Interference — where it appears
Named by 57 essays across 7 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
When two waves meet, they simply add
Waves pass through each other unchanged and their displacements add point by point. From that one impoverished-sounding rule comes interference, beats, and the evidence that light is a wave at all.
Where rays stop being enough, and a shadow acquires a bright centre
Light going through a narrow gap spreads. No amount of ray tracing predicts it, the size of the spreading is set by one ratio, and taking that ratio to zero is exactly what the ray model is.
Everything has a wavelength, and almost nothing shows it
If light with a momentum can behave like a particle, a particle with a momentum can behave like a wave. The wavelength is Planck's constant over the momentum, which for anything larger than a molecule is a number too small to have consequences.
One arrival at a time, and the pattern still appears
Send particles through a double slit slowly enough that only one is ever in the apparatus, and each arrives as a single dot in one place. Wait, and the dots assemble into fringes that no dot knew about.
The wave that stretches one way and squeezes the other
A gravitational wave passing through a ring of free masses lengthens one diameter while shortening the perpendicular one, then swaps. The two conservation laws that forbid anything simpler are why the effect is a part in a thousand million million million.
What a thousand slits buy that two cannot
The bright directions behind a grating are fixed by its ruling pitch and the wavelength alone, and no count of lines appears in them. What the count changes is the width of each maximum, which falls as 1/N — so resolving power is mN, and 1,200 illuminated lines separate the sodium D lines with a dip of 53.4 per cent where 300 show one line and no dip at all.
Why two lamps never interfere
Adding amplitudes is unconditional; fringes are not. What decides is whether the phase difference holds still for longer than a detector takes to record it — and a 10 nm slice of white light holds it for 100 femtoseconds, across a path of 30 micrometres.
The correlation no instructions can produce
A pair of gloves in two boxes agrees perfectly and needs no physics, because the answers were settled at packing. What no packing can imitate is the shape that appears as the two analysers are turned relative to each other, and the shape is a number — 2.828 where every list of pre-agreed answers is stuck at 2.
How far a wave can remember
Split a beam, delay one half, and put them back together. The fringes are bright while the delay is short and fade as it grows, and the distance at which they die is fixed by nothing but the width of the source's spectral line. Watching them fade is reading the line shape.
The layer that makes a reflection vanish
A wave meeting a step in impedance reflects, and nothing can be done about the step. Put a third medium between the two, a quarter of a wavelength thick and of exactly the intermediate impedance, and the reflection stops existing — not reduced, cancelled.
The spiral that says how much light arrives
Huygens' construction says where a wave has got to and refuses to say how bright it is, because an envelope is a locus and a locus has no amplitude. Adding the wavelets with their phases instead of taking their envelope turns the whole subject into one curve, and every near-field pattern there is becomes a chord of it.
The path that takes the longest time
Light is said to take the quickest route. Put a source and a detector in front of a mirror curved a little more than the ellipse through them, and the route it takes is slower than every route beside it — by construction, not by exception. The principle was never about least; it was about stationary, and the difference is where optics stops being geometry.
The gap a repeat opens
Stack two transparent materials in alternating layers and there is a band of frequencies the stack will not carry — not weakly, not with loss, but not at all. Nothing has been absorbed and neither material has a resonance there. What forbids those frequencies is the repeat itself, and the width of the band has a closed form containing only the ratio of the two indices.
The angular momentum that is not a rotation
An electron has angular momentum, and it is not going round anything. A sphere of its mass carrying that much angular momentum would need its equator moving at half a million times the speed of light at any size the electron is allowed to have. What survives of the analogy is the algebra — and the algebra turns out to require that turning the thing all the way round leaves it changed.
The measurement that never touched it
A balanced interferometer sends every photon to one output and none at all to the other. Put an object in one arm and the empty port starts clicking — and a click there is caused by a photon that cannot have gone near the object, because a photon that goes near it is absorbed. The object has been found by light that never met it.
The grating that photographs itself
Put a grating in a beam of light and hold a screen behind it. At one particular distance the screen shows the grating again — sharp, at full contrast, right way up, with no lens anywhere in the apparatus. Half way there it shows the grating shifted sideways by half a period. A quarter of the way there, a half-open grating shows nothing at all.
