Viscosity — where it appears
Named by 34 essays across 6 fields — each of them below, with the objects they name alongside it.
Momentum going sideways
Viscosity is usually described as friction between layers of fluid, which gets the effect right and the mechanism wrong. What is actually happening is that momentum is being conducted across the flow — by the same equation, with the same solutions, as a drop of ink spreading.
The fourth power in a pipe
Halve a pipe's radius and the flow through it falls to a sixteenth. The exponent is four rather than two, because narrowing a pipe both removes cross-section and slows what is left — and one law with that exponent in it governs a blood vessel, a hypodermic needle and a water main.
The fluid that answers back
For water, stress is proportional to how fast it is sheared, and the constant of proportionality is its viscosity. For paint, blood, ketchup and cornflour in water, it is not — and once the proportionality goes, so does the idea that viscosity is a number a substance has.
How far a molecule gets
A molecule of air travels about sixty-eight nanometres between collisions — some two hundred times its own size, and a ten-millionth of the width of a room. That ratio is the reason a gas can be treated as a continuous substance at all, and the reason it sometimes cannot.
The jiggle that proved atoms
A pollen grain in still water never stops moving. For eighty years that was a curiosity with no explanation; then it became the measurement that settled whether matter is made of particles, by turning a microscope and a stopwatch into a count of how many molecules are in a mole.
The liquid that will not slow down
Cool helium below 2.17 kelvin and it starts flowing through gaps no ordinary liquid could enter, climbs out of its own container, and circulates for as long as anyone has been willing to watch. The viscosity is not small. As far as any measurement can tell, it is zero.
The surface that pulls toward the stronger side
Surface tension is usually treated as a constant of a liquid, and it is not — it depends on temperature and on what is dissolved, and a difference in it along a surface is a force along that surface — which drags the liquid underneath and needs no pressure difference at all.
The viscosity that does not care how much gas there is
Pump most of the air out of a vessel and the air that is left is exactly as viscous as it was. Maxwell derived that in 1860, did not believe it, and spent six years building an apparatus to measure it — which is a better description of how a prediction becomes knowledge than any amount of agreement would have been.
The liquid that remembers
Pitch shatters like glass under a hammer and flows through a funnel over a decade. Neither behaviour is the true one. What decides which a substance shows is not the substance but the length of the observation, and the ratio between the two has a name and a number.
The whirlpool that comes in one size
Spin a bucket of ordinary liquid and it ends up turning with the bucket. Spin a bucket of superfluid helium slowly and it does not turn at all. Spin it faster and it does not turn either — until a threshold, at which a single line of circulation appears, carrying not some amount but exactly h/m. There is nothing in between, because the velocity is the gradient of a phase and a phase has to come back to itself.
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 paste that holds up its own hill
Toothpaste stands on a brush and ketchup does not stand on a plate, and the difference is a single number with the units of a pressure. Below it a material does not flow slowly — it does not flow. That threshold turns a rheological property into a length, and the length is why a lava flow's thickness says what the lava was made of.
The fountain a lamp can drive
Below two degrees above absolute zero, liquid helium behaves as though it were two fluids occupying the same space — one carrying all the entropy and all the viscosity, the other carrying neither. It is not a metaphor and not a mixture. Shine a light on one side of a fine plug and the liquid jets out of the tube, because a temperature difference of a thousandth of a degree is a pressure of a hundred pascals.
The thickness that goes both ways
Heat a liquid and it thins; heat a gas and it thickens. The two are not a strong effect and a weak one but opposite signs, differing by a factor of thirty in size as well — and the word viscosity names one measurement made on two mechanisms that have almost nothing in common.
The shear that only reaches so far
Viscosity carries momentum sideways without limit when the driving is steady. Reverse the driving and it stops: the motion fills a depth set by the viscosity and the frequency, arrives there late, and beyond that depth the fluid does not know the wall exists.
The push that has no direction
That the pressure at a point in a still fluid is the same whichever way the surface faces is not a definition. It is a theorem, and its proof is an argument about how two kinds of force scale with size — which is also the exact statement of when it stops being true.
