has led Steel. Smith to be a globally competitive toggle clamp manufacturer. . Please visit aracer.mobi to download PDF Catalogues, CAD Drawings. Please visit aracer.mobi to download. PDF Catalogues, CAD Drawings and to view our latest news-letter and product This catalogue contains about different standard toggle clamps & clamping systems. Steel-Smith has. "Steel-Smith" was established in the year , and India's largest manufacturer of. Toggle Clamps, pioneered the development of toggle clamps in India over.
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Steel-Smith PDF Catalogue - Free download as PDF File .pdf), Text File . txt) or This catalogue contains about different standard toggle clamps. Steel-Smith PDF Catalogue - Download as PDF File .pdf), Text File .txt) or read has led Steel Smith to be a globally competitive toggle clamp manufacturer. HTC Series Clamps - LH Series With Additional Locking Mechanism PDF. Steel Smith is India's largest manufacturer & exporter of Toggle Clamps, Clamps, .
Two decades later, he still looks up to us with the same trust he began with. Because even as the times changed along with the application areas our products kept pace. Only improving in terms of quality.
Introducing newer and innovative products, continuously improving upon the existing ones and catering to our customers with prompt after sales service; weve grown.
Weve grown from a small set-up to an established brand name. Today Steel-Smith is the largest manufacturer and exporter of a wide range of toggle clamps and other industrial accessories. In doing so, we owe a lot to our customer; our source of inspiration and unrelenting support. Cad Database Steel Smith has placed its entire line of standard clamping products in a CAD library, which customers can use to save valuable drafting time and increase fixture productivity.
Not available with Z1 or on HV. See option page. Figure 1. Typical RF Power Device in an. Clamp-Down Assembly Injection Molding - Mitsubishi Engineering-Plastics Corporation ; The injection molding machine consists of the injection unit and the clamping unit , and their features are described below.
Clamping devices - sks. Browse the world's largest eBookstore and start reading today on the web, tablet, phone, or ereader. Jigs and fixtures non-standard clamping devices eBook Create lists, bibliographies and reviews: or Search WorldCat. Find items in libraries near you The strength of clamp should be such that not only to hold the workpiece firmly in place but also to take the strain of the cutting tool without springing when designing the jigs and fixtures.
Essential features of Jigs and Fixtures Reduction of idle time — Should enable easy clamping and unloading Hiram E. McGraw-Hill, - Jigs and fixtures - pages. Jigs and fixtures: non-standard clamping devices Jigs and fixtures non-standard clamping devices eBook Jigs and fixtures non-standard clamping devices.
USA - Non-polarized clamping selenium rectifier All Conductix-Wampfler catalogs and technical brochures We both sip our drinks. I think he must. He sighs, and closes his eyes. Yet he does not look untrustworthy.
I want to believe he can help me. But he has always been extremely reluctant to let you see these professionals. He has made it very clear that you have had extensive treatment before, and in his opinion it has achieved nothing other than to upset you. Naturally he wanted to spare you — and himself — from any more upset. I did approach Ben first.
We spoke on the phone. I even asked him to meet with me so that I could explain what I had to offer, but he refused. So I contacted you directly. He looked down at his drink. I waited until you came out of the house and then introduced myself.
Just like that? I had to persuade you that you could trust me. I suggested that we should meet once, just for one session. I said I would explain to you why I wanted you to come and see me, and what I thought I could offer you. You felt that was better. Though progress is somewhat difficult to quantify exactly. But lots of memories seem to have come back to you over the last few weeks — many of them for the first time, as far as we know.
And there are certain truths that you are aware of more often, where there were few before. Or me. That is the progress he is talking about. Perhaps he means I can make it to the shops or a library without a chaperone, though right now I am not even sure that much is true. In any case, I have not yet made enough progress for me to wave it proudly in front of my husband. Not even enough for me to always wake up remembering I have one. It is almost empty.
There are voices from a small kitchen at the back, the occasional rattle as the water in an urn reaches boiling point, the noise of children playing in the distance. It is difficult to believe that this place is so close to my home and yet I have no memory of ever being here before. Anything at all? As far as I know I am meeting you for the first time today. It seems you know more on some days than on others.
