This special section on technology-in-use in the last decades of the Ottoman Empire strives to strengthen the dialogue between historians of the late Ottoman Empire and historians of technology interested in the way technologies were appropriated, domesticated, and used beyond the great centers of technological innovation, with a special emphasis on all kinds of users, including nonhuman ones. The ruling elites of this multiethnic and multireligious land empire strove to instrumentalize new inventions and techniques to improve the empire's geopolitical standing, but in an era marked by interimperial competition, by the rise of nationalism, and by the global expansion of capitalism, the circulation, appropriation, and use of these innovations and techniques proved far beyond their control. From steamships and railways to electricity, the focus is on the ways technologies were appropriated and used in the Ottoman Empire, how they were integrated into the everyday lives of the people, and how they shaped and were shaped by profit-making and political agendas, which reveals the rapid and enormous impact of new technologies on peripheral regions of the world.

In June 1928, Captain Barnett W. Harris, an amateur naturalist from Indiana, arrived in Zululand to experiment on wild animals with his invention - the mercy bullet. This "bullet"consisted of a hypodermic needle filled with anesthetic drugs that could render an animal unconscious - an early model of what is now known as the tranquilizer gun. The history of this gun typically begins with Colin Murdoch, a New Zealand pharmacist and veterinarian, who patented the invention in 1959. While largely absent in the archives, through tracing popular science publications and press, this article exposes a longer history of animal tranquilizers from an unlikely source. Tracing Harris's story allows this article to speak to different historical discourses that influenced his rise as a celebrated inventor, and later to his disappearance from the scientific arena. This article argues that debates about pain relief (for both humans and nonhuman animals) and developments in military technology at the turn of the twentieth century resulted in experiments with narcotic bullets, a precursor to this "mercy bullet moment." While hailed across the press as the man who might transform animal capturing into a humane practice, the workings of Harris's bullet remained ambiguous. Despite this, he promoted his invention through several lecture series and radio presentations to the American public in the 1930s, where elements of scientific showmanship can be observed. Overall, Harris's omission from the history of animal tranquilizing demonstrates the multiple contingencies that define a moment of scientific "success" - or, in this case, push some into relative obscurity.

This article focuses on the history of the customs laboratories in the United States between the 1870s and the 1930s, focusing especially on the decades up to World War I. It pays attention to the various dimensions of these laboratories, in particular the context of their creation. The first customs laboratory was established in New York in 1878, and over the subsequent years, similar laboratories were set up across the country. The evolution of this network was influenced by factors such as the increasing specialization of these spaces, their geographic distribution, and changes in their organization and scope. The article also explores the types of imported merchandise analyzed in these labs; the roles of their staff, especially customs chemists, both within and outside these laboratories; their impact on the circulation of goods and in generating revenue from taxation; and the main challenges faced by customs chemists in adapting and standardizing their work. After discussing the necessity of customs laboratories in the United States, the article examines their progressive specialization, with a detailed study of the customs laboratory in New York. This laboratory was the largest and most significant due to its location and longevity. Finally, the paper considers the relationship between customs labs and the law, and how these spaces adapted to new challenges during the first third of the twentieth century.

This article presents a new perspective on the intersection of technology, biology, and politics in modern Germany by examining the history of biotechnics, a nonanthropocentric concept of technology that was developed in German-speaking Europe from the 1870s to the 1930s. Biotechnics challenged the traditional view of technology as exclusively a human creation, arguing that nature itself could also be a source of technical innovations. Our study focuses on the contributions of Ernst Kapp, Raoul Heinrich Francé, and Alf Giessler, highlighting the gradual shift in political perspectives that influenced the merging of nature and technology in their respective visions of biotechnics. From Kapp's liberal radicalism to Francé's social organicism and ultimately to Giessler's totalitarian fascism, their writings increasingly vitalized technology by portraying it as a natural force independent from human influence. The history of biotechnics sheds light on previously unexplored aspects of debates surrounding the sciences and philosophy of technology in Germany, while also foreshadowing contemporary discussions on technocultural hybridity. As a genealogy of the idea of nonhuman technology, the article raises perturbing questions about the political implications of conflating nature and culture.

