Retrotechtacular: Better Living Through Nuclear Chemistry

The late 1950s were such an optimistic time in America. World War II had been over for less than a decade, the economy boomed thanks to pent-up demand after years of privation, and everyone was having babies — so many babies. The sky was the limit, especially with new technologies that promised a future filled with miracles, including abundant nuclear power that would be “too cheap to meter.”

It didn’t quite turn out that way, of course, but the whole “Atoms for Peace” thing did provide the foundation for a lot of innovations that we still benefit from to this day. This 1958 film on “The Armour Research Reactor” details the construction and operation of the world’s first privately owned research reactor. Built at the Illinois Institute of Technology by Atomics International, the reactor was a 50,000-watt aqueous-homogenous design using a solution of uranyl sulfate in distilled water as its fuel. The core is tiny, about a foot in diameter, and assembled by hand right in front of the camera. The stainless steel sphere is filled with 90 feet (27 meters) of stainless tubing to circulate cooling water through the core. Machined graphite reflector blocks surrounded the core and its fuel overflow tank (!) before the reactor was installed in “biological shielding” made from super-dense iron ore concrete with walls 5 feet (1.5 m) thick — just a few of the many advanced safety precautions taken “to ensure completely safe operation in densely populated areas.”

While the reactor design is interesting enough, the control panels and instrumentation are what really caught our eye. The Fallout vibe is strong, including the fact that the controls are all right in the room with the reactor. This allows technicians equipped with their Cutie Pie meters to insert samples into irradiation tubes, some of which penetrate directly into the heart of the core, where neutron flux is highest. Experiments included the creation of radioactive organic compounds for polymer research, radiation hardening of those new-fangled transistors, and manufacturing radionuclides for the diagnosis and treatment of diseases.

This mid-century technological gem might look a little sketchy to modern eyes, but the Armour Research Reactor had a long career. It was in operation until 1967 and decommissioned in 1972, and similar reactors were installed in universities and private facilities all over the world. Most of them are gone now, though, with only five aqueous-homogenous reactors left operating today.

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Retrotechtacular: Yamming CRT Yokes

Those of us who worked in TV repair shops, back when there was such a thing, will likely remember the cardinal rule of TV repair: Never touch the yoke if you can help it. The complex arrangement of copper wire coils and ferrite beads wrapped around a plastic cone attached to the neck of the CRT was critical to picture quality, and it took very little effort to completely screw things up. Fixing it would be a time-consuming and frustrating battle with the cams, screws, and spacers that kept the coils in the right orientation, both between themselves and relative to the picture tube. It was best to leave it the way the factory set it and to look elsewhere for solutions to picture problems.

But how exactly did the factory set up a deflection yoke? We had no idea at the time, only learning just recently about the wonders of automated deflection yoke yamming. The video below was made by Thomson Consumer Electronics, once a major supplier of CRTs to the television and computer monitor industry, and appears directed to its customers as a way of showing off their automated processes. They never really define yamming, but from the context of the video, it seems to be an industry term for the initial alignment of a deflection yoke during manufacturing. The manual process would require a skilled technician to manipulate the yoke while watching a series of test patterns on the CRT, slowly tweaking the coils to bring everything into perfect alignment.

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Retrotechtacular: Point-of-Sale Through The Years

In days gone by, a common retail hack used by some of the less honorable of our peers was the price tag switcheroo. You’d find some item that you wanted from a store but couldn’t afford, search around a bit for another item with a more reasonable price, and carefully swap the little paper price tags. As long as you didn’t get greedy or have the bad luck of getting a cashier who knew the correct prices, you could get away with it — at least up until the storekeeper wised up and switched to anti-tamper price tags.

For better or for worse, those days are over. The retail point-of-sale (POS) experience has changed dramatically since the time when cashiers punched away at giant cash registers and clerks applied labels to the top of every can of lima beans in a box with a spiffy little gun. The growth and development of POS systems is the subject of [TanRu Nomad]’s expansive video history, and even if you remember the days when a cashier kerchunked your credit card through a machine to take an impression of your card in triplicate, you’ll probably learn something.

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Retrotechtacular: The Tyranny Of Large Numbers

Although much diminished now, the public switched telephone network was one of the largest machines ever constructed. To make good on its promise of instant communication across town or around the world, the network had to reach into every home and business, snake along poles to thousands of central offices, and hum through the ether on microwave links. In its heyday it was almost unfathomably complex, with calls potentially passing through thousands of electronic components, any of which failing could present anything from a minor annoyance to a matter of life or death.

The brief but very interesting film below deals with “The Tyranny of Large Numbers.” Produced sometime in the 1960s by Western Electric, the manufacturing arm of the Bell System, it takes a detailed look at the problems caused by scaling up systems. As an example, it focuses on the humble carbon film resistor, a component used by the millions in various pieces of telco gear. Getting the manufacturing of these simple but critical components right apparently took a lot of effort. Initially made by hand, a tedious and error-prone process briefly covered in the film, Western Electric looked for ways to scale up production significantly while simultaneously increasing quality.

While the equipment used by the Western engineers to automate the production of resistors, especially the Librascope LGP-30 computer that’s running the show, may look quaint, there’s a lot about the process that’s still used to this day. Vibratory bowl feeders for the ceramic cores, carbon deposition by hot methane, and an early version of a SCARA arm to sputter gold terminals on the core could all be used to produce precision resistors today. Even cutting the helical groove to trim the resistance is similar, although today it’s done with a laser instead of a grinding wheel. There are differences, of course; we doubt current resistor manufacturers look for leaks in the outer coating by submerging them in water and watching for bubbles, but that’s how they did it in the 60s.

