Refractive index — where it appears
Named by 50 essays across 6 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
The bend at the boundary, and what it is really about
Light changes direction when it changes speed. Snell's law is the geometry of that statement, and it can be derived without knowing anything about light at all.
The angle past which light cannot leave
Snell's law asks for the sine of an angle greater than one, and no such angle exists. What happens instead is a perfect mirror made out of nothing but a change of speed.
The angle the rainbow has to be, and why nobody chose it
A rainbow is at forty-two degrees because a function has a minimum there. Nothing about water, light or weather picks the number — it falls out of running Snell's law three times through a sphere.
The direction of the shaking, and the filter that only asks about it
A wave that travels one way can still shake in any direction across that way. Light does, most of it shakes in all of them at once, and a sheet of plastic can ask which.
Why the sky is blue and the sunset is not, from one exponent
Scattering goes as the inverse fourth power of wavelength, and that single number produces a blue sky and a red sun without any second explanation. The two facts look opposite and are the same arithmetic.
The bend Newton got half right
A photon treated as a falling body passes a mass and comes out deflected. So does a photon treated as a straight line in curved spacetime — by exactly twice as much. The factor of two is not a refinement; it is the sharpest available statement that gravity is geometry.
The path that does not change
Reflection, refraction and the angle of the rainbow are not three laws. They are one condition — that the optical path length is stationary — and the word stationary rather than shortest is the whole of what makes an elliptical mirror and a rainbow the same statement.
The angle at which reflection picks a side
At one angle of incidence, a water surface reflects no light at all of one polarisation. The Fresnel algebra says so, and says nothing about why. The reason is that the reflected ray would have to leave along the axis of the charges radiating it — and a shaking charge sends nothing along the direction it shakes in.
The ray that bends without a surface
Snell's law is about a boundary, and light bends in air where there is no boundary anywhere. Let the index vary continuously and the law of angles becomes a differential equation — one that carries a conserved quantity, forbids the ray from reaching certain heights, and turns a hot road into a mirror a hundred metres long.
Two glasses that cancel a derivative
A single lens focuses blue light closer than red, and the difference ruins the image. Cementing a second lens of another glass behind it fixes the fault at two wavelengths and at no others, because the condition sets a slope to zero rather than a value.
The speed that carries no signal
In the right medium a pulse's peak emerges from the far side before it entered the near one. The measurement is real, it has been made, and nothing has outrun light — because the peak of a smooth pulse was never carrying any information in the first place.
The crystal that answers twice
Lay a piece of calcite on a printed page and the print appears twice. One image sits still when the crystal is turned and the other goes round it. Nothing has been done to the light except pass it through a material whose response to a field is not a number.
The reflection that happens where the glass is not
Total internal reflection sends back every photon, which is why it is called total. It does not send them back from where they arrived — the beam re-emerges displaced along the surface, by a fraction of a wavelength, and a displacement is only possible if the light spent time on the far side of a boundary it never crossed.
The delay that is not a bend
The same metric that bends a ray also slows it, and the two are different tests. A radar echo from Venus arrives 233 microseconds late when its path grazes the Sun — and half of that delay is accumulated more than twenty solar radii away, in a field thousands of times weaker.
The channel with no walls
A pipe will not carry a note below its cutoff, and no length of pipe helps. Replace the walls with nothing but a region where the wave travels slightly slower, and the cutoff disappears — however weak the contrast and however thin the channel, at least one mode is bound. The difference is not a matter of degree; it is the difference between a boundary condition and a potential well.
The rotation a return trip doubles
Quartz turns the plane of polarisation and so does glass in a magnetic field. The two look identical on the way through and are opposites on the way back — the crystal undoes its own rotation exactly, and the magnet adds to it. That difference is the whole of why a one-way street for light can be built at all, and why nothing passive will ever be one.
The constant that depends on how fast it is asked
Water's relative permittivity is 80.1. Its refractive index is 1.333, and the square of 1.333 is 1.777. The identity n = √ε_r is exact, the two numbers differ by a factor of forty-five, and nothing is wrong with either — because a permittivity is a function of frequency and the two measurements were made eight orders of magnitude apart.
