Every essay — page 32
Mechanics
Motion, force, and the quantities that refuse to change.
The spring that swings when it was only bounced
Hang a weight on a spring and pull it straight down: it bounces straight up and down. Unless its bounce happens to be twice as fast as its swing would be as a pendulum. Then the bounce dies away and the weight starts to swing, wider and wider, until the bounce has gone completely — and then the swing dies and the bounce comes back. Two motions that look independent are trading their energy through a resonance, regularly and for ever at small amplitude. Give the spring more energy and the trading becomes chaotic: the same simple rule, with nothing random in it, produces motion that never repeats and that a hundred-millionth of a radian can redirect.
The swing that dies in a straight line
A pendulum in air loses the same fraction of its swing every cycle, so its amplitude falls along an exponential and, in principle, never quite reaches zero. A mass on a spring sliding over a dry surface does something else. Its friction is a fixed force, so it loses a fixed amount of amplitude every half-swing — the swings shrink in a straight line — and it stops completely, after a countable number of swings, somewhere inside a band around its natural position whose width is the friction divided by the stiffness. Where in that band it stops depends on where it started, which is why a barometer with friction in it is tapped before it is read.
The governor that needed friction to work
James Watt's steam engines were kept at a steady speed by two heavy balls on hinged arms, spun by the engine itself: run faster and the balls fly out and close the steam valve; run slower and they drop and open it. The balls stand at a height set by the speed alone. As engines grew and governors were made more sensitive, many began to hunt — speeding and slowing in a growing rhythm, the governor always too late. In 1868 James Clerk Maxwell wrote the equations down and showed why: a governor with no friction cannot settle at all, and the more precisely it is meant to hold the speed, the more friction it needs.
The collisions that count the digits of π
Slide a heavy block towards a light one resting near a wall. The light block is batted between the heavy one and the wall until the heavy block turns round and leaves. Count the collisions. With equal masses there are 3; with one block a hundred times heavier, 31; ten thousand times, 314; a million, 3141. Nothing in two blocks and a wall mentions a circle, but conservation of energy puts their velocities on one, and each collision steps round it by the same small angle. The count is how many such steps fit in half a turn.
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.
Waves
Oscillation, and everything that turns out to be an oscillation.
The pile of glass that stops every colour
A sheet of window glass reflects about eight per cent of the light that falls on it. A pile of a hundred sheets, George Stokes calculated in 1862, should still let through a tenth, because each extra sheet only adds a little more reflection to the total. That is right for sunlight, whose colours are too mixed to interfere. For a single colour, with every sheet and every gap a slightly different thickness, the same pile lets through a thousandth, and a pile of four hundred a hundred-millionth of a millionth. Interference with random phases does not average away into the intensity sum. In one dimension it traps every wave, at every wavelength, however weak each reflection is.
The speed below which nothing on water leaves a wake
Every wave on clean water travels at 23 centimetres a second or faster: long waves are fast because gravity drives them, short ones because surface tension does, and in between there is a slowest wave. A boat, a duck or a fishing line can only make waves that keep pace with it, so anything crossing the water more slowly than 23 centimetres a second makes no waves at all. Faster, it makes two kinds at once — short ripples that run ahead of it and long waves that trail behind — and the threshold between nothing and both is set by gravity, surface tension and density alone.
The silence that fits in a tenth of a wavelength
Two sounds of equal strength and opposite phase add to nothing, so any noise can be cancelled by playing its inverse. At one point. A microphone and a loudspeaker can silence the air exactly where the microphone is, and nowhere else for certain: in the diffuse sound of a room the quiet zone is a few tenths of a wavelength across, under ten centimetres at a kilohertz, and beyond it the cancelling speaker only adds noise. That is why noise cancellation works in a headphone and not in a room, and why it works on the drone of an engine and not on a voice.
The noise that helps a weak signal through
A system that can sit in either of two states, nudged back and forth by a periodic push too weak to switch it, does nothing at all — until noise is added. Then it begins to switch, and with the right amount of noise it switches in step with the push, once each half-cycle, as though the push had been strong enough all along. Too little noise and it never switches; too much and it switches at random. The response peaks at a nonzero noise, which is why the effect is called a resonance, and why crayfish, paddlefish and human fingertips appear to use it.
The shadow that shows the core is liquid
Nobody has been more than a few kilometres into the Earth, and its interior was mapped from the timing of earthquake waves alone. The decisive observations were of waves that do not arrive. Seismometers between about 100° and 140° from a large earthquake record no direct compressional wave, because something deep inside bends the rays away; and over two-fifths of the planet beyond 100° no direct shear wave arrives at all, because that something cannot be sheared. A slow, liquid core casts both shadows, and a few faint waves inside the first one revealed a solid core within it.
Optics
Light, and the small number of rules it obeys.
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 half cycle a focus adds
A beam of light brought to a focus and allowed to spread again comes out half a wavelength ahead of where a plain wave of the same colour would be, although no part of it travelled faster than light. Louis Georges Gouy found the shift in 1890 by interfering a focused beam with an unfocused one. It is the price of confinement: a beam narrow enough to focus is a spread of directions, the parts travelling at an angle make slower progress along the axis, and the spread is greatest at the focus. The same half cycle decides the frequencies at which every laser cavity can resonate.
