Quality factor — where it appears
Named by 20 essays across 6 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
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 mode that lives in the mistake
A perfect stack of alternating layers refuses a whole band of frequencies — not weakly, not with loss, but not at all. Break the repeat once, by inserting a single layer of the wrong thickness, and exactly one frequency inside that band passes through the whole stack with a transmittance of one. The useful thing about a forbidden band turns out to be not what it excludes but what a single flaw is thereby allowed to hold.
The distance that takes the treble out
Spreading treats every frequency alike; absorption does not. The loss per cycle is roughly fixed and the number of cycles per metre goes as the frequency, so absorption climbs as f² and a sound gets duller with distance as well as quieter — which is the whole account of why a nearby thunderclap cracks and a distant one rumbles.
The width that is a lifetime
Hit a bell and time how long it rings; drive it and measure how narrow its response is. The two numbers are the same number, and they cannot disagree — not because the physics conspires but because a decay and a linewidth are one function seen in two coordinate systems.
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 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.
The mismatch no network can remove
A quarter-wave layer or a taper can match a resistance to a resistance as well as anyone likes. Put a capacitance across the load and that stops being true for every network that could ever be built from lossless parts: Bode and Fano proved that the total amount of match available is fixed by the load's resistance and capacitance, so a network can only move it about — and a flat match across a band can never be better than e to the minus π over the load's time constant times the band.
The moon kept molten by its neighbours
Io is the most volcanic body known, with hundreds of active vents and lava hotter than any erupting on the Earth, on a moon smaller than the Earth's own and far too small to have kept any heat from its formation. The heat is made continuously, by tides: Jupiter stretches Io, and because Io's orbit is slightly eccentric the stretch changes every day and a half, flexing the rock and warming it. Tides should have rounded the orbit off in a hundred thousand years and switched the heating off. They cannot, because two other moons keep tugging the orbit back into its oval, and the heat Io radiates is paid for by Jupiter's spin.
The wobble that is slow because the Earth gives
Euler worked out in 1765 that a spinning, flattened Earth whose axis is knocked slightly off its figure should wobble, the pole wandering in a small circle once every ten months. Astronomers looked for a ten-month period for a century and found nothing. In 1891 Seth Chandler found a wobble of fourteen months instead. The four extra months are not an error in Euler's arithmetic. They are the Earth yielding: its bulge partly re-forms round the displaced axis, weakening the torque that drives the wobble, and the lengthening measures how soft the planet is.
The noise a high Q moves out of the way
Anything held by a spring at a temperature jiggles, and equipartition says exactly how much: the mean square of its displacement is kT divided by the spring's stiffness, whatever the spring is made of and however it is damped. That looks like a floor no measurement can go below. It is a floor on the total, and the total can be moved. An oscillator with little damping puts almost all of its thermal motion into a narrow peak at its own frequency and leaves every other frequency quiet — which is why the mirrors of gravitational-wave detectors hang from fibres of glass that ring for minutes.
The clock that is pulled into step
In 1665, ill in bed, Christiaan Huygens noticed that two of his pendulum clocks hanging from the same beam were swinging in exact opposition, and that however he disturbed them they returned to it within half an hour. A clock is not a passive resonator waiting to be pushed; it keeps its own time, by its own mechanism. What a weak push can do to it is not change how strongly it swings but pull its phase — and within a range of frequencies set by the push's strength, pull it all the way into step. The same arithmetic locks lasers, pacemaker cells, power stations and the body's daily clock.
The note a bottle sings whatever its shape
Blow across the mouth of an empty wine bottle and it sounds a low note, about 109 hertz for a 750-millilitre bottle. Its wavelength is three metres, ten times the bottle's height, so it is not a standing wave in the bottle the way a flute's note is a standing wave in the flute. It is a mass bouncing on a spring: the plug of air in the neck, thirty milligrams of it, riding on the springiness of the air in the body. The note depends on the body's volume and the neck's size and on nothing about the body's shape, which is why a sphere, a cube and a tall cylinder of the same volume all sing the same note — and why a car driven with one window open throbs at eighteen hertz.
The coupling a resonance rescues
Two coils a hand's breadth apart share a few thousandths of their magnetic flux, and as a transformer they deliver almost nothing. Tune each with a capacitor to the same frequency and the same pair can carry most of the power across. Resonance does not strengthen the coupling, which is fixed by the geometry and falls as the cube of the distance. It changes how many times the energy goes round before it is lost. The efficiency then depends on one number, the coupling times the quality factor, and that one number explains a toothbrush on its stand, a phone on its pad, a car parked over a plate in the road and a light bulb lit two metres away.
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 tide a lake makes by itself
On Lake Geneva the water at Geneva rises and falls by a few centimetres every seventy-three minutes, and the water at the far end does the opposite, as though the whole lake were a bath slopping back and forth. It is a standing wave, set ringing by wind and air pressure, and its period follows from the lake's length and depth alone. A harbour rings the same way with its mouth as a node, and it does something odder: narrowing its entrance, the obvious way to keep waves out, makes its resonance stronger.
The swing that dies in a straight line
A pendulum in air loses the same fraction of its swing every cycle, so its amplitude falls along an exponential and, in principle, never quite reaches zero. A mass on a spring sliding over a dry surface does something else. Its friction is a fixed force, so it loses a fixed amount of amplitude every half-swing — the swings shrink in a straight line — and it stops completely, after a countable number of swings, somewhere inside a band around its natural position whose width is the friction divided by the stiffness. Where in that band it stops depends on where it started, which is why a barometer with friction in it is tapped before it is read.
The wet plates that hold on when pulled
Lift a wet glass plate straight up off another and it resists with a force far beyond its weight; slide it sideways and it comes away at a touch. The grip is not surface tension. It is the water that must rush into the widening gap, and the suction it takes to draw it in grows as the inverse cube of the gap — until the water tears open and the atmosphere sets the limit. The same cube makes a flat base float on a wet table where a ball would settle, and gives a micro-machined accelerometer exactly the damping it needs from a few micrometres of air.
The kick that does not change the beat
A pendulum clock has to push its pendulum, or friction would stop it within minutes, and every push risks disturbing the very period the clock exists to keep. In 1826 George Airy worked out exactly when a push does no harm: at the bottom of the swing, where the pendulum is moving fastest, an impulse changes how far it swings and leaves the timing untouched. A push before the bottom makes the clock gain; after it, lose. Three centuries of escapement design are a search for a mechanism that pushes where Airy said — or that pushes in the wrong place in a way that cancels some other error.
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.
The fork inside a watch
Every quartz watch keeps time with a tuning fork three millimetres long, cut from a crystal of quartz and ringing thirty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight times a second. Each number in that sentence is a decision. The frequency is two to the fifteenth, so that fifteen halvings make one tick a second, and it sits just above the range of human hearing. The shape is a fork because two tines swinging against each other leave their base still and lose almost no energy into it. And the fork's rate drifts with temperature along a parabola whose vertex is set near twenty-five degrees, which is why a watch worn on a wrist keeps better time than one left in a cold drawer.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
ResonanceDampingNormal modesBandwidthBeatsDissipationHelmholtz resonatorImpedanceImpedance-matchingInterferenceLinewidthPhase