Where the loudness goes
An absorption coefficient removes energy from a wave, and energy removed has to appear somewhere. It appears twice, from the same coefficient: as heat, and as momentum. So a beam of sound has a weight — a watt absorbed in water weighs sixty-eight milligrams — and acoustic power is measured by putting an absorber on a balance. The ratio of the force to the heating contains no intensity at all.
The drift a sound leaves behind
A sound wave moves fluid back and forth and puts it back where it started. Over many cycles it does not: a steady circulation appears, four cells to a wavelength, driven entirely from inside a boundary layer seventy micrometres thick. Its speed contains the sound speed and the amplitude, and it contains no viscosity at all — so making the fluid thinner does not make the drift weaker.
The oil that is a glass for a quarter of a millisecond
Every other account of viscosity here varies the temperature. Pressure does something larger and in the same direction for every liquid: viscosity rises exponentially, by a factor of ten to the eight or more at the gigapascal inside a loaded gear tooth. That is not a curiosity — it is the only reason there is a film there at all. Remove the pressure dependence from the calculation and the predicted film is five nanometres, under the roughness, and the surfaces touch.
Whether a fluid can be made arbitrarily thin
Viscosity has no units anybody would call fundamental, and nothing obviously stops it being as small as you like. Divide it by the entropy in a cubic metre and the units become Planck's constant over Boltzmann's — and a conjecture from 2005 says that ratio has a floor. Across fourteen decades of ordinary fluid nothing has been measured below it, the closest thing to it is the hottest matter ever made, and a kinetic-theory argument reaches the same number from the opposite direction.
The pore that lifts highest fills slowest
Jurin's law says how high water climbs in a tube and nothing about how long it takes. The rise has three laws in succession — the column's inertia, then its viscous drag, then its weight — and the same narrowness that lifts water highest throttles it hardest, so for any deadline there is a best pore. A wide enough tube does something Jurin's law cannot: it overshoots and rings. And whatever the route, exactly half the energy the surface releases is lost.
The drag a distant wall decides
A sphere moving slowly through a liquid has a drag that belongs to the sphere: six pi times the viscosity, the radius and the speed, and the liquid a few radii away hardly knows it is there. An infinitely long cylinder has no such drag. The equations of slow viscous flow have no solution past it at all — Stokes found this in 1851 — because a force spread over circles instead of spheres never finishes spreading. What rescues the cylinder is whatever distant thing supplies a largest length, and its drag carries the logarithm of that length for ever after.
The suspension that seizes when pushed hard
Cornflour stirred into half its volume of water runs off a spoon like cream, and a fist driven into it bounces off as if it had hit a floor. The particles have not changed and neither has the water. What changes, above a threshold stress, is the kind of contact between neighbouring grains: lubricated, they slide past one another and the suspension can pack to 64 per cent before it locks; pressed into frictional contact, they lock at 58. A suspension sitting between those two numbers is a liquid when handled gently and a solid when handled hard.
The collisions the exclusion principle forbids
A copper wire holds one free electron per atom, packed a quarter of a nanometre apart and repelling one another with the full Coulomb force. It seems impossible that an electron could travel any distance through that crowd without colliding. It travels micrometres — thousands of atoms — before another electron deflects it. The collisions are not weak. They are forbidden: to collide, both electrons need empty states to move into, and in a sea filled to the brim almost none exist. The same rule makes cold helium-3 thicken as the square of how cold it gets.
The speed limit that does not care how big the molecules are
Two molecules in water cannot react faster than they can find each other, and how fast they find each other is set by diffusion. A bigger molecule is an easier target, so it seems a reaction between big molecules should be faster. It is not: a molecule twice as big is twice as easy to hit and wanders half as fast, and the two cancel exactly. Every reaction that happens at the first touch runs at the same rate, about seven billion per molar per second in water, whether the partners are ions or proteins — a speed limit written by the viscosity of water and the temperature, and nothing else.
