These days, most of the media we consume is digital. We still watch movies and TV shows, but they’re all packaged in digital files that cram in many millions of pixels and as many audio channels as we could possibly desire.
Back in the day, though, engineering limitations meant that media on film or tape were limited to analog stereo audio at best. And yet, the masterminds at Dolby were able to create a surround sound format that could operate within those very limitations, turning two channels in to four. What started out as a cinematic format would bring surround sound to the home—all the way back in 1982!
As a Hackaday writer, I see a lot of web pages, social media posts, videos, and other tips as part of my feed. The best ones I try to bring you here, assuming of course that one of my ever-vigilant colleagues hasn’t beaten me to it. Along the way I see the tropes of changing content creator fashion; those ridiculous pea-sized hand held microphones, or how all of a sudden everything has to be found in the woods. Some of them make me laugh, but there’s one I see a lot which has made me increasingly annoyed over the years. I’m talking of course about the craftsman myth.
No. The Last True Nuts And Bolts Are Not Being Made In Japan
If you don’t recognise the craftsman myth immediately, I’m sure you’ll be familiar with it even if you don’t realise it yet. It goes something like this: somewhere in Japan (or somewhere else perceived as old-timey in online audience terms like Appalachia, but it’s usually Japan), there’s a bloke in a tin shed who makes nuts and bolts.
But he’s not just any bloke in a tin shed who makes nuts and bolts, he’s a special master craftsman who makes nuts and bolts like no other. He’s about 120 years old and the last of a long line of nut and bolt makers entrusted with the secrets of nut and bolt making, father to son, since the 8th century. His tools are also mystical, passed down through the generations since they were forged by other mystical craftsmen centuries ago, and his forge is like no other, its hand-cranked bellows bring to life a fire using only the finest cedar driftwood charcoal. The charcoal is also made by a 120 year old master charcoal maker Japanese bloke whose line stretches back to the n’th century, yadda yadda. And when Takahashi-san finally shuffles off this mortal coil, that’s it for nuts and bolts, because the other nuts and bolts simply can’t compare to these special ones. Continue reading “Exploding The Mystical Craftsman Myth”→
Full marks for clarity of message. Credit: Euro Route materials
When the Channel Tunnel opened in 1994, the undersea rail link saw Britain grew closer to the European mainland than ever before. However, had things gone a little differently, history might have taken a very different turn. Among the competing proposals for a fixed Channel crossing was a massive bridge. It was a scheme so audacious that fate would never allow it to come to fruition.
Forget the double handling involved in putting cars on trains and doing everything by rail. Instead, the aptly-named Euro Route proposed that motorists simply drive across the Channel, perhaps stopping for duty-free shopping in the middle of the sea along the way.
Back in 2016, we took you to a collection of slightly dilapidated prefabricated huts in the English Home Counties, and showed you a computer. The place was the National Museum of Computing, next to the famous Bletchley Park codebreaking museum, and the machine was their reconstruction of Colossus, the world’s first fully electronic digital computer. Its designer was a telephone engineer named Tommy Flowers, and the Guardianhas a piece detailing his efforts in its creation.
TNMOC’s Colossus MkII.
It’s a piece written for a non-technical audience so you’ll have to forgive it glossing over some of the more interesting details, but nevertheless it sets out to right a long-held myth that the machine was instead the work of the mathematician Alan Turing. Flowers led the research department at the British Post Office, who ran the country’s telephone system, and was instrumental both in proposing the use of electronic switches in computing, and in producing a working machine. The connection is obvious when you see Colossus, as its racks are the same as those used in British telephone exchanges of the era.
Having a gadget’s battery nestled snugly within the bowels of a device has certain advantages. It finally solves the ‘no batteries included’ problem, and there is no more juggling of AA or AAA cells, nor their respective chargers. Instead each device is paired to that one battery that is happily charged using a standardized USB connector, and suddenly everything is well in the world.
