Every essay — page 25
Mechanics
Motion, force, and the quantities that refuse to change.
The bounce an elastic plate cannot give back
Drop a steel ball on a thick steel block and it bounces almost to where it started. Drop it on a steel plate five millimetres thick and it comes back at barely half its speed, although steel on steel is about as elastic as materials get and nothing in the impact is plastic, sticky or damped. The energy has not been turned into heat. It has been turned into waves, running out through the plate faster than the ball can take them back — and a ball striking a longer rod loses energy the same way, by leaving it ringing.
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 contact that slips before it slides
Static friction is supposed to hold perfectly until the load reaches μ times the normal force and then give way. Two elastic bodies pressed together do something else. Push a ball sideways on a flat with any force at all and a ring at the edge of their contact is already slipping, while the centre stays stuck. As the push grows the ring spreads inward, and gross sliding is only the moment the stuck centre shrinks to nothing. Shake the push back and forth and the ring slips each way on every cycle. The contact then loses energy though it never slides, as the cube of how hard it is shaken.
The molecule that lives outside its own well
The harmonic picture describes the bottom of a well, where a molecule vibrates near the length of its bond. The last bound level lives at the top, and when it is bound by almost nothing it is not near the bond at all. Two helium atoms whose potential well bottoms out at three ångströms form a molecule whose atoms sit on average about fifty ångströms apart, most of the time where the force between them is negligible. Such a state forgets the shape of the well that made it. Its size, its binding and the way it scatters are all set by one number, and nothing inside the well can be read from them.
Waves
Oscillation, and everything that turns out to be an oscillation.
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 even wave train that cannot stay even
In the mid-1960s a team at the National Physical Laboratory tried to make a long, perfectly regular train of waves in a towing tank, and could not: however carefully they set the paddle going, a few hundred metres down the tank the waves had bunched into groups. Their paddle was not at fault. A uniform train of steep waves on deep water is unstable — small modulations of its height grow, the energy of many waves gathers into a few, and then, astonishingly, gives itself back. Out of that instability comes a wave three times the height of the sea around it, with no history before and none after.
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.
Optics
Light, and the small number of rules it obeys.
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 full moon that is too bright
Half a moon shows half the lit disc, so it ought to be about half as bright as a full one — a little less, allowing for the angle. It is a tenth as bright. In the last few days before full the Moon brightens far faster than its growing area can explain, and the extra light is not reflected any more strongly. It comes from shadows disappearing. The lunar soil is a loose heap of grains, and when the Sun is directly behind the observer every grain hides its own shadow.
The dispersion made of angles
Glass delays blue light more than red, so a short pulse that passes through glass comes out stretched with its red end first. At the wavelengths where most short-pulse lasers work, no transparent glass does the opposite. Two diffraction gratings do it with no material at all. The first spreads the colours in angle, the second turns them back parallel, and in between the red has travelled the longer road. A spread in angle, however it is made, always adds this kind of dispersion, of the sign glass cannot give. It is how every high-power ultrafast laser squeezes its pulse back after amplifying it.
Electromagnetism
Charge, field, and the lines drawn between them.
Thermodynamics
Heat, disorder, and the one law with a direction in it.
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 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 pressure that ionises
Squeeze a hot gas of hydrogen and Saha's equation says it recombines: a free electron has less room to be in, and room was what paid for its freedom. Squeeze it far enough and it comes apart again, completely, at any temperature — not because the room has grown but because the atom has nowhere left to be. Crowded to within a few atomic radii of each other, hydrogen atoms have no bound state, and their electrons, freed by pressure alone, form a metal. Deep inside Jupiter most of the planet's hydrogen is in that state.
The protons a star cannot afford
A free neutron decays in fifteen minutes into a proton, an electron and an antineutrino. Inside a neutron star it cannot, and the star is made of neutrons because of it. Beta decay is a reaction like any other, and at equilibrium the neutron's chemical potential must equal the proton's plus the electron's. In a crowded star an electron can only be added at the top of a sea tens of megaelectronvolts deep. So the matter settles where protons are rare: half a per cent of the nucleons at nuclear density, if nucleons were free, and never more than one in nine at any density.