The image that is a diffraction pattern twice
A lens does not project an object onto a screen. It takes the object's spatial frequencies apart, spreading them across its own back focal plane at an angle each, and then puts them back together — so an image is the object's spectrum, filtered by whatever the aperture admits, transformed back. With only the zeroth order through, the image is a uniform grey with no information in it at all.
Why a litre of water is not blue for the reason the sky is
The same molecules that make the sky blue also make the refractive index of air, and the two numbers agree because the sideways sum has random phases and the forward one does not. Condense those molecules into a liquid and the sideways sum collapses by a factor of sixteen — and what is left is thirty-four times smaller than the absorption that actually colours the water.
The frequency below which nothing gets in
Free charges give a medium a permittivity that is negative, and a negative permittivity is not an absorbing medium — it is one in which no wave exists at all. Below that frequency the reflection is total, exactly rather than nearly, because there is no transmitted wave and nothing to absorb. The same expression puts the number at 9 MHz for the ionosphere and 3.8 PHz for aluminium.
The answer that cannot come first
A medium absorbs at some frequencies and bends light at all of them, and those look like two separate facts to be measured separately. They are one fact. The requirement that a material respond after it is asked rather than before ties the absorption at every frequency to the refraction at every other, by an integral — and a material given the two halves independently answers before the question arrives.
The retarder with no crystal in it
A wave plate turns linear polarisation into circular by making one component travel a little further than the other, which requires a birefringent crystal cut to a thickness and works properly at one wavelength. Total internal reflection does the same job with a phase that comes from the geometry instead — and because a refractive index barely changes across the visible where a wavelength changes by a factor of two, the same block of ordinary glass is a quarter-wave plate for every colour at once.
The principle that fixes the energy instead of the clock
There are two principles of least action, they compare different sets of paths, and they are not the same statement. One holds the duration fixed and lets the energy vary; the other holds the energy fixed and lets the duration vary — and written that way, mechanics turns into optics with a refractive index.
The cone a fibre will accept
A fibre takes light from a cone whose half-angle depends on two refractive indices and nothing else — not on how thick it is, not on how long, not on what is shining into it. That single number, squared and multiplied by the core's area, is all the light it will ever carry.
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 flat scene that comes back curved
A lens does not image a plane onto a plane. It images it onto a bowl, and the curvature of that bowl is fixed by the powers and the glasses alone — not by the shapes of the surfaces, not by where the stop is, and not by stopping down. Everything a designer usually plays with leaves it exactly where it was.
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 angle that is two angles
Snell's law survives a complex index by giving a complex answer, and a complex angle is not an angle. What the phase-matching argument actually fixes is the tangential wavenumber, and when the medium absorbs, the surfaces of constant phase and the surfaces of constant amplitude stop being parallel. In silver at 550 nanometres the phase fronts run within four degrees of the surface while the amplitude decays straight into it.
The ray on the wrong side of the normal
The phase-matching construction draws a circle and a line, and the line crosses the circle twice. Every earlier construction silently took the upper intersection. Which one is physical is decided by where the energy goes rather than by where the wavevector points, and in a medium whose group velocity opposes its phase velocity the answer is the other one — so the refracted ray leaves on the same side of the normal it arrived on, a flat slab focuses, and a lens can beat the diffraction limit until loss stops it.
The cone light has to find to get out
Inside a dense material the whole hemisphere of directions outside a flat face shrinks to a narrow cone, and light made inside can leave only if it happens to be travelling within it. For gallium arsenide that is two per cent of the light. Turned round, the same cone keeps light in: a slab of silicon with a rough surface holds the light it admits for fifty-one passes. Both numbers are the n² the optical invariant carries, and neither one breaks it.
The reflection that needs no surface
Change the refractive index of a whole medium at one instant and a wave already travelling through it splits in two, one part running on and one running back, though there is no surface anywhere for it to reflect from. A boundary in time is Snell's law with space and time exchanged: the wavelength is kept and the frequency changes, momentum is conserved and energy is not.
The same cone, and a different arrival
The invariant fixes what a guide accepts and says nothing about when it arrives, and the two turn out to be nearly independent. Shaping the index so that the rays which travel furthest also travel fastest cuts the spread in arrival times by a factor of five hundred, at the cost of exactly half the light — and the acceptance cone the invariant governs is untouched throughout.
