Normal modes — where it appears
Named by 26 essays across 5 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
Only some notes fit, and that is where discreteness comes from
A string clamped at both ends can vibrate at some frequencies and not others. A continuous object producing a whole-number list is the oldest quantisation in physics.
The frequency that gets an answer, and the quarter cycle nobody mentions
Push an oscillator at its own frequency and the response grows enormously. The reason is not that the push is in step with the motion — at resonance it is a quarter cycle out, and that is precisely why it works.
The curve that would not come down
Classical physics predicted that a warm object radiates infinite power at short wavelengths. Every step of the derivation was correct, the prediction was absurd, and closing the gap required assuming that energy comes in lumps.
The box that allows only some energies
Confine a wave between two walls and only the shapes that fit survive. That is a fact about strings, organ pipes and drumheads, and applying it to a matter wave produces quantisation with no new assumption at all.
What happens when the wells get close
Two atoms brought together split one level into two. A thousand split it into a thousand, packed into a band whose width stops growing after the third. Whether that band is full or half full is the whole difference between a wire and a window.
The thread that cannot stay a thread
A stream of water from a tap breaks into drops, and it does so at a spacing that is always about four and a half diameters. Nothing chooses that number — it is the wavelength that grows fastest out of a competition between all of them, and it can be computed before any water is poured.
Every minimum is a parabola
A pendulum, a bond between two atoms and a ship rolling in a swell obey the same equation, and the reason is not that they are alike. It is that a function with a minimum has no linear term there, so the first thing every potential well looks like is the same well.
The two pendulums that will not stop swapping
Coupled oscillators joined by a weak spring appear to hand energy back and forth. Nothing is handed anywhere: the system has only a pair of motions that keep their shape, at √(k/m) and √((k+2kc)/m), and the apparent traffic is the beat between them — 51 swings from one handover to the next at a coupling of one part in fifty. Extend the same arithmetic to N masses and it produces a dispersion relation with a hard ceiling, near 7 THz in copper.
The drum that has no harmonics
A string's allowed frequencies are 1, 2, 3, 4 times its lowest, because counting half-wavelengths is arithmetic. Clamp a membrane round a circle and the same reasoning returns 1.000, 1.593, 2.136, 2.295 instead — zeros of Bessel functions, not integers. And those numbers belong to the shape of the boundary alone, which raises a question nobody could answer until 1992.
The mass that makes another stand still
Bolt a small mass on a spring to a machine that is shaking itself apart, tune it to the frequency that is doing the damage, and the machine stops moving. Not moves less — stops, exactly, at that one frequency. The price is two new resonances either side of it, and the whole device is a bet that the drive stays where it was put.
The error that doubles on a schedule
Two double pendulums released a hundred-millionth of a degree apart follow one curve for ten seconds and then have nothing to do with each other. The separation grows exponentially the whole time, including while the picture shows a single trace — which turns unpredictability into a rate, and makes the length of a forecast the logarithm of the precision rather than anything proportional to it.
How many ways there are to vibrate
A drum has infinitely many modes, and below any given frequency it has a finite number of them. That number turns out to depend on the drum's area and the length of its rim and — to the accuracy anybody uses — on nothing else about its shape. Almost every result in thermal physics that involves waves is an application of that count.
The count that cannot be cheated
A string with a lump in it has no harmonics, no symmetry and no obvious order to its modes. It has one thing left: the nth mode crosses the axis exactly n−1 times, whatever the string is made of. Ordering by frequency and ordering by node count turn out to be the same operation, and in two dimensions the equality quietly becomes an inequality.
The frequency a lattice cannot carry
A continuous string carries every note. A row of masses joined by springs does not: there is a highest frequency, set by nothing but the time one mass takes to be pushed back by its neighbours, and above it a disturbance does not travel at all.
The mode that will not turn a corner
Bend a waveguide and the field has to go round with it, which means the part furthest from the centre has to travel faster. Past a certain distance it would have to travel faster than the surrounding medium allows, and everything out there radiates away — which is why bend loss is exponential in the radius and arrives all at once.