The two laws absolute zero will not allow
The ideal-gas law and Curie's law are the first two equations of state most people meet. The third law of thermodynamics says both must be wrong at low temperature, and it says so without any model of what replaces them. A Maxwell relation turns every derivative of the entropy into something measurable with a ruler or a magnetometer: the thermal expansion, the slope of the magnetisation with temperature. If the entropy stops depending on pressure and field at absolute zero, those must vanish. The classical gas expands as 1/T and Curie's magnetisation climbs as 1/T, and both slopes grow without limit instead.
Relativity
Space and time, drawn on the same axes.
The beam that stops pushing itself apart
A beam of electrons is a crowd of like charges, and a crowd of like charges flies apart. A slow beam does, within centimetres. A fast one hardly does at all: at a gigaelectronvolt the same current travels kilometres before its width doubles. The electric repulsion has not weakened — it has grown, by the factor γ. What has grown faster is a magnetic attraction between parallel currents, which cancels all but 1/γ² of the push. Seen from the beam itself there is no magnetism at all, only Coulomb repulsion acting while the beam's clocks run slow.
The wave an electron rides to a gigaelectronvolt
A laser pulse fired into a thin plasma pushes its electrons aside and leaves them oscillating behind it, a wave of charge travelling at nearly the speed of light. The field in that wave is a thousand times stronger than any metal accelerator can hold, and an electron caught in it at the right moment is carried along like a surfer, gaining a gigaelectronvolt in a few centimetres. Then it outruns the wave. The distance it can ride, and the energy it can gain, are both set by how nearly the wave keeps pace with it — which is to say, by relativity.
Quantum
Where the continuous picture runs out, and what replaces it.
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 spectrum that is a thermometer at every height
A satellite looking down at the Earth in the infrared sees, at each wavelength, the glow of whatever layer of air that wavelength escapes from. In the wings of carbon dioxide's great absorption band the air is transparent and the satellite sees the ground; towards the band's centre the gas grows opaque and each wavelength escapes from higher up. A single spectrum is therefore a stack of thermometers at different heights, and weather forecasts are built on reading it. What cannot be read from it is anything much thinner than the ten to twenty kilometres of air each of those thermometers averages over.
Fluids
Matter that will not hold a shape, and the forces that act in it anyway.
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 water that warms on the way down
Lower a thermometer into the Mariana Trench and it reads colder and colder for four kilometres and then starts to warm, reaching about two and a half degrees at the bottom, eleven kilometres down. No heat is coming up from the sea floor to do it. The water at the bottom is the same water as the water two kilometres higher, carried down and squeezed, and squeezing warms it. In fresh water near four degrees the same squeezing does nothing at all, and below four degrees it cools — so a parcel of cold lake water pushed deep enough keeps sinking on its own.
The pressure that stops counting molecules
Van 't Hoff's law counts dissolved particles, and for a dilute polymer each chain is one particle, however many thousand segments it has. That is how osmometers weigh polymers. Concentrate the solution until the coils overlap and the count changes. The pressure stops depending on how long the chains are and grows as the 2.3 power of the concentration, the same for chains a thousand segments long and a hundred thousand. The unit being counted is no longer a molecule. It is a stretch of chain as long as the mesh of its neighbours allows, and it has no chemical identity at all.
The walls a rinse pulls together
Every result about capillary rise assumes the walls hold still. Make them thin enough and they do not. The water between two walls is below atmospheric pressure, so it pulls them together, and as the gap narrows the suction grows. Beyond a critical height or length the walls cannot push back and they snap shut. It is why wet hair clumps, why a paintbrush comes out of water as a point, and why a chip factory cannot rinse lines of resist taller than about three times their width without laying them flat.
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