In the eighteenth century, the sciences and their applications adopted a new attitude based on quantification and, increasingly, on a notion of precision. Within this process, instruments played a significant role. However, while new devices such as the micrometer, telescope, and pendulum clock embodied a formerly unknown potential of precision, this could only be realized by defining a set of practices regulating their application and control. The paper picks up the case of pendulum clocks used in eighteenth-century observatories in order to show the process of learning in the course of which the pendulum clock first became a precision instrument. By examining the results of an especially developed statistical analysis, conducted to compare the performance of eighteenth-century clocks, it highlights the diversity of conditions, attitudes, and manners of handling that are characteristic for the epoch. In this way, it underlines the necessity of standardization of timekeeping practices rather than exclusively focusing on the technological development of clocks. Ultimately, the paper discusses the role of makers and users in order to show the evolution of a "precision instrument."

What kind of people make good scientists? What personal qualities do scholars say their peers should exhibit? And how do they express these expectations? This article explores these issues by mapping the kinds of virtues discussed by American scientists between 1945 and 2000. Our wide-ranging comparative analysis maps scientific across three distinct disciplines - physics, psychology, and history - and across sources that typify those disciplines' scientific ethos - introductory textbooks, book reviews, and codes of ethics. We find that, when inducting students into a discipline, evaluating peers, or codifying their professional standards, postwar American scientists routinely named virtues like carefulness, objectivity, and honesty. They applied such virtues not only directly to scholars' characters, minds, and attitudes (thereby equating virtues with ), but also to their methods, modes of reasoning, and working habits (in the form of what we call ). Strikingly, we find that physicists, psychologists, and historians drew upon largely similar repertoires of virtue. For all of them, scientific work required carefulness, thoroughness, and accuracy. Not all virtues, however, were equally important in all disciplines (notably objectivity), nor did each ethos-forming genre place equal emphasis on the directly personal nature of such virtues. All in all, our research establishes an extended framework for understanding the ways virtues remained present in postwar American scientific discourse writ large.

Sanfte Chemie was a concept formulated in the 1980s in Germany by a group of environmentally conscious scholars. It emerged within a unique environment, marked by its radical critique of dominant forms of rationality, and against the rich background of German philosophical technocritical traditions. Its purpose was to profoundly reshape the practice of chemistry and the organization of the chemical industry along the lines of sustainability. In contrast to later concepts like green or sustainable chemistry, Sanfte Chemie went beyond setting new research directions; it critically reevaluated the entire epistemological foundation upon which the science of chemistry was built. Under the auspices of the German Green Party, the concept flourished in the 1980s before falling out of grace in the following decade. While largely deemed overly radical in its time and then subsequently forgotten, Sanfte Chemie not only anticipated some of the most promising trends in sustainability science today but also offered unique insights that may shed new light on the challenges of the ongoing environmental crisis.

After World War II, infant mortality rates started dropping steeply. We show how this was accomplished in socialist countries in East-Central Europe. Focusing on the two postwar decades, we explore comparatively how medical experts in Poland, Hungary, Czechoslovakia, and East Germany saved fragile newborns. Based on an analysis of medical journals, we argue that the Soviet Union and its medical practices had only a marginal influence; the four countries followed the recommendations of the World Health Organization instead, despite not being members. Importantly, we analyze the expert clashes over definitions of livebirth, which impact infant mortality statistics. We analyze the divergent practices and negotiations between countries: since the infant mortality rate came to represent the level of socioeconomic advancement, its political significance was paramount. Analyzing the struggle to reduce infant mortality thus helps us understand how socialist countries positioned themselves within the transnational framework while being members of the "socialist bloc."