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 lens with its glass taken out
Snell's law turns a ray at a surface by an angle set by the slope of the surface where the ray crosses, and the glass behind the surface does not enter it. So a lens can be sliced into rings, the glass between the slopes thrown away, and the rays will not notice. Fresnel did it for lighthouses in 1822. The waves notice — every step cuts a few hundred wavelengths out of them — unless the steps are made exactly one wavelength deep, and then the lens becomes something else: a diffractive element whose colours run backwards, and which can cancel a glass lens's colour with a twentieth of its power.
The two mirrors that hold a beam
A laser is two mirrors facing each other, and the light in it makes thousands of round trips before it leaves. Whether a ray stays between the mirrors for ever or is walked out after a few bounces depends on a single number, built from their spacing and their curvatures, and the answer has a sharp edge: two flat mirrors sit exactly on it, which is why the first lasers were so hard to align. The criterion is the one that decides whether a pumped swing grows, whether a wave crosses a crystal, and whether a particle beam stays in an accelerator.
Thermodynamics
Heat, disorder, and the one law with a direction in it.
The cold reservoir overhead
On a clear, still night a car roof can grow frost while the air around it is several degrees above freezing. Nothing in the air is cold enough to freeze water. The roof is radiating its heat upward to a sky whose radiation back is that of something twenty degrees colder than the air — part of it the cold upper atmosphere, part of it space itself, seen through a window in the infrared where the air is transparent. The clear sky is a cold reservoir available everywhere, and it can be used: to make frost, to cool buildings below the air temperature even in sunshine, and in principle to run an engine at night.
The supercooled water that only partly freezes
Water can be cooled well below 0 °C and stay liquid, and when a crystal finally starts, the whole bottle seems to turn to ice at once. It does not. Freezing releases heat, and with nowhere for that heat to go in the instant of freezing, it warms everything back to 0 °C — at which point freezing must stop. Water cooled to −15 °C freezes about a fifth at once; to −38 °C, the coldest liquid water gets, about half. The rest has to wait for the surroundings to take the heat away, and a hand warmer is the same arithmetic run above body temperature.
The insulation that makes a wire lose more heat
Wrap a hot water pipe in glass wool and it loses less heat. Wrap a thin electrical wire in PVC and it loses more — four times more, at the best thickness — and runs cooler for it. The insulation adds a resistance to heat flowing through it, but it also adds surface for the heat to leave from, and around a thin enough cylinder the surface wins. The crossover is a radius, k/h, set by the insulation and the air; below it, more insulation means more heat lost, and a small enough ball cannot be insulated by anything wrapped round it.
Relativity
Space and time, drawn on the same axes.
The kick a fast particle can give an electron
A slow proton crossing matter can give any one electron at most a fifth of a per cent of its energy, because an electron struck head-on by something two thousand times heavier rebounds at no more than twice the heavier one's speed. That rule of thumb fails at relativistic speeds, and fails upward: the electron's speed is capped below light, but its energy is not, and the largest kick grows as the square of the projectile's Lorentz factor until, above a teraelectronvolt, one collision can take more than half of everything a proton carries.
The gyroscope a spinning Earth turns
A moving charge makes a magnetic field, and a spinning charged ball makes a dipole field around it. Gravity has the same structure one level down: a spinning mass drags the local standards of rotation around with it, and a perfect gyroscope near the Earth turns, very slightly, in the pattern of a dipole field — with the Earth's spin over the poles and against it over the equator. Averaged round a polar orbit the turning is 41 milliarcseconds a year. It took forty-four years and a satellite carrying the roundest objects ever made to measure it.
Quantum
Where the continuous picture runs out, and what replaces it.
Fluids
Matter that will not hold a shape, and the forces that act in it anyway.
The pond that is hottest at the bottom
Water heated from below rises, which is why a pond in the sun is never much warmer than the air: the heat is carried to the surface and lost there. Put a metre of salt gradient in the way and the hot water at the bottom is also the heaviest, cannot rise, and keeps its heat, behind an insulating layer that sunlight passes straight through. Ponds built this way reach eighty degrees under an ordinary sky. The salt does not collect any extra light. What it buys is temperature.
The floating ice that still raises the sea
An ice cube melting in a glass of water leaves the level exactly where it was, and the reason is exact: a floating body displaces its own weight, and the meltwater has that weight. The same argument is often used to say that melting sea ice and ice shelves cannot raise the sea. It nearly works. The ice was floating in salt water and melts into fresh, which is lighter, so the meltwater overfills the hole by almost three per cent — and the ice that really fills the sea is the part of a grounded glacier above the thickness at which it would float.
The waterfall at every river mouth
Where a river meets the sea, fresh water mixes into salt and the free energy of mixing is released as nothing more useful than a little warmth and stirring. It is not a little energy: a cubic metre of river water entering the sea gives up as much as if it fell 290 metres. A desalination membrane run backwards can catch some of it, and the arithmetic of doing so is the arithmetic of every source with an internal resistance — the most power comes at half the pressure, and half the work is the price of getting it quickly.
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