Describe a part. Philo Mechanicus writes the parametric code that defines it, executes it, proves the geometry sound, and hands you the file — STL, STEP, and the drawing to match.
No hallucinated meshes. The code is the blueprint.
Twenty-three centuries ago, Philo of Byzantium earned the epithet Mechanicus — the Engineer — by doing something radical: writing mechanisms down precisely enough that anyone could build them. His water clock held a constant flow with a float regulator, arguably the first feedback loop in history. The machine survived because the description survived.
That is the whole idea here. A mechanism you can't regenerate from its description isn't engineered — it's improvised. We took his name as a standard to meet.
Philo of Byzantium, fl. c. 250 BC · PneumaticaThe model never emits raw geometry. It writes a parametric program — dimensions as numbers, features as functions — and the program is executed, measured, and gated.
"A wall bracket for a 40mm rod, two M5 mounting holes, 3mm fillets." Critical dimensions are extracted and recorded as obligations.
The AI writes the program that defines the part. Readable, editable, versionable — the source of truth, not a byproduct.
The code runs in isolation and produces the solid. If it doesn't run, nothing ships. No exceptions, no hand-waving.
Watertight. Manifold. Every stated dimension measured against your words, within ±0.1 mm. Printability checked against real build volumes.
STL for the printer, STEP for the shop, a dimensioned drawing for the record — all derived from one program, so they can never disagree.
"Make the hole 2 mm wider" is a one-line edit to the program — not a fresh roll of the dice.
Each entry in the Canon is printed, assembled, and proven working before it's published — then it ships with its source, the mathematics that makes it move, and the story of who built it first. One entry a month. Verified or it waits.
The water clock whose float regulator held time steady — the first feedback controller. Where the Canon, and the name on this page, begins.
A helix that lifts water uphill. One rotating part, pure geometry — pitch, blades, and angle exposed as parameters you can turn.
The ancient world's astronomical computer, rebuilt in stages — the Metonic gear train first. We will not pretend it fits in one release.
Also on the ladder: the south-pointing chariot · Su Song's escapement · Harrison's grasshopper · the Jacquard card reader · a Babbage difference-engine column. Every entry photographed working, or it isn't an entry.
Print the theorem. Turn it in your hands. The AI walks you through the derivation, step by step, and each step ends with something you do with the object — a mark, a turn, a prediction you watch come true.
Why this curve — and no other — gives a perfectly constant velocity ratio. Ships with a deliberately wrong twin, so you can feel the ripple the involute erases.
Two sliders, one bar, and the parametric equation of the ellipse drawn in ink by your own hand.
Seven bars that turn rotation into an exact straight line — not an approximation. A problem that stumped mathematicians for decades, resolved by inversive geometry you can pinch between two fingers.
Drop the balls. Watch the bell curve assemble itself out of coin flips. The central limit theorem, performed live on your desk.
Proofs you can hold.
Early access is opening to engineers, makers, and teachers who want parts they can trust and mechanisms they can understand.
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