This article investigates why Humboldtian Science, as a heuristic concept, has gained prominence in the historiography of science and requires clarification. It offers an ideal-type model of comparative research and exact measurements across vast spaces, which Susan F. Cannon and others tied to Alexander von Humboldt (1769-1859). Yet, he himself was less "Humboldtian" than this concept suggests. The article proposes to disentangle Humboldtian Science from Humboldt's science, which constituted a set of individual research practices that defied the ideal of precision. Humboldt's science was often impromptu, marked by epistemological and personal insecurities, and embedded in the protagonist's peripatetic way of living and frequently erratic writing style. Historicizing Humboldt's science undermines the exceptionalism that elevates the Prussian savant above his contemporaries and casts him as a singular figure. This critical reflection encourages biographical approaches to the history of science, balancing heuristic generalizations and attention to individual research styles.

In the mid-nineteenth century, the house sparrow () was introduced to the United States, quickly spreading across the country. For a brief period in the late nineteenth and early twentieth centuries, the observation of sparrow behavior was something of an urban pastime. Traits such as intelligence, reason, persistence, and craftsmanship were conferred onto sparrows by American urbanites. This paper argues that sparrow intelligence was often conflated with domestication: the ability of the birds to adapt to living alongside humans. Praise for the ingenuity of sparrows generally revolved around their nest building, particularly when such structures overcame the challenges posed by urban infrastructure and technology. Sparrows were far less praiseworthy when they caused electricity outages or contaminated water supplies. The sparrow in the United States demonstrates how the relationship between these anecdotes and their implications for animal minds was mediated by the technology and infrastructure of cities. Admirers of sparrows were not measuring the birds' mental capacity, but rather their ability to adapt to human habitations. Sparrows were only granted intelligence once they had demonstrated their ability to become domesticated.

This article examines the rise and decline of the enthusiasm for intelligence testing in early twentieth-century China, focusing on the appeal, the challenges, and the critiques revolving around this psychological instrument. The introduction of intelligence testing reflected not only China's urgent needs in modernizing its merit system, but also Chinese psychologists' aspirations for pursuing exactitude and redefining the racial characteristics of their compatriots against foreign interpretations. But despite psychologists' endeavors, the political and geographical fragmentation of Republican China troubled the epistemic imperative of uniformity demanded by Euro-American psychometrics and therefore undermined the validity of measurement. Subsequently, the legitimacy of intelligence testing began to be questioned by several influential Chinese psychologists in the late 1920s and 30s. The difficulties in standardization and the hostility within the psychology community formed a vicious cycle, impeding the progress of nationwide testing. Through this history, the article demonstrates not only the elevation of measurement to epistemic authority in modern China, but also how its promise was challenged by a diverse and rapidly changing society.

There existed a tradition of mimetic experimentation in the late nineteenth century, whereby morphologists sought to scale down sublime natural phenomena to tabletop devices in the laboratory. Experimenters constructed analogs of the aurora, attempting to replicate the colors and forms of the phenomenon with discharge tube experiments and electrical displays, which became popular spectacles at London's public galleries. This paper analyses a closely allied but different kind of imitation. Between 1872 and 1884, Professor Karl Selim Lemström (1838-1904) attempted to reproduce the aurora borealis in all of its complexity atop four mountains in northern Finland. Crucially, his "artificial aurora" was to materialize at the same scale as the original phenomenon and in its natural habitat in the polar atmosphere. With his experiment Lemström hoped to uncover the workings of the aurora and the electrical currents that he believed were always present within the atmosphere; his epistemological framework was one of learning by making. This paper sheds light on the broader problem of what it meant to authentically replicate a phenomenon that remained largely enigmatic, and, most importantly, how this replication could be verified. This prompts a discussion as to whether model experiments needed only to appear visually similar to the objects they purported to imitate, were required to preserve their form, or needed to be materially identical in order to the original to be identified as legitimate "reproductions" in the late nineteenth century.

