Total internal reflection — where it appears
Named by 21 essays across 3 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
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 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.
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 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 ring at twenty-two degrees
A halo round the sun is a caustic in orientation rather than in space. Most of the ice crystals in a cirrus cloud send light nowhere in particular; the ones near minimum deviation all send it to nearly the same angle, because a minimum is flat — and the angle they pick has a red inner edge, which is the reverse of a rainbow.
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 law that only asks about one component
A boundary between two media cannot change the part of a wave that runs along it, because both sides have to agree on the phase at every point of the surface at every instant. That single restriction produces the refracted ray, the critical angle, the evanescent field and every order of a diffraction grating, out of one drawing made with a compass.
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.
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 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 angle at which total reflection stops being total
Coat the back face of a glass prism with fifty nanometres of gold and total internal reflection still returns almost all the light — except at one angle, where the reflection of one polarisation falls nearly to zero. The light has gone into an electron wave bound to the far surface of the gold, and because that wave's angle depends on whatever touches the gold, the missing reflection has become one of the most sensitive balances in biochemistry.
The corner that sends light home
Three mirrors at right angles send light straight back the way it came, from any direction they can see, because each one reverses one component of its direction. Made from solid glass, a corner reflects by total internal reflection and needs no silver — which is why the reflectors left on the Moon are bare glass — but each of its six sectors then returns a different polarisation, and the returned spot loses three-quarters of its peak.
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 mirror that lights a tenth of a micrometre
Total internal reflection sends back every photon, and it leaves behind a field in the medium beyond that dies away within a fraction of a wavelength. Put a living cell on a coverslip and reflect a laser inside the glass, and that field lights only the hundred nanometres of the cell pressed against the glass: the membrane, and the proteins moving in it. Nothing else glows. The same field works in reverse. A molecule close to the glass sends part of its own light into angles no ray from the water could reach, and how much it sends there says how close it is.
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.
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 drop that cannot hold the light it lets in
Light inside water meeting the surface at more than 48.6° is totally reflected, and every raindrop is made of water. Yet no ray of sunlight that enters a raindrop is ever totally reflected inside it. A sphere's geometry forbids it: a ray refracted on the way in meets the inside of the surface at its refraction angle, and keeps meeting it at that same angle every time it bounces, and that angle is always smaller than the critical one. The light leaks out a little at every bounce, which is why there are rainbows at all. Light born inside the drop is another matter, and a sphere can keep it for ever.
The roof that splits a binocular's image
A slim, straight binocular turns its image upright with a roof — two glass faces meeting at a right angle, which reflect every ray twice by total internal reflection and lose no light at all. They lose sharpness instead. Total reflection shifts the phases of the two polarisations of light by different amounts, and the half of the beam on one side of the roof's edge meets the two faces in the opposite order from the other half. The halves leave in different polarisations, interfere only partly at the focus, and every star becomes a slightly doubled smudge — unless a coating a fraction of a micrometre thick makes the glass behave like a mirror.
The shaking a uniform Earth could not carry
Early seismographs recorded a large sideways shaking that arrived after the body waves and before the Rayleigh wave, and no theory of a uniform Earth allowed it: a horizontal shear wave at a free surface reflects as itself and nothing holds it there. Augustus Love showed in 1911 that a layer does. A crust slower than the rock beneath traps the shaking between a perfect mirror at the top and total reflection at the bottom, and because the long waves reach deeper and run faster, the order in which the periods arrive is a measurement of how thick the crust is.
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.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
Refractive indexCritical angleSnell's lawEvanescent waveFresnel equationsDispersionGuided wavesEscape coneNumerical apertureOptical fibrePolarisationRefraction