The paste that forgets it was stirred
A jar of clay slurry left on a shelf sets like a jelly; shaken, it pours. That is thixotropy, and the tempting description — its viscosity falls when it is stirred — misses what makes it strange. A thixotropic paste has no viscosity at a given rate of stirring until it has been told how long it has been stirring, and under a steady push it cannot settle on a slow flow at all. Push slightly less than a critical stress and it creeps to a halt; push slightly more and it runs. Between the two there is nothing, and a paste made to flow slowly splits into a layer that flows and a layer that does not.
The viscosity that belongs to the tube
Measure the viscosity of blood in a wide glass tube and it is about three times that of the plasma it is made from. Measure it in a tube a tenth of a millimetre across and it is lower; in one a hundredth of a millimetre across, lower still, barely more than plasma's. Then, below about six micrometres, it shoots up. The blood has not changed. The red cells push themselves away from the wall and leave a sleeve of plain plasma a few micrometres thick for the rest to slide in, and in a narrow tube that sleeve is a large part of the flow. A viscosity that depends on the pipe is no longer a property of the fluid alone.
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 note too high for thin air
Sound in a gas is a compression handed from molecule to molecule by collisions, and it can only be handed on if the molecules collide many times in each period of the wave. At sea level they collide seven thousand million times a second, and the limit is far above anything audible. But a gas's viscosity does not depend on its pressure, so as the air thins with height the time between collisions grows in proportion, and the highest note the air can carry falls with it: two hundred megahertz at the ground, three kilohertz at eighty kilometres, below twenty hertz above a hundred and ten. The upper atmosphere is not silent for want of loudness. It is silent because its molecules are too far apart to pass a sound along.
The rod that tumbles for ever in a stream
Drop a short rod into honey being sheared between two plates and it does not settle into line with the flow. It lies nearly along the stream for a long time, then flips end over end in a moment, then lies along it again, and it keeps doing that for as long as the shear lasts. George Jeffery worked out the motion in 1922: every orientation belongs to a closed orbit, every orbit takes the same time, and the flow has no way to choose between them — so a suspension of rods never reaches a steady state, and its thickness rises and falls in time with the tumbling.
The disk that spins faster as it stops
A coin spun on a table settles with a whirr that rises in pitch and then stops dead. Everything about it is losing energy, yet the rattle gets faster to the very end. The point where the rim touches the table races round faster and faster as the coin tips flatter, while the coin's face, and the head on it, turns more and more slowly. Two plausible mechanisms of loss both predict that the tilt reaches zero, and the rattle infinity, at a definite instant — a singularity a coin on a kitchen table runs into every time.
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 drop that takes a decade
In 1927 a physics professor in Brisbane poured heated pitch into a sealed funnel, waited three years for it to settle, and cut the stem. Nine drops have fallen since. The record is a viscometer read about once a decade, and it gives the pitch a viscosity two hundred billion times water's. It also records the building's air-conditioning: after 1988 the drops slowed from eight years apart to thirteen, and a fall of a degree and a half in the average temperature is enough to explain it. The same reasoning, applied to medieval window panes, settles an old story without guessing what glass does at room temperature.
The egg that keeps turning after it is stopped
Spin an egg on a table, touch it for a moment to stop it, and let go. A cooked egg stays still. A raw one starts turning again by itself, as if something inside had kept going — which it has. A raw egg is two bodies, a thin shell and a liquid that the shell can turn only through the slow grip of viscosity, and the kitchen test that tells them apart is a measurement of how long that grip takes. The same two-body arithmetic says that a raw egg wastes most of the energy of a flick, starts out spinning six times faster than a cooked one given the same twist, and keeps a record of its past rotation in its interior for a second or two after its shell has forgotten.
Named alongside it
The objects these essays reach for when they reach for this one.
DiffusionDissipationMean free pathRheologyShear stressDimensional analysisKinetic theoryPoiseuille flowTransportAngular momentumGlass transitionPressure