The ring where the two beams disagree
Send light both ways round a closed loop on a turntable and the two beams come back at different times, by 4AΩ/c² — an expression with no refractive index in it, no shape of the loop and no position of the axis. The same number is what a set of clocks round the rim fails to close by, which is the sharper statement — on a rotating platform there is no global simultaneity to be had.
The phase that is only a shape
Take a beam of polarised light through a sequence of elements that returns it to the polarisation it started with, and it comes back with a phase it did not have before. That phase is not an optical path length — it does not depend on the thickness of anything, or on the wavelength, or on how slowly the sequence was carried out. It is minus half the area the path enclosed on the sphere of polarisation states, and nothing else.
The grain that is in the light
Point a laser at a wall and the wall appears to be covered in a fine boiling texture. Nothing on the wall is that size and nothing about the wall decides it: the grain belongs to the aperture looking at it, the statistics are the same for every rough surface there is, and the most likely brightness anywhere in the pattern is zero.
The wave that comes from the rim
A shadow's edge is not a boundary between light and no light, and the fringes on either side of it are not a smudge. The whole pattern is the sum of two things — the light nothing blocked, and a single wave that behaves in every respect as though the rim of the obstacle were radiating it — and splitting it that way is exact rather than a picture.
The lens that is a set of rings
A lens focuses by delaying the light at its centre until every path takes the same time. A zone plate does the opposite: it changes nothing about the light that gets through, and paints out the light that would have arrived out of step. Half the aperture is thrown away and the axis gets brighter, which sounds like a contradiction and is the whole idea.
Two walls that let more through than one
Put a second barrier behind the first and the transmission does not fall — at particular energies it rises to exactly one, through a pair of walls each of which stops all but a few per cent. Probabilities cannot do that. Amplitudes can, and the region between the barriers is a box whose levels say where.
Everything a scatterer removes, from one direction
How much light a particle takes out of a beam — by scattering it anywhere at all, and by absorbing it — is fixed entirely by what it does in the forward direction, where its scattered wave cannot be told apart from the incident one. The mechanism is interference, and it also gives the refractive index.
The fringe and the spectrum are one measurement
An interferometer with no prism and no grating in it measures a spectrum, because what it records as the path difference is scanned is the Fourier transform of the source's spectrum. Coherence length and linewidth are the same fact stated twice, and the resolution is bought in centimetres of travel.
What adding does to the energy
Waves add their amplitudes and detectors read squares, so two waves together do not deliver the sum of what each delivers. Where the two get dimmer, the natural question is where the energy went — and the answer depends entirely on whether the sources can feel each other.
The resonance with a zero in it
Where a resonance is the only way through a system, the response is a symmetric peak. Where there is also a smooth path that does not care about the frequency, the two add before anything is squared — and the result is lopsided, with a frequency at which nothing gets through at all.
The backward wave Huygens had to remove
Every point of a wavefront is a source of a spherical wavelet, and a spherical wavelet goes in every direction — so the construction predicts a wave travelling backwards as well as forwards. Nothing of the kind exists, and the repair is a factor that Huygens' geometry has no room for.
The node that is not standing still
A wave meeting a perfect reflector makes a standing wave with real nodes. A partial reflection makes something that looks the same and is not: the minima are not zeros, energy flows steadily through them, and the depth of the pattern is a measurement of the load that caused it.
The phase a magnet leaves on a path it never touched
An electron beam split around a solenoid comes back with its fringes displaced, although neither path ever entered a magnetic field. What the electron responds to is the flux it went round, and the only local quantity that knows about that flux is the potential.
The turn that has to be made twice
Turn a spin-½ through a full circle and it does not come back. The direction it points in does, and every measurement on it does, but the state itself has changed sign — and a second full turn is needed before anything is where it started. The sign is invisible on one spin and measurable the moment a superposition has one branch turned and the other not.