Yet I can remember some things from years ago. My childhood. My mother. I remember being at university, just. Possibly I ask the same thing every week. Possibly we have exactly the same conversation. Here we can store huge quantities of information, and retain it for a seemingly indefinite length of time.
We now know that these two functions seem to be controlled by different parts of the brain, with some neural connections between them. There is also a part of the brain which seems to be responsible for taking short-term, transient memories and coding them as longterm memories for recall much later. I would have been like that once, I suppose; sure of myself. So if, for example, the sufferer has a motor accident, they may not remember the accident, or the days or weeks preceding it, but can remember everything up to, say, six months before the accident perfectly well.
People with this condition live in the moment, able to recall only the immediate past, and then only for a small amount of time. It is as if we each have our lines, have rehearsed this conversation often. Generally you have no consistent memory of anything that happened since your early childhood, but you seem to process new memories in a way I have never come across before. If I left this room now and returned in two minutes most people with anterograde amnesia would not remember having met me at all, certainly not today.
But you seem to remember whole chunks of time — up to twenty-four hours — which you then lose. It suggests you are able to transfer things from short-term to long-term storage perfectly well. I guess that means I am lucky. The room goes quiet. The air feels still, and sticky. When he speaks his words seem to echo off the walls.
Disease, trauma, drug use. The exact nature of the impairment seems to differ, depending on the part of the brain that has been affected. An accident, he had said. A bad accident. At first I wonder if he is going to consult his notes, but instead he passes it across the table to me. Better than I can. About what has caused your condition, especially. But other things as well. It is brown, bound in leather, its pages held closed by an elastic band.
I take that off and open it at random. The paper is heavy and faintly lined, with a red margin, and the pages filled with dense handwriting. I asked you to keep it. I told you to write whatever you like in it. I thought it might help you to maintain a thread of memory from one day to the next. Plus I felt that memory might be like a muscle, something that can be strengthened through exercise. More or less. What secrets might I have? That it was time. I am excited. A journal.
A link back to a lost past, albeit only recent. Embarrassed, I think. I wonder if he is telling me the truth, what the book contains. I want you to know that.
On the inside of the front cover is a list of dates. Page after page. Days and days of work. I wonder how I found the time, but then think of the board in the kitchen and the answer is obvious; I have had nothing else to do. I put it back on the table.
A young man wearing jeans and a T-shirt comes in and glances over to where we sit, before ordering a drink and settling at a table with the newspaper. I feel as though I am invisible. We walk back the way we had come. The sky has clouded over and a thin mist hangs in the air. The ground feels soggy underfoot; it feels like walking on quicksand. On the playground I see a roundabout, turning slowly even though no one is riding it.
No, we normally meet in my office. We do exercises. Tests and things. I have to get going. Julie and I have plans this evening. I notice his hair, cut short, neatly parted, and the way his shirt has a vertical stripe that clashes with the horizontal one on his pullover. I realize that he is only a few years older than I thought I was when I woke this morning.
We got engaged. I keep forgetting. These are the details I should remember, I suppose. The little things. Perhaps it is these trivialities I have been writing down in my book, these small hooks on which a whole life is hung.
I feel like I ought to ask more questions, ought to show more interest, but there is little point. Anything he tells me now I will have forgotten by the time I wake tomorrow.
Today is all I have. To the coast. He turns to leave, but then looks back at me. To carry on with your treatment, I mean. I remember my journal, the appointments that we had pencilled in between now and the end of the year. I realize I trust him, and I am glad. Call me, whenever you like. I make a cup of coffee and carry it into the living room. From outside I hear the sound of whistling, punctured by heavy drilling and an occasional burst of staccato laughter, but even that recedes to a gentle buzz as I sit in the armchair.
The sun shines weakly through the net curtains and I feel its dull warmth on my arms and thighs. I take the journal out of my bag. I feel nervous. I do not know what this book will contain. What shocks and surprises. What mysteries. I see the scrapbook on the coffee table. In that book is a version of my past, but one chosen by Ben. Does the book I hold contain another?
I open it. The first page is unlined. I have written my name in black ink across its centre. Christine Lucas. Or Keep out! Something has been added. Something unexpected, terrifying. More terrifying than anything else I have seen today. There, beneath my name, in blue ink and capital letters, are three words. There is nothing I can do but turn the page.
