I have recorded elsewhere my unsuccessful search in the school magazine for Arthur C. Clarke's 'first published work, 1933', and the problem of identifying authors who habitually (often with good reason!) hid behind noms de plume. While looking for something else I have found that the ingenious sixth form editors of the 1967 Magazine had not only penetrated the author's disguise but also secured an 'Introduction' for a re-print of a piece originally dated 1934.

INTRODUCTION BY THE AUTHOR

It is a somewhat disconcerting experience to a struggling young author like myself to be confronted by something he wrote no less than 33 years ago. When the editors disinterred it, I read this piece with much trepidation but am relieved to find that it is at least fairly literate. This introduction has been blackmailed out of me by the threat of reprinting other juvenilia which I had thought safely buried.

I don’t know if the Technical Institute still exists, or whether it is still used for the nefarious purposes described in this travelogue. But I certainly spent many happy hours there, and my most vivid memory is of the time when I constructed a light-beam transmitter out of a bicycle torch, a carbon microphone and a photocell amplifier. I can still remember the eye-wrenching way the light-beam blinked when I put a metronome in front of the microphone, and picked up the sound a few yards away in an adjoining room. Of course, there was nothing original about this, but it is interesting to note that transmission of information over light-beams is now coming very much to the fore in space communications.

I also seem to remember, dimly, a fight on the Technical Institute’s stairs using charged Leyden jars as weapons. This seems a little improbable; perhaps I made it up ‘in some other article .

I would like to take this opportunity of paying a tribute to the "potentate" mentioned in the first paragraph - Captain E. B. Mitford. It was "Mittie" who stimulated my interest in writing. and edited all my early work. This year, rather belatedly, I have dedicated my latest collection of short stories, "The Nine Billion Names of God", to him.

"THE TECHNICAL INSTITUTE"

by Arthur C. Clarke

Having lived in luxurious idleness for some time, I was in hopes that the Editor had forgotten my existence. Alas, I was mistaken, for one day that potentate asked me, in a voice fraught with hidden meaning, when I had last contributed anything to the Magazine. I took the hint, and left hastily in search of "copy".

First I tried in the Lab, in the hope that I might be able to interview one of its strange denizens. Unfortunately, an accident with the prize Kipp’s had made this part of the school unapproachable to one trained to the beauties of the English language.

I retraced my footsteps, and inspected the other form rooms one by one, but the rows of frozen faces they represented did not appeal to me.

In despair, I was wandering disconsolately back and forth, when I saw some youths emerge from the school and travel swiftly in a westerly direction. On making enquiries I found that they were bound to the "Tech". This suggested tooth-brushes to me, but, as I had nothing better to do, I followed them.

We walked for a considerable distance through the streets, until we arrived at a rather unimposing edifice labelled "Technical Institute", which we entered. I found myself in a large room. filled with strange instruments and incomprehensible machinery. at whose functions I could not guess.

The place was filled with the roar of many voices, an.d the shrill "keening" of violated dynamos. From various brass knobs, continuous streams of sparks nipped and crackled, while every so often one was dazzled by crazily swinging beams of light from the mirrors of tormented galvanometers. And ever and anon came the sound of splintering glass, mingled with cries of pain and anguish.

Into this maelstrom of general upheaval I was thrust headlong. Recovering from the first shock, I sought a safe refuge from which I could survey the uproar without exposing myself to overmuch physical danger. Such a place I found behind a long bench which ran parallel to the wall and a few feet from it. I took up my position behind this bench, against which the mob hurled itself in vain, like the breakers of an angry sea.

I first perceived a group of youths gathered round a strange apparatus of spinning discs, kept in motion by the vigorous exertions of a gentleman cranking a handle. This apparatus was fitted with two brass knobs between which portly sparks oscillated merrily, each spark being greeted with "ohs" and "ahs" of admiration from the onlookers.

This machine worship was however abruptly terminated, for a particularly fat and healthy spark missed its target, and hurled itself, like a thunderbolt, into th’e face of an unfortunate watcher who was too near the machine for safety.

I watched the life-saving activites of the survivors for some time, until another table caught my eye. An interesting competition was in progress around one of the D’Arsonval galvanometers. The aim of the competitors was to see who could make the mirror swing through the widest angle, and it seemed that a gentleman who had cornered all the accumulators was likely to win. A suitable resistance was of course inserted in the circuit to prevent the unfortunate instrument from utter and instananeous extinction.

The gentleman with the accumulators, who achieved a mere 1200, was far surpassed by an ingenious youth who used the dynamo for his purpose, and thus spun the mirror (as far as could be accurately determined) through some 30,0000° before the coils volatilised.

No less intriguing were the antics of the other persons who were playing with an elaborate switch board. One young gentleman was opening and closing a switch with some rapidity, forcing an electric motor to start and stop violently. This treatment caused the outraged motor to emit most interesting noises. Presently however, with much sizzling and smoking, it adopted a policy of passive resistance, and its torturers were forced to desist.

It is strange how small causes can produce great effects. Just one footstep - ponderous, no doubt, but infinitesimal compared with the cataract of noise echoing through the building - put a stop to all this blissful bedlam.

There entered a venerable gentleman whom I at once recognised as our noble Head; accordingly, I ducked behind my bench, but not before I had observed the metamorphosis which had taken place in the assembly.

Those who had so lately and so violently disported themselves, were now engaged in tabulating rows of figures, and reading mysterious scales and dials. The Head gazed round the room, apparently saw no signs of damage (they were well concealed), and marched out again.

I followed his example, and as I left the building I heard the tumult gradually regaining strength behind me......
CLERICUS
Autumn Term 1934

[Head Mr. A. Goodliffe, M.A. Magazine Committee included A. C. Clarke and Mr. Rutt.]

.....end, created/updated 15 December 1999