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 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 loss that falls as the frequency rises
Every metal conductor loses more at higher frequencies, because the current crowds into a thinner skin and meets more resistance. One wave in a round metal pipe breaks the rule. The TE₀₁ mode's electric field circles the axis and touches the wall nowhere. As the frequency rises it becomes more and more nearly a plane wave running down the middle of the pipe, and it drives less and less current in the metal. Its loss falls with frequency, to about half a decibel per kilometre at 60 GHz in a pipe 60 mm across. In the 1960s it was the best way anyone knew to send a hundred thousand telephone calls across a continent. The catch was that the pipe also carried seven hundred other modes.
The wobble that radiating makes larger
Radiation normally drains a vibration: a struck bell goes quiet because it sends its energy away as sound, and a ringing black hole settles in milliseconds because it sends its energy away as gravitational waves. A spinning star can have the opposite. A pattern that runs backward through the star's material, while the star carries it forward across the sky, has less angular momentum than the star would have without it, and every wave it radiates takes away angular momentum it did not have to give. The pattern grows. One family of such patterns, the r-modes, runs backward on every rotating star, so every spinning neutron star is unstable unless friction wins — and that may be why none has been found spinning faster than 716 turns a second.
The third of itself a spring carries
Every textbook gives the frequency of a mass on a spring as the square root of stiffness over mass, and every real spring has mass of its own, which the formula leaves out. The repair is famous and oddly specific: add a third of the spring's mass to the load. The third is not a fudge. It is what the spring's kinetic energy comes to if each coil moves in proportion to its distance from the fixed end, and it is good to two-thirds of a per cent even when the spring weighs as much as the mass. Where it fails, it fails because the spring has stopped being a spring and become a column of waves, with notes of its own above the bounce — the notes that make the valve springs of an engine lose control.
The vibration that turns part of the way
Strike a wine glass and turn it on the table while it rings, and the note beats: the pattern of the vibration does not turn with the glass. Nor does it stay still in the room. For a ring vibrating in its lowest mode it follows exactly three-fifths of the rotation and slips back the other two-fifths, a fraction that depends only on the shape of the vibration. That fraction, worked out by George Bryan in 1890, is how some of the most precise gyroscopes ever built measure an angle directly, with nothing spinning in them at all.
The tone the whole Earth rings at
The ground conducts and so does the ionosphere, eighty kilometres up, and between them lies a waveguide the size of the planet. Two walls, unlike a pipe, carry waves of any length, so the guide takes radio waves forty thousand kilometres long — longer than the world is round — and, closed on itself, it rings. Lightning strikes fifty times a second and keeps it ringing at about 7.8, 14.3 and 20.8 hertz. Perfect walls would put the tones at 10.6, 18.4 and 25.9; the difference is the ionosphere, a ceiling that leaks.
The chain that swings in Bessel's notes
Hang a chain from a hook and set it swinging. It can swing as a whole, like a pendulum, or in shapes with still points along it, as a guitar string does — but its higher notes are not two, three and four times its lowest. They are 2.295, 3.598 and 4.903 times it, the zeros of a function that Daniel Bernoulli met for the first time in exactly this problem in 1732, a century before Bessel's name was attached to it. The reason is that a hanging chain is a string whose tension grows from nothing at its free end to its whole weight at the top, and a wave crossing it changes speed all the way.
The plate that carries two kinds of sound
Tap the edge of a sheet of aluminium and the sound that runs along it is not one wave but two, and neither is the sound of the metal. One stretches the sheet and travels at 5.44 km/s, faster than a shear wave and slower than a compression wave in the same metal. The other bends it, travels at a speed that depends on how high the note is and how thick the sheet is, and at low frequency crawls at a few hundred metres a second. Both are made of the same two bulk waves bouncing between the faces, and the two faces together decide everything.
The bar a wave of gravity barely touches
The first gravitational-wave detectors were tonnes of aluminium, hung in a vacuum and listened to for ringing. A passing wave stretches and squeezes the bar, and the bar can answer only by vibrating against its own stiffness, so the fraction of the wave it catches is set by the speed of sound over the speed of light, squared: about three parts in ten billion. That one ratio explains why the bars had to be enormous and cold, why Joseph Weber's reported detections of 1969 would have required the Galaxy to be converting dozens of suns a day into gravitational waves, and why the waves were finally found by light instead.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Standing waveBoundary conditionsGuided wavesQuantisationResonanceCutoffDispersion relationQuality factorSimple harmonic motionSuperpositionDampingEigenvalue