Everything, except for the devices that cannot be used while charging, wireless devices that are suddenly dragging along a wire while charging and which may have charging ports in irrational locations, as well as devices that would work quite well if it wasn’t for that snugly embedded battery that’s now dead, dying, or on fire.
Marrying devices with batteries in this manner effectively means tallying up all the disadvantages of the battery chemistries and their chargers, adding them to the device’s feature list, and limiting their effective lifespan in the process. It also prevents the rapid swapping with fresh batteries, which is why everyone is now lugging chunky powerbanks around instead of spare batteries, and hogging outlets with USB chargers. And the task of finding a replacement for non-standardized pouch cell batteries can prove to be hard or impossible.
Looking at the ‘convenience’ argument from this way makes one wonder whether it is all just marketing that we’re being sold. Especially in light of the looming 2027 EU regulation on internal batteries that is likely to wipe out the existence of built-in batteries with an orbital legal strike. Are we about to say ‘good riddance’ to a terrible idea?
When the microcomputer first landed in homes some forty years ago, it came with a simple freedom—you could run whatever software you could get your hands on. Floppy disk from a friend? Pop it in. Shareware demo downloaded from a BBS? Go ahead! Dodgy code you wrote yourself at 2 AM? Absolutely. The computer you bought was yours. It would run whatever you told it to run, and ask no questions.
Today, that freedom is dying. What’s worse, is it’s happening so gradually that most people haven’t noticed we’re already halfway into the coffin.
Over on YouTube, [The Modern Rogue] created an interesting video showing a slide-rule-like encryption device called the Réglette. This was a hardware implementation of a Vigenère-like Cipher, technically referred to as a manual polyalphabetic substitution cipher. The device requires no batteries, is fully waterproof, daylight readable and easy to pack, making it really useful if you find yourself in a muddy trench in the middle of winter during a world war. Obviously, because it’s a slide rule.
Anyway, so how does this cipher work? Well, the ‘polyalphabetic’ bit infers the need for a key phrase, which is indeed the first thing all parties need to agree upon. Secondly, a number is required as a reference point. As you can see from the video, the sliding part of the device has letters of the alphabet, as well as numbers and a special symbol. The body has two series of numbers, with the same spacing as the central, sliding part. A second copy of the sliding part is also needed to slide in behind the first unit. This second copy is neatly stowed below the body during storage.
With each message letter, you lookup the corresponding cipher text number, then shift the slider to the next key phrase letter.
The cipher works by first aligning the starting letter of the (variable-length) key phrase with the reference number. Next, encode the first symbol from the cleartext message (the thing you want to encrypt). You simply look up the letter on the slide and read off either of the numbers next to it. Randomly selecting the left or right set adds an extra bit of strength to the code due to increased entropy. The number is the first symbol for your ciphertext (the thing you want to transmit to the receiver). Next, you move on to the next symbol in the cleartext message. Align the following letter of the key phrase with the reference number, look up the corresponding letter in the message, and transmit the following number onwards. When you run out of key phrase letters, you loop back to the start, and the cycle repeats.
The special symbol we mentioned earlier is not really a ‘blank’; it is a control symbol used to retransmit a new reference number with the existing setup. To change the reference number, the blank character is encoded and sent, followed by the latest reference number. When the blank symbol is received at the other end, the following code is used as the reference number, and the key phrase position is reset to point back to the first letter, restarting the cycle anew. Simple, yes. Effective? Well, not really by modern standards, but at the time of limited computing power (i.e. pen and paper, perhaps a mechanical calculator at best), it would have been sufficient for some uses for a couple of decades.
Why is this Vigenère-like? Well, an actual Vigenère cipher maps letters to other letters, but the Réglette uses numbers, randomly selected, adding entropy, as well as the control code to allow changing the cypher parameter mid-message. This makes it harder to attack; the original Vigenère was considered first-rate cryptography for centuries.
If you’d like to play along at home and learn some other simple ciphers, check this out. Kings and Queens of old frequently used cryptography, including the famous Queen Mary of Scots. Of course, we simply can’t close out an article on cryptography without mentioning the Enigma machine. Here’s one built out of Meccano!
