Resolution — where it appears
Named by 11 essays across 4 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
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.
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.
The last atom does all the seeing
A tunnelling rate falls by a factor of eight for every tenth of a nanometre of extra barrier, which is normally quoted as the reason nothing ever tunnels anywhere. Read the other way it is a microscope: the second-nearest atom of a blunt metal tip carries a two-hundredth of the current the nearest one does, so a tip nobody sharpened resolves a single atom, and the resolution comes from an exponential rather than from any piece of engineering.
The focus that is a slab, not a plane
A lens images one plane and no other, which would make every photograph and every micrograph almost entirely out of focus. What rescues them is a tolerance — and there are two of them, one from rays and one from waves, which give different answers and stop being interchangeable exactly where microscopes work.
The length no experiment can resolve
Measuring a small distance needs a short wavelength, a short wavelength needs a large energy, and a large energy in a small region makes a horizon. Past a point, pushing harder makes the probe bigger — and the distance where that turns round is the Planck length.
The rings that belong to the edge
Every account of diffraction so far asks what the size of an aperture does. The rings around a star are not about its size: they are the transform of a discontinuity, they do not shrink relative to the core when the telescope grows, and the only way to remove them is to stop the transmission falling to zero abruptly. Softening the edge buys forty-five decibels of contrast and costs eighty per cent of the resolution.
The hole that makes the sharpest picture
A pinhole camera makes a picture without bending any light: a small hole lets through, from each point of the scene, only the rays that reach one small patch of the screen. A smaller hole makes a sharper picture — until it does not. Below a certain size the hole spreads light by diffraction faster than it narrows the shadow, and the picture blurs again. The best hole balances the two, and at that balance it turns out to pass about half of the first Fresnel zone of the incoming wave: the sharpest pinhole is already beginning to behave like a lens.
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 depth a broad spectrum can see
Interference is usually spoiled by a broad spectrum: many colours drift out of step, and fringes wash out a few wavelengths from where two paths are equal. Turned round, that failure is a ruler. Light whose colours stay in step only when two paths match to within a few micrometres can report the depth of every reflecting layer inside something translucent — a retina, a skin, a coat of paint — to that precision, without cutting it open. Optical coherence tomography reads depth off the width of a spectrum, and it has become one of the most used imaging methods in medicine; its resolution is set by how many colours the light contains, and the finest instruments use sources whose spectra span hundreds of nanometres.
The image made of frequencies
A hydrogen nucleus in a magnetic field precesses at a frequency proportional to the field — 63.87 megahertz in a 1.5 tesla scanner. Make the field rise steadily across the body and every position precesses at its own frequency, so the radio signal the body gives off is a chord whose spectrum is a map of where the protons are. A magnetic resonance image is never focused. It is computed, as a Fourier transform of a signal recorded one number at a time, and its resolution, a millimetre, is set by how strong the gradient is and how long the signal is listened to — not by the wavelength of the radio waves, which is several metres.
The long pulse that arrives as a spike
A radar that wants to see far must send a lot of energy, and a transmitter limited in peak power can only do that with a long pulse; a radar that wants to tell close targets apart needs a short one. A chirp — a pulse whose pitch rises steadily from start to finish — is both. Received through a filter that delays its low notes more than its high ones, every part of the echo arrives at the same instant, and fifty microseconds of pulse leave the receiver as a spike one microsecond wide. Resolution turns out to belong to bandwidth, not to duration, and the price of the trick is paid in sidelobes and in a target's speed being mistaken for its range.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
DiffractionApertureFourier transformInterferenceSpectrumBandwidthCoherenceImagingPoint-spread functionRayleigh's criterionSidelobesWavelength