The collection

Every essay — page 34

One idea per essay, ordered so that the earlier ones set up the later ones — but nothing here depends on being read in sequence.

Mechanics

Motion, force, and the quantities that refuse to change.

The spring whose bottom does not know it has been dropped

Hang a soft spring from its top, let go, and its bottom end stays exactly where it was — not falling slowly, not falling at all — while the top races down to meet it. A spring that hangs a metre takes about a quarter of a second to collapse, and only then does the bottom start to fall. Nothing holds it up. The centre of mass falls freely from the first instant, as it must, and the bottom simply has not been told: the news that the top has been released travels down the spring as a front of collapsing coils, and nothing below the front can feel anything until the front arrives.

5 figures · part 10 on Momentum

A floor that has to hit a rod nobody dropped. The normal force on the lower end of a uniform rod at 63° with μ = 1.6, sliding outward at √(gl) and not yet turning, against time on a logarithmic axis, for a floor whose contact stiffness is 10⁴, 10⁵ and 10⁶ times mg/l. The rigid equations have no solution here, and the compliant floor shows why: the end digs in, the deeper it digs the harder friction twists it further down, and the force climbs until the sliding stops. The stiffer the floor, the higher and briefer the spike — 20, 56, 163 times the rod's weight, ending after 41, 18, 7 thousandths of √(l/g) — a collision with no approach.

The rod that friction cannot decide about

Newton's laws, a rigid rod and Coulomb's law of friction are the first things a mechanics course teaches, and in 1895 Paul Painlevé showed that together they can fail to give any answer at all. A rod sliding on a rough enough floor, at the right angle, has no motion consistent with the three — or has two. The way out is not a new law but a forgotten fact: real contacts give a little. With that, the rod jams, and the floor delivers a sudden blow to a rod that nothing struck — an impact without a collision, which is how a stick of chalk comes to hop.

5 figures · part 9 on Friction

Waves

Oscillation, and everything that turns out to be an oscillation.

A whisper that grows into a note. The amplitude of the tube's lowest mode against time, in units of the time sound takes to cross the tube (a period is two), started from a small disturbance, with the gauze at a quarter of the length, at 0.12 of it, and at three-quarters; heat-transfer strength K = 1. At L/4 the disturbance grows some fortyfold over about thirty-five periods and then stops growing, at an amplitude of 0.83 in these units, where the air's to-and-fro speed at the gauze is comparable to the steady upward draught and the heat transfer, which goes as the square root of the air's speed, can no longer follow it in proportion. At 0.12 the gauze is near the edge of the singing range and the sound grows only slowly. At 3L/4 the same disturbance dies away within a few periods.

The tube that sings when heated low down

Hold a wide metal tube upright, push a red-hot wire gauze a quarter of the way up inside it, and take the flame away. The tube begins to howl — a loud, steady note at its lowest resonance, lasting until the gauze cools. Put the gauze a quarter of the way down from the top instead and the tube is silent; lay the tube on its side and it stops. Heat is driving a sound, and whether it drives or damps depends on where the heat is released and when, in a rule Lord Rayleigh stated in 1878 that now governs rocket engines and power-station turbines.

5 figures · part 10 on Resonance

A tornado's winds, folded. The radial wind across a line through the centre of a tornado-like vortex 400 m across with peak winds of 60 m/s — towards the radar on one side, away on the other — as it truly is (grey) and as a radar with a Nyquist velocity of ±25 m/s reports it (red). Outside the core the winds are slower than 25 m/s and are reported correctly. Near the core they exceed it, and the reported speed folds over: the strongest inbound winds appear as outbound and the outbound as inbound, so the tight pair of opposite velocities that marks a tornado — the velocity couplet — is turned inside out. Forecasters and the algorithms they use learn to read the sharp jumps between neighbouring gates as folds rather than winds, and to unfold them by continuity from the slower winds around.

The speeds a pulsed radar folds into one

A weather radar measures the wind inside a storm by the Doppler shift of its echoes, but it never hears the shift itself. It listens in pulses, and between pulses it notes only how far the echo's phase has turned — which is known only to within a whole turn. So speeds that differ by a fixed amount give identical echoes, and every speed is folded into a window. Make the window wider by pulsing faster, and the echoes from distant rain arrive after the next pulse has gone and land at the wrong range. The two limits multiply to a constant the designer cannot touch.

5 figures · part 9 on Doppler

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.

5 figures · part 9 on Wave packets

Optics

Light, and the small number of rules it obeys.

Fringes that bend into hooks beside a line. The interference fringes seen in a spectrograph behind an interferometer with 10 cm of sodium vapour at 10¹⁴ atoms per cubic centimetre in one arm and a glass plate in the other, against wavelength across the D₂ line (horizontal) and position along the slit (vertical, in fringe spacings). Far from the line the plate tilts every fringe evenly. Near the line the vapour's dispersion sweeps each fringe up on one side and down on the other, and every fringe turns back on itself in a hook: the turning points sit −100 and 100 picometres from the line centre, the same for every fringe. The line itself, a few picometres wide, is a dark gap between them; the hooks lie far outside it, in vapour that is transparent.

The hooks that weigh an absorption line

A strong absorption line is black at its centre, and how black it is says almost nothing about how many atoms made it — double them and the line hardly darkens. The atoms are still there, and they still bend light: on either side of the line, where the vapour is transparent, its refractive index rises and falls by an amount proportional to their number. In 1912 Dmitry Rozhdestvensky found a way to read that index straight off a photograph. Interference fringes passed through a spectrograph curl into hooks beside the line, and the distance between the hooks, squared, counts the atoms — whatever the line's shape and however saturated its core.

5 figures · part 8 on Dispersion $A point of light split by an uncoated roof. The image of a distant point across the direction of the roof edge, behind an Amici roof in glass of index 1.517, for unpolarised light, as a fraction of the peak an undivided pupil would give, against position in units of the diffraction width λ/D: with a phase-coated roof, and with bare glass. The coated roof gives the ordinary diffraction pattern of the full aperture. Bare glass leaves the two halves of the pupil only partly able to interfere, and the image's peak falls to 0.70 of its proper height, its central lobe widening across the edge into a shoulder on each side — a slight doubling of every point, which an observer sees as a loss of crispness and contrast.$

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.

5 figures · part 8 on Total internal reflection

Electromagnetism

Charge, field, and the lines drawn between them.

The diamonds where the island's charge is fixed. The stability diagram of a single-electron island with identical junctions: bias voltage (units of e/CΣ) against the charge the gate induces (units of e). Inside each shaded diamond, labelled with the number of extra electrons the island holds, every possible tunnelling step costs energy and no current flows; outside, at least one step pays for itself and electrons pass one at a time. The diamonds repeat every time the gate charge rises by one electron, and touch at gate charges of e/2, 3e/2, … where two charge states cost the same and the island conducts at any bias. Their height is e/CΣ in each direction. Probing the model at three points outside the diamonds gives currents of 0.60, 0.25, 0.53; inside them, nothing.

The island that takes electrons one at a time

A capacitor holds charge in proportion to its voltage, and the