The drag that was only an addition
Light in moving water is carried along by it, but only partly — by a fraction of the water's speed that depends on the refractive index in a way nobody could account for. Fresnel invented the coefficient to save a theory, Fizeau measured it in 1851, and it sat unexplained for half a century. It is the first term of the relativistic velocity addition and nothing else.
The film that goes black before it bursts
A soap film drains, runs through every interference colour, and then stops reflecting anything at all. The black patch is not a hole and not a film about to break: it is the thinnest and most stable state the arrangement has, held apart by a pressure between its two surfaces that only exists at distances of nanometres.
When the source is not heard all at once
The dipole approximation is not a statement that a source is small. It is a statement that every part of it is heard at the same retarded time, and dropping that assumption turns one source into a sum over a source. The sum is the same one a diffraction grating performs over its slits, with the same first null and the same extra orders — so a phased array and a grating are one piece of arithmetic met twice.
The probability that goes below zero
Classical mechanics describes an uncertain state as a cloud of points in the plane of position and momentum. Quantum mechanics has an exact counterpart, the Wigner function, whose shadows are the true position and momentum distributions — and which goes negative. It goes negative for a single photon, for every superposition of two packets, and for every pure state that is not a Gaussian. Where it is negative no classical cloud can imitate the state, and losing energy to the surroundings erases the negative regions first.
The plane in which three bodies are flat
A particle breaking into two gives each product a fixed energy; one breaking into three gives none of them one. What it gives instead is a plane of two invariant masses in which a decay with no forces spreads perfectly evenly inside a curved boundary — so every band, dark stripe and bright crossing a real decay draws there is a force, its spin, or a phase between two routes to the same three particles.
The resonance that refuses to leak
A resonance that sits at a frequency where waves can escape has a width, because it leaks. Put two such resonances into the same channel and let them talk to each other, and at one precise detuning one of their combinations stops leaking altogether — a mode with no width, surrounded by a continuum it could escape into and does not. It cannot be seen from outside, it traps whatever energy lands in it, and if a symmetry is what forbids the leak, it survives any change that keeps the symmetry.
Two tails that swap everything
Bring two guides close enough for their evanescent tails to overlap and they do not leak a little power into each other. They exchange all of it, and then exchange it back, over a length fixed by the splitting between two modes that belong to neither guide — so a coupler is cut to a length rather than tuned to a ratio, and the length depends exponentially on a gap of a few hundred nanometres.
The ripple that counts the neighbours
An absorption edge is drawn as a step and it is a step with a ripple on it — a modulation of eleven per cent in copper, five in a zinc site buried in a protein. The ripple is the ejected electron's own wave, scattered back onto the atom that emitted it, so its period is a distance. It is the only way of measuring where an atom's neighbours are that does not need a crystal.
The walk that interference can stop
Light scattered many times walks through a cloud, and a walk always gets through eventually — a slab twice as thick lets through half as much. Keep the waves' interference instead of adding intensities, and in one dimension the same disorder does something a walk cannot: it stops the light exponentially, traps it in modes with nothing special about where they sit, and turns transmission from a number into a spread over powers of ten. Whether the same can happen to light in three dimensions has been claimed, retracted and argued for thirty years.
The phases that turn a glow into pulses
A laser oscillates on many frequencies at once, spaced by the time light takes to go round its cavity. Add those waves with random phases and the output is a steady glow with noise in it. Add exactly the same waves with their phases equal and the output is a train of pulses, each N² times brighter than one wave and a fraction 1/N of the round trip long. Nothing about the frequencies, the amplitudes or the average power changes — only the phases, and they decide everything a detector fast enough would see.
The lattice no phase can bend
Cross a few laser beams of one colour and they paint a crystal of light in the space where they overlap. The beams' phases drift whenever a mirror trembles, and it would seem the pattern must tremble with them. Whether it does depends on a count. Three beams in a plane, or four in space, give a lattice whose shape no change of phase can alter — the phases can only slide it. One beam more and the phases decide the shape, and must be held still.