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 medium that images every point
A single refracting surface can be shaped to image one point perfectly and no other. A medium whose index falls smoothly away from a centre can do better: in Maxwell's fish-eye every ray from any point, leaving in any direction, arrives at one image point, and every such path takes exactly the same time. It is a perfect instrument for all of space at once — and the image it forms is sharp everywhere and a faithful copy nowhere.
The lens with no axis
Every ordinary lens has an axis, and every one of its hardest aberrations is a penalty for looking away from it. A sphere has no axis, so a sphere cannot have off-axis aberrations — but a glass ball has spherical aberration instead, because one index and one curvature are too few to focus every ray. Luneburg's sphere, whose index falls from √2 at the centre to 1 at the rim, keeps the symmetry and removes the aberration: it brings parallel light from every direction to a perfect point on its own surface.
The momentum light carries into glass
A pulse of light in glass has two momenta, nE/c and E/nc, and for a century the argument was about which one is right. Both are measured. A free block that the light crosses must move forward, which only Abraham's value explains; a Cherenkov cone exists at all, which only Minkowski's allows. They answer different questions, and the difference between them is momentum carried by the glass.
The window a diamond is cut inside
A well-cut diamond sends back out of its top most of the light that falls on it, and it does so without a single silvered surface. Light entering the top is totally reflected at one sloping face of the pavilion below, again at the opposite face, and then has to leave through the top — where it must not be totally reflected. Each of those three is a condition on one angle, and together they leave a window a dozen degrees wide inside which a stone looks bright and outside which it looks glassy. The window is wide for diamond and nearly closed for glass, which is why a cutter's skill cannot make glass sparkle.
The index that falls below one
Glass bends light because light is slower in it. X-rays are not slower in glass, or in anything: every material's refractive index for them is slightly less than one, by a few parts in a million. Everything about X-ray optics follows from that small number with the wrong sign. A lens that focuses them must be thinner in the middle than at the edges, and so weak that dozens are stacked in a row. A mirror reflects them only if they arrive at a glancing angle of less than a degree — totally, from the outside, the reverse of the way a diamond traps light — which is why the mirrors of an X-ray telescope are long, nested barrels rather than dishes.
The sand that darkens when it is wet
Wet sand is darker than dry sand, a wet stone darker than a dry one, a splashed pavement darker in patches, and a wet white shirt turns grey and then see-through. Water is clear and absorbs almost nothing, so it cannot be adding darkness. What it does is change where the light goes. A film of water on a surface traps light that has been scattered back up, returning most of it for another chance to be absorbed. Water in the pores between grains replaces air with something closer to the grains' own refractive index, so each grain turns light aside less, and light wanders deeper before it gets out. Both lengthen the path, and on a longer path more light is absorbed by the material that was there all along.
Why the glow of a fast charge is blue
A charge moving in a straight line at constant speed does not radiate — in a vacuum. In water, if it moves faster than light does in water, it glows, and the glow is blue. The cone of the light is the familiar half of the story. The other half is a count: Frank and Tamm's formula says each centimetre of water yields about two hundred visible photons, in numbers that rise as the inverse square of the wavelength, which is why a reactor pool shines blue and why the light keeps getting stronger into the ultraviolet until water stops being transparent. The charge never accelerates. What radiates is the water.
The frequency the sky returns only at a slant
The ionosphere turns back any radio wave below its plasma frequency, about eight megahertz on a summer afternoon, and lets anything above it out into space — if the wave is sent straight up. Send a fourteen-megahertz wave up at a slant and it comes back down, a thousand kilometres away. Only the part of the wave's motion across the layer has to be stopped, and that part is the frequency times the cosine of the angle. The rule turns one frequency into a range of them, sets the highest frequency that can reach any given distance, and leaves a ring of silence round every short-wave transmitter, inside which it cannot be heard at all.