This article focuses on the earlier encounters and uses of electricity, its technology, and its infrastructure to understand how electricity formed a contested terrain of politics among the city's varying actors, such as state officials, financial investors, and consumers, in late Ottoman Istanbul, roughly between the 1870s and early 1920s. I contend that people used electricity as a political tool in their everyday lives even before they could access it physically. Electricity skepticism during the reign of Sultan Abdülhamid II (1876-1909) increased Istanbul residents' inclination for an electrified future; the longer the sultan's prohibitions lasted, the more they fueled this inclination, causing problems about the use of electricity. In contrast to the previous regime's skepticism about electricity use, the Committee of Union and Progress (1909-18) administrators considered electricity a public service that a larger population could use rather than a source of energy for a small, privileged elite. The first urban-scale power plant was completed in 1914. However, the inability to import technical equipment and raw materials due to political and financial troubles caused by World War I (1914-18) and the Occupation Period (1918-23) hampered electricity production and consumption, causing serious problems in electricity use on public and private scales. Amid the wave of challenges, the city inhabitants witnessed numerous unpleasant encounters with electricity use; some perished in tram accidents, while others became criminals. At a time when much of society viewed electricity as a vital element for progress and economic growth, the prevalence of crowded trams, tram accidents, blackouts, and instances of electricity theft within the Ottoman capital called into question the notion of electricity as a technological promise and public good. Consequently, the initial enthusiasm for electricity's transformative potential waned due to tensions between expectations and daily realities, resulting in a cautious approach toward technological modernity.

Translations, whether in the form of text, illustration, or interpretive analysis, served knowledge-making in multiple ways. It offered a refuge, severed contexts, and concealed the various workers that created it. Over the course of the seventeenth century, European naturalists in Istanbul, such as Luigi Ferdinando Marsigli (1658-1730), procured illustrations of Ottoman nature as fundamental resources to identify, collect, and compare indigenous plants and newly bred varieties. Despite maintaining an actual mediation for cross-cultural interactions, these sources of virtual communication remain largely forgotten in modern scholarship. This article argues that this curious yet invisible corpus was not a nonagentive medium in an alienated leisure of a gentleman-scholar; instead, these illustrations were designed to call upon the viewer's constant attention in self-motivated scientific labor. Such handy tools responded and contributed to early modern scholars' modes of working, and in exchange they determined these sources' own function, position, and visibility - either as a by-product or as a derivative. It is therefore only when integrated into the labor history of science that the degrees of invisibility pertaining to both Ottoman nature studies and self-directed labor can come into a granular view.

By recovering the dependent, often enslaved, laborers who helped to make European medicines commercially available in the New England colonies, this article offers a new history of early American pharmaceutical knowledge and production. It does so by considering the life and labor of an unnamed, enslaved assistant who was said to make tinctures, elixirs, and other common remedies in a 1758 letter between two business partners, Silvester Gardiner, a successful surgeon and apothecary in Boston, Massachusetts, and William Jepson, his former apprentice, in Hartford, Connecticut. Using strategies from slavery and critical archive studies, as well as from social history and the history of medicine, this article emphasizes the materiality and embodiment of pharmaceutical production and follows fragmentary evidence beyond the business archive to reverse the systemic erasure of enslaved and indentured laborers from the records of eighteenth-century manufacturers of medicines. The medicine trades of men like Gardiner and Jepson appear more reliant upon dependent laborers - named and unnamed - who not only performed rote tasks but brought their experience and judgment to their labors as well. Their contributions could be obviously medical (preparing remedies) or more ambiguous (stoking fires, shipping goods), but these actions together constituted early modern pharmacy, enabled the expansion of the transatlantic medicine trade, and laid the foundations for the more self-sufficient and industrialized pharmacy that developed in the nineteenth century. Centering the skill and knowledge among subordinated laborers in one facet of an emergent transatlantic care economy affirms the entanglement of slavery and science and underscores the necessity of asking new questions of old sources.