The wiggle faster than any wave in it
Light passing through a lens carries no detail finer than half a wavelength, because no travelling wave in it varies faster than that. It would seem to follow that the light itself cannot vary faster anywhere. It can. A sum of slow waves can be arranged to wiggle faster than any of them over a stretch of any length chosen — and to focus to a spot as narrow as wanted — provided the stretch sits between side lobes that grow exponentially with every extra wiggle.
The faint light a bright one makes measurable
A photodetector does not respond to a light wave's field; it responds to the square of it. Shine a strong beam onto the detector together with a weak one at a slightly different frequency, and the square contains a term that is the weak field multiplied by the strong one — oscillating at the difference frequency, carrying the weak light's phase, and as large as the strong beam cares to make it. That product lifts a picowatt out of an amplifier's noise to the limit set by counting photons, turns an optical frequency shift into a radio one, and carries with it a quantum price that decides why radio telescopes and optical telescopes are built so differently.
The layer too thin to see
A seismic survey sends a pulse of sound into the ground and listens to the echoes from every boundary where the rock changes. A thick layer returns two echoes, one from its top and one from its base, and the time between them gives its thickness. A thin one returns one echo, and below about a quarter of a wavelength the timing says nothing more: every thin layer looks the same, just weaker as it thins. It has not become invisible. It has become unmeasurable in the one way that was being used, and its thickness has moved into the echo's strength and its spectrum.
The light a charge makes by changing medium
A charge moving at constant speed in a straight line radiates nothing in a vacuum, and nothing in glass either if it is slower than light there. Let it cross from one into the other and it radiates at the boundary, though it neither turns nor slows. The field it carries has one shape in each medium and has to be rebuilt as it crosses, and what is shed in the rebuilding is light. The energy shed grows in proportion to the particle's Lorentz factor, the one property of a fast particle that almost nothing else measures at high energy, and this is why detectors stack hundreds of plastic foils in a particle's path to collect one or two X-rays.
The surface that cancels whatever skims it
Glass reflects four per cent of light falling straight on it, and water at radio frequencies two-thirds of the wave's amplitude. Tilt either towards grazing and the difference disappears: every surface, whatever it is made of, reflects a wave that only skims it completely, and turns it upside down. A wave travelling along a surface therefore meets its own reflection reversed and cancels on the surface itself. That one limit explains a dark fringe Humphrey Lloyd saw with a single mirror in 1834, why a mobile signal over flat ground fades with the fourth power of distance rather than the second, why a radar above the sea is blind at the horizon, and how a cliff in Sydney became the first radio interferometer.
The rough surface that is a mirror at a glance
A sheet of office paper is matt from above and shines when sighted along its surface. A choppy sea scatters a radar beam from overhead and returns it like a mirror near the horizon. An X-ray mirror polished to a third of a nanometre is still rough to X-rays except at angles below a degree. All three are one rule: two rays reflected from points at different heights differ in path by twice the height times the sine of the grazing angle, so roughness is measured in wavelengths times that sine — and every surface, however rough, is a mirror for light that skims it closely enough.
The photograph that keeps the spectrum
Light falling on a mirror adds to its own reflection, and the sum does not travel: it stands, with sheets of darkness every half-wavelength. Otto Wiener photographed those sheets in 1890 and found the film clear where it touched the mirror, which settled which of light's two fields acts on matter. A year later Gabriel Lippmann recorded the sheets through the depth of an emulsion and developed them into stacked layers that, lit with white light, send back exactly the colours that wrote them. His photographs store the spectrum itself, so they can tell apart two yellows that every colour film and every eye records as one.
The dark lines a wave cannot avoid
Overlap three waves of light and there are places where they cancel exactly — not along fringes, as two waves cancel, but at isolated points, round which the phase of the light turns through a full circle. They cannot be removed by any small change, they can only be created or destroyed two at a time, and random light is full of them, about three to every square wavelength. A grating with a fork in it writes one into a beam on purpose, and the beam that comes out has a dark core and carries angular momentum in its twist.
