Stand still in a doorway and you block the light. Stand still in a room and you
block the Wi-Fi too — you are mostly water, and water absorbs and scatters
2.4 GHz radio about as enthusiastically as it heats soup.
Ordinary Wi-Fi hardware measures that interference constantly, because it has
to. To push data through a room full of furniture and people, a radio needs to
know how the room distorts a signal on its way across: which frequencies arrive
strong, which arrive weak, which arrive late after bouncing off a wall. That
measurement is called Channel State Information, and every Wi-Fi chip
computes it hundreds of times a second purely to do its day job.
We do not use it for its day job. We record it, and we watch the shape of it
change as people move through the space. Nobody carries anything. Nothing is
photographed. What lands on disk is a few thousand complex numbers per second
describing how a room bends radio — a physics measurement of a space, which
happens to be shaped by the people standing in it.
So there are ten small computers in the FIIT library. One of them transmits a
steady, deliberately boring stream of Wi-Fi frames. The other nine listen to
what the room did to those frames on the way over. When the reading hall fills
up before an exam, the numbers change. The research question is what exactly
they change into, and how confidently you can read a crowd back out of them.