I begin to read my history. I am forty-seven. An amnesiac. I am sitting here, in this unfamiliar bed, writing my story dressed in a silk nightie that the man downstairs — who tells me that he is my husband, that he is called Ben — apparently bought me for my forty-sixth birthday. The room is silent and the only light comes from the lamp on the bedside table — a soft orange glow. I feel as if I am floating, suspended in a pool of light.
I have the bedroom door closed. I am writing this in private.
In secret. I can hear my husband in the living room — the soft sigh of the sofa as he leans forward or stands up, an occasional cough, politely stifled — but I will hide this book if he comes upstairs. I will put it under the bed, or the pillow. I look at the clock on the bedside table. It is almost eleven; I must write quickly. I imagine that soon I will hear the TV silenced, a creak of a floorboard as Ben crosses the room, the flick of a light switch.
Will he go into the kitchen and make a sandwich or pour himself a glass of water? Or will he come straight to bed? Because I have no memory. According to Ben, according to the doctor I met this afternoon, tonight, as I sleep, my mind will erase everything I know today. Everything I did today. I will wake up tomorrow as I did this morning. Thinking I am still a child. Thinking I still have a whole lifetime of choice ahead of me.
And then I will find out, again, that I am wrong. My choices have already been made. Half my life is behind me. The doctor was called Nash. He called me this morning, collected me in his car, drove me to an office. He asked me and I told him that I had never met him before; he smiled — though not unkindly — and opened the lid of the computer that sat on his desk.
He played me a film. Avideo clip. It was of me and him, sitting in different clothes but the same chairs, in the same office. In the film he handed me a pencil and asked me to draw shapes on a piece of paper, but by looking only in a mirror so that everything appeared backwards. I could see that I found it difficult, but watching it now all I could see was my wrinkled fingers and the glint of the wedding ring on my left hand.
When I had finished he seemed pleased. I smiled then, but did not look happy. The film ended. Dr Nash closed his computer. He said we have been meeting for the last few weeks, that I have a severe impairment of something called my episodic memory. Structural or chemical, he said. Or a hormonal imbalance. It is very rare, and I seem to be affected particularly badly. I thought of this morning, when I had woken with no adult memories at all. There are treatments for persistent amnesia, he said — drugs, hypnosis — but most have already been tried.
Right up until you go to sleep. He slid a brown notebook across the desk towards me. In here. Its pages were blank. So this is my treatment? I thought. Keeping a journal?
I want to remember things, not just record them. He must have sensed my disappointment. What choice did I have, really? Keep a journal or stay as I am, for ever. Ring me if you get confused. Things like that. At first it seemed totally unfamiliar to me, but then I saw the worn step that led to the front door and suddenly knew.
It was the house in which I had grown up, the one that, this morning, I had thought I was waking up in. It had looked different, somehow less real, but was unmistakable. I swallowed hard. He nodded, and told me that most of my early memories are unaffected. He asked me to describe the inside of the house. The bath and toilet were through the kitchen, at the very back of the house. He asked if I remembered any small details.
It came to me then. There were jams up there, too. She made her own. We used to pick the berries from a wood that we drove to. The three of us would walk deep into the forest and pick blackberries. Bags and bags. And then my mother would boil them to make jam. One of a woman who, after a few moments, I recognized as my mother.
One of me. I told him what I could.
When I finished he put them away. He drove me back. He said nothing. An idea came to me. We were pulling up in front of a house.
Amoment after he stopped the car I realized it was my own. Before you go to sleep.
I got out of the car. Now I sit in bed. Waiting for my husband. I look at the photo of the home in which I grew up.
It looks so normal, so mundane. And so familiar. How did I get from there to here?
What happened? What is my history? I hear the clock in the living room chime. Ben is coming up the stairs. I will hide this book in the shoebox I have found. I will put it in the wardrobe, right where I have told Dr Nash it will be. Tomorrow, if he rings, I will write more. Saturday, 10 November I am writing this at noon. Ben is downstairs, reading. He thinks I am resting but, even though I am tired, I am not. I have to write this down before I lose it.