The wait that sets the precision
To measure an atom's frequency, the obvious method is to drive it and look for the response, and the sharpness of the answer is set by how long the drive lasts. Norman Ramsey found in 1949 that most of the drive is wasted. Two short pulses with a long wait between them do better than one long pulse, because during the wait the atom keeps its own time undisturbed, and any difference from the drive's time piles up as an angle the second pulse can read. Every primary clock in the world runs on that idea, and its precision is set by two numbers: how long the atoms can be left alone, and how many of them there are.
The pile of glass that stops every colour
A sheet of window glass reflects about eight per cent of the light that falls on it. A pile of a hundred sheets, George Stokes calculated in 1862, should still let through a tenth, because each extra sheet only adds a little more reflection to the total. That is right for sunlight, whose colours are too mixed to interfere. For a single colour, with every sheet and every gap a slightly different thickness, the same pile lets through a thousandth, and a pile of four hundred a hundred-millionth of a millionth. Interference with random phases does not average away into the intensity sum. In one dimension it traps every wave, at every wavelength, however weak each reflection is.
The scattering quantum mechanics returns unchanged
Rutherford worked out how alpha particles bounce off a nucleus by treating them as tiny planets on hyperbolic orbits, two years before Bohr's atom and fifteen before quantum mechanics. He had no right to be exactly correct, and he was: the full quantum calculation returns his formula without a single correction, at every energy. Coulomb's force is the one force for which that happens. Make the two nuclei identical, though, and quantum mechanics adds fringes no orbit can produce — doubling the rate at right angles for one kind of particle and halving it for the other.
The specimen that is invisible until its light is delayed
A living cell in water is nearly transparent: it delays the light passing through it by a fraction of a wavelength and absorbs almost none, and a perfect microscope shows it as nothing. The delay is there in the light, and the eye cannot see a delay. Frits Zernike's remedy was to delay a different part of the light — the part the cell did not scatter — by a further quarter of a cycle, at the one place in a microscope where it is separated from the rest. The invisible phase becomes brightness, the cell appears, and the price is a bright halo round everything large.
The beam that does not spread and the price it pays
Pass a laser beam through a shallow cone of glass and it emerges as a thin bright line of light, a core a few tens of micrometres wide that keeps its width for half a metre, where a beam focused to the same width by a lens would have doubled in a few millimetres. It seems to defeat diffraction. It does not. The core is not made of the light that was in it a moment before; every point along it is fed by a fresh ring of the aperture, and the core holds about one per cent of the beam's power. The rest is in the rings, and the rings are what pays for the line.
The lens a long wave walks round
Geometric optics says that a star passing exactly in front of a source magnifies it infinitely. No real wave agrees, because a wave cannot be focused to a point, and for the gravitational waves the detectors hear the disagreement is the whole story. A star, or a black hole of a few tens of suns, is smaller than one of those waves in the only measure that matters — the delay between paths round it — and the wave flows past it almost untouched. What decides whether a mass lenses a wave is not the mass's size, which is millions of kilometres, but its Schwarzschild radius set against the wavelength.
The molecule that interferes until it glows
A molecule of seventy carbon atoms, sent through a matter-wave interferometer, travels both arms at once and lands in fringes, as an electron or a neutron does. Heat it, and the fringes fade. Nothing has touched it from outside: a hot molecule glows, and each photon it gives off is a messenger that may carry away the information of which arm it was in. Whether it does depends on one comparison — the photon's wavelength against the separation of the arms. Long photons leave the fringes alone; short ones erase them. The loss of interference that is usually described as the onset of the classical world is here a measurement made by the molecule's own light, and its threshold can be computed.
The heating a quantum rotor refuses
Kick a freely turning rotor hard, at regular intervals, and classical mechanics says its motion becomes chaotic and its energy grows without limit, the momentum random-walking upward with every kick. Do the same to a quantum rotor and it follows the classical heating for a while, then stops — not because anything damps it, but because the waves of its momentum states interfere so as to cancel further spreading. The correspondence principle, which promises classical behaviour when quantum numbers are large, is broken here in the most direct way: by a quantum system that refuses to get hot.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
SuperpositionDiffractionCoherencePhaseFourier transformPath differenceDecoherenceSpectrumBandwidthImpedanceWavelengthBeats