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 voltage that bends an electron like glass
An electron that has fallen through a potential difference V moves at a speed proportional to √V. Crossing a surface of constant potential, it keeps the part of its momentum that runs along the surface and changes the part across it, and the two rules together are Snell's law with √V in place of the refractive index. Every arrangement of charged electrodes is therefore a piece of glass for electrons. Three metal tubes make a lens that focuses whichever way its middle tube is charged — and, by a theorem proved in 1936, no lens built from round electrodes can be free of spherical aberration. That theorem kept electron microscopes some fifty times coarser than their wavelength for sixty years.
The colour at which glass disappears
Lower a glass rod into an oil of the same refractive index and it vanishes, except for a faint coloured outline. The outline is the clue. Glass and oil disperse light differently, so their indices can agree at only one wavelength; at every other the glass is still there, bending and scattering a little. Grind the glass to powder and pack it in the oil, and the mixture is clear at that one wavelength and opaque at the rest — a colour filter made of nothing but two transparent materials, whose colour moves by a whole hue for a few degrees of warming.
The rocket in which light travels on circles
Inside a rocket that accelerates for ever at a constant rate, a beam of light sent across the cabin sags towards the floor, as Einstein argued it must if acceleration and gravity are indistinguishable. Followed further than any cabin, the sag turns out to be exact geometry: every ray inside the rocket is a perfect semicircle centred on the horizon below, and the rays obey the rules of a non-Euclidean plane in which the angles of a triangle add to less than two right angles. The spacetime in the rocket is flat; the curvature belongs to the clocks.
The beam that focuses itself
In glass the refractive index rises very slightly with the intensity of the light, so a beam that is brightest in the middle writes a converging lens into the glass it is crossing. Diffraction spreads it at the same time. Both effects grow in the same proportion as the beam is narrowed, so neither can win by a change of size — only by a change of power. Above a critical power, 4.3 megawatts in fused silica, the beam is forced to collapse within a finite distance, and every high-power laser is built around not letting that happen where it is not wanted.
The hooks that weigh an absorption line
A strong absorption line is black at its centre, and how black it is says almost nothing about how many atoms made it — double them and the line hardly darkens. The atoms are still there, and they still bend light: on either side of the line, where the vapour is transparent, its refractive index rises and falls by an amount proportional to their number. In 1912 Dmitry Rozhdestvensky found a way to read that index straight off a photograph. Interference fringes passed through a spectrograph curl into hooks beside the line, and the distance between the hooks, squared, counts the atoms — whatever the line's shape and however saturated its core.
The cell weighed by the light it delays
A living cell is nearly transparent, and the light that passes through it comes out almost as bright as it went in. What changes is its timing: the cell's proteins and nucleic acids raise its refractive index a little above the water around it, and the light is delayed by a fraction of a wave. Measure that delay at every point of the image and add it up, and the sum is the cell's dry mass — the weight of everything in it except water — whatever shape the cell takes and however much water it holds. The water drops out because the medium is water too; the shape drops out because the delay is an integral of concentration along the path. Light becomes a balance that weighs a living cell to a part in a thousand without touching it.
The windscreen that feels the rain
Behind the rear-view mirror of most modern cars a small box decides when the wipers should run, and it does so without looking at the rain. It shines infrared light into the windscreen at forty-five degrees, steep enough to be trapped inside the glass by total internal reflection, and counts how much comes back out of the far end of the glass a few centimetres away. A raindrop on the outside changes the medium the glass is touching from air to water, and water's critical angle against glass is sixty-one degrees, not forty-one: at forty-five the light is no longer trapped, and nearly all of it leaves into the drop. The sensor measures the area the rain is touching, and the rain rate from how fast that area grows.
The eye that loses its lens in water
Eyes opened under water see only a blur, and the reason is not water in the eye or salt or murk. The human eye does two-thirds of its focusing not with its lens but with the curved front of its cornea, whose power comes from the jump in refractive index between air and tissue. Water is almost as dense optically as the cornea, and the jump all but disappears: about forty-three of the eye's sixty dioptres vanish, and the focus moves to three times the eye's own length behind the retina. A mask gives the cornea back its air; a small pupil and a hard squint buy back a little; animals that hunt in both worlds have flattened their corneas and given the work to the lens.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
DispersionSnell's lawTotal internal reflectionFermat's principleCritical angleEvanescent waveAbsorptionPolarisationGroup velocityPhase velocityOptical path lengthStationary point