The productivity results were impressive. Just replacing the silver paint used for terminal cups with sputtered gold terminals cut 16 hours of curing time out of the process. The overall throughput increased to 1,200 pieces per hour, an impressive number for such high-reliability precision components, some of which we’d wager were still in service well into the early 2000s. Most of them are likely long gone, but the shadows cast by these automated manufacturing processes stretch into our time, and probably far beyond.

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A design sketch of a partially disassembled candybar mobile phone. The enclosure is a clamshell of plastic that envelops the functional internals of the device and is illustrated to the right upper corner of the image, slightly overlapping the internals evoking the idea of the internals being inserted into the cover. The words "buttons part of the cover" are written toward the top with an arrow toward the numpad and "plastic shell with various design" is written toward the bottom with an arrow toward the translucent blue shell.

The Nokia Design Archive Is Open For Viewing

During the Cambrian Explosion of cellphone form factors at the turn of the millenium, Nokia reigned supreme. If you’d like to see what they were doing behind the scenes to design these wild phones, you’ll love the Nokia Design Archive from Aalto University.

Featuring images, presentations, videos and a number of other goodies (remember transparencies?), this collection gives us some in-depth insight into how consumer products were dreamed up, designed, and brought to market. Some projects require more reading between the lines than others as the Archive is somewhat fragmented, but we think it could still be an invaluable peek into product design, especially if you’re working on projects that you want to be usable outside of a hacker audience.

The Archive also includes approximately 2000 objects including many unreleased “unknown” models and prototypes of phones that actually did make it into the wild. While we’d love to get our hands on some of these devices IRL, having images with reference colors is probably the next best thing. Having replaced a number of smartphone screens, we hope more hackers take up the buttons and indestructible casing of these elegant devices for a more civilized age.

Thanks to [Michael Fitzmayer] for the tip! Be sure to checkout his work on Nokia N-Gage phones, including an SDK if you too love to taco talk.

Retrotechtacular: Soldering The Tek Way

For a lot of us, soldering just seems to come naturally. But if we’re being honest, none of us was born with a soldering iron in our hand — ouch! — and if we’re good at soldering now, it’s only thanks to good habits and long practice. But what if you’re a company that lives and dies by the quality of the solder joints your employees produce? How do you get them to embrace the dark art of soldering?

If you’re Tektronix in the late 1970s and early 1980s, the answer is simple: make in-depth training videos that teach people to solder the Tek way. The first video below, from 1977, is aimed at workers on the assembly line and as such concentrates mainly on the practical aspects of making solid solder joints on PCBs and mainly with through-hole components. The video does have a bit of theory on soldering chemistry and the difference between eutectic alloys and other tin-lead mixes, as well as a little about the proper use of silver-bearing solders. But most of the time is spent discussing the primary tool of the trade: the iron. Even though the film is dated and looks like a multi-generation dupe from VHS, it still has a lot of valuable tips; we’ve been soldering for decades and somehow never realized that cleaning a tip on a wet sponge is so effective because the sudden temperature change helps release oxides and burned flux. The more you know.

The second video below is aimed more at the Tek repair and rework technicians. It reiterates a lot of the material from the first video, but then veers off into repair-specific topics, like effective desoldering. Pro tip: Don’t use the “Heat and Shake” method of desoldering, and wear those safety glasses. There’s also a lot of detail on how to avoid damaging the PCB during repairs, and how to fix them if you do manage to lift a trace. They put a fair amount of emphasis on the importance of making repairs look good, especially with bodge wires, which should be placed on the back of the board so they’re not so obvious. It makes sense; Tek boards from the era are works of art, and you don’t want to mess with that.

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Retrotechtacular: The Deadly Shipmate

During World War II, shipboard life in the United States Navy was a gamble. No matter which theater of operations you found yourself in, the enemy was all around on land, sea, and air, ready to deliver a fatal blow and send your ship to the bottom. Fast forward a couple of decades and Navy life was just as hazardous but in a different way, as this Navy training film on the shipboard hazards of low-voltage electricity makes amply clear.

With the suitably scary title “115 Volts: A Deadly Shipmate,” the 1960 film details the many and various ways sailors could meet an untimely end, most of which seemed to circle back to attempts to make shipboard life a little more tolerable. The film centers not on the risks of a ship’s high-voltage installations, but rather the more familiar AC sockets used for appliances and lighting around most ships. The “familiarity breeds contempt” argument rings a touch hollow; given that most of these sailors appear to be in their 20s and 30s and rural electrification in the US was still only partially complete through the 1970s, chances are good that at least some of these sailors came from farms that still used kerosene lamps. But the point stands that plugging an unauthorized appliance into an outlet on a metal ship in a saltwater environment is a recipe for being the subject of a telegram back home.

The film shows just how dangerous mains voltage can be through a series of vignettes, many of which seem contrived but which were probably all too real to sailors in 1960. Many of the scenarios are service-specific, but a few bear keeping in mind around the house. Of particular note is drilling through a bulkhead and into a conduit; we’ve come perilously close to meeting the same end as the hapless Electrician’s Mate in the film doing much the same thing at home. As for up-cycling a discarded electric fan, all we can say is even brand new, that thing looks remarkably deadly.

The fact that they kept killing the same fellow over and over for each of these demonstrations doesn’t detract much from the central message: follow orders and you’ll probably stay alive. In an environment like that, it’s probably not bad advice.

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