From industrial psychology and occupational therapy to the laboratory bench and scenes of "heroic" fieldwork, there are important connections between the science of labor and the labor of science. Participants in the 2022 Gordon Cain Conference explored how greater attention to these connections might deepen historical understanding of what constitutes "science" and what counts as "labor." Our conversations circled around themes of vulnerability (of systems, individual bodies, historical testimony), affect (pertaining to historical actors and ourselves), and interdependence (e.g. across human groups, species, political boundaries, and time). For the members of this group, which grew out of a panel discussion, these themes and motivations coalesced around a topical focus on invisibility, which helped us to articulate - in the form of a co-created syllabus - research questions about science and labor from multiple angles pertaining to practice, archival preservation, and scholarly representation. This syllabus is organized into six thematic modules that aim to challenge and historicize the concept of invisible labor by facilitating comparisons across geographic, temporal, conceptual, and disciplinary boundaries. The goals of this collaborative syllabus, in sum, are manifold: we seek to facilitate more inclusive histories of science through critical engagement with "invisibility" and thereby promote a more expansive understanding of what constitutes scientific labor; to highlight the constitutive role of gendered labor practices in the scientific enterprise; to draw attention to interdependencies that make all forms of production (knowledge or material) possible; to elucidate systems of remuneration for scientific labor over the longue durée and through pointed comparisons; and, finally, to promote self-reflexivity about the methods we use to narrate the history of science and make sense of our own labors.

This article examines preparatory labor practices that South Korean farmers had to undertake to use chemical fertilizers in the 1960s. Preparatory labor, such as learning about and acquiring fertilizers, that came prior to the use of chemical fertilizer in the field was mundane and often invisible. However, it was this logistical and emotional labor that was essential for the maintenance of South Korea's chemical fertilizer system. In the system, which was part of the government's efforts to establish rural modernity through increased crop productivity, the state looked down on farmers as the subject of edification. Nevertheless, the farmers were crucial maintainers of the state-led agricultural reform, realizing the government's vision of modernity. To reveal the hidden relationship between farmers, technology, and the state, this article extensively uses diaries written by two farmers - Yoon Heesoo from Daecheon Village and Shin Kwonsik from Daegok Village. By doing so, this article aims to shed light on the voices of farmers and their roles in the agricultural reform of 1960s South Korea and, more broadly, of the Green Revolution.

This article examines the phenomenon of the "global circulation of low-end expertise" through an exploration of the social dynamics surrounding American oil drillers who migrated from the Pennsylvania oil region to British colonial Burma during the early 1900s to the mid-1930s. These working-class drillers, with practical knowledge in oil drilling acquired through familial and community networks, played a crucial role in operating mechanized oil wells and providing geological expertise in colonial Burma. Positioned between labor-intensive agricultural economies in colonial Asia and the higher echelons of British colonial society, these drillers occupied an intermediate social location. Despite their indispensable expertise, they were marginalized due to their lower social standing, leading to their expertise being disregarded by their superiors and forgotten over time. By understanding the complexities of the "global circulation of low-end expertise," this study sheds light on the social construction and erasure of the expertise held by these working-class drillers, revealing overlooked aspects of global histories of science and labor and highlighting the need to reassess dominant historical narratives on knowledge-labor.

Kepler's intricate trajectory, his self-reflective comments about the conditions of production of knowledge in his time, and the wealth of materials preserved make it possible to reconstruct a whole set of regimes of scholarly work around 1600, each with its typical mode of control, forms of subordination, temporal economy, and means of remuneration. Kepler's maneuvering in this landscape was shaped by his attempts to carve out spaces for the kind of work he considered his very own - his "speculations" or "private studies" - within work relationships involving service and subordination. Thus, we find nonalienated, self-directed scholarly work embedded, constrained, and enabled by heteronomous regimes of work, a field of tensions that I seek to capture in the formula "work within work." A labor history of science could thus offer us an opportunity for exploring historically documented, nonincidental and partly institutionalized forms of less alienated work, and trace the ways in which they related to and interacted with dominant relations of production.

This article offers suggestions for what a labor history of science might look like and what it might accomplish. It does so by first reviewing how historians of science have analyzed the history of both "science as labor" and "science and labor" since the 1930s. It then moves on to discuss recent historiographical developments in both the history of science and labor history that together provide an analytical frame for further research. The article ends by projecting into the future, considering how a labor history of science might help us grapple with connecting our understanding of the past with the challenges of today and tomorrow.

This brief essay introduces a special issue dedicated to exploring two themes: "science and work" and "science as work." Following a brief overview of these two themes, it briefly describes the other contributions to the special issue.