrying out an automatic task suddenly makes a special effort to pay attention to that task? The PET scan kicked out the answer. When the young man again focused on the now-automatic keypad movements, his prefrontal cortex and anterior cingulate jerked awake, becoming metabolically active once again. This is a finding of tremendous importance, for it shows that mindful awareness has an activating effect on the brain, lighting it up. The take-home message of Passingham’s studies is that willfully engaging in mindful awareness while performing an automatic task activates the action-monitoring circuitry of the prefrontal cortex. It is this activation that can transform us from automatons to members in good standing of the species Homo sapiens (from Latin sapere, “to be wise”). Given the strong evidence for the involvement of the prefrontal cortex in the willful selection of self-initiated responses, the importance of knowing we can modulate the brain activity in that very area with a healthy dose of mindfulness can’t be overstated.

highbay. It had its own keypad lock. There was a big

The mandatory protocol for cockpit door opening in American airspace had been in place since the attacks on New York and Washington. One flight attendant blocked the aisle leading from the front of the passenger cabin, standing before the drawn privacy curtain. A second flight attendant was a backup, standing on the other side. The armored door to the flight deck could be opened only from the inside, or outside from a keypad. The code was changed for every flight, and was known only to the pilots. On U.S. domestic flights, a wire screen was unfurled and secured, sealing off the vestibule from the first-class cabin while the pilots moved about, one at a time, outside the cockpit. On an international flight aboard a twin-aisle jet like the Airbus 330, the guard post was a ten-foot-long vestibule in front of the flight deck door. On one side was a bathroom, on the other, a bar and coffee galley.

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