I have to write my journal. I look at my watch and note the time. Ben has suggested we go for a walk this afternoon. I have a little over an hour. This morning I woke not knowing who I am. When my eyes flickered open I expected to see the hard edges of a bedside table, a yellow lamp. A boxy wardrobe in the corner of the room and wallpaper with a muted pattern of ferns. I expected to hear my mother downstairs cooking bacon, or my father in the garden, whistling as he trims the hedge.
I expected the bed I was in to be single, to contain nothing except me and a stuffed rabbit with one torn ear. I was wrong. The bedroom was completely foreign. I lay back in bed. Something is wrong, I thought. Terribly, terribly wrong. By the time I went downstairs I had seen the photographs around the mirror, read their labels. I knew I was not a child, not even a teenager, and had worked out that the man I could hear cooking breakfast and whistling along to the radio was not my father or a flatmate or boyfriend, but he was called Ben, and he was my husband.
I hesitated outside the kitchen. I felt scared. I was about to meet him, as if for the first time. What would he be like? Would he look as he did in the pictures? Or were they, too, an inaccurate representation? Would he be older, fatter, balder? How would he sound? How would he move? How well had I married? A vision came from nowhere.
A woman — my mother? Marry in haste … I pushed the door open. Ben had his back to me, nudging bacon with a spatula as it spat and sizzled in the pan. He had not heard me come in. He turned round quickly. Are you OK? I think so. He looked older than in the pictures upstairs — his face carried more lines, his hair was beginning to grey and receding slightly at the temples — but this had the effect of making him more, rather than less, attractive.
His jaw had a strength that suited an older man, his eyes shone mischief. I realized he resembled a slightly older version of my father. I could have done worse, I thought.
Much worse. I nodded. Here, take this. A few minutes later he followed me with two plates. A pale sliver of bacon swam in grease, an egg and some bread had been fried and sat on the side.
As I ate he explained how I survive my life. Today is Saturday, he said. He works during the week; he is a teacher. He explained about the phone I have in my bag, the board tacked on the wall in the kitchen. He showed me where we keep our emergency fund — two twenty-pound notes, rolled tightly and tucked behind the clock on the mantelpiece — and the scrapbook in which I can glimpse snatches of my life. He told me that, together, we manage. I was not sure I believed him, yet I must.
We finished eating and I helped him tidy away the breakfast things. Once I was alone, my head spun, full and empty at the same time. I felt unable to grasp anything. Nothing seemed real. I looked at the house I was in — the one I now knew was my home — with eyes that had never known it before. For a moment I felt like running.
I had to calm myself. I sat on the edge of the bed in which I had slept. I should make it, I thought.
Tidy up. Keep myself busy. I picked up the pillow to plump it and as I did something began to buzz. It was low, insistent. A tune, thin and quiet. My bag was at my feet and when I picked it up I realized the buzz seemed to come from there.
I remembered Ben telling me about the phone I have. When I found it, the phone was lit up. I stared at it for a long moment.
Some part of me, buried deep, or somewhere at the very edge of memory, knew exactly what the call was about. I answered it. Christine, are you there? Is Ben around? I want you to look in the wardrobe in your bedroom. Have a look inside that. There should be a notebook. We decided you should keep a journal. Do it now. He was right. Inside, on the floor, was a shoebox — a blue box with the word Scholl on the ill-fitting lid — and inside that a book wrapped in tissue.
I lifted it out and unwrapped it. It was brown leather and looked expensive. I have it. Have you written in it? I saw that I had. My name is Christine Lucas, it began. I felt nervous, excited. It felt like snooping, but on myself. There, crouching on the floor by the open wardrobe, the bed still unmade, I began to read. At first, I felt disappointed. I remembered nothing of what I had written. Not Dr Nash, nor the offices I claim that he took me to, the puzzles I say that we did.
The book read like fiction. But then, tucked between two pages near the back of the book, I found a photograph. The house in which I had grown up, the one in which I expected to find myself when I woke this morning. It was real, this was my evidence. I had seen Dr Nash and he had given me this picture, this fragment of my past. I closed my eyes. Yesterday I had described my old home, the sugar jar in the pantry, picking berries in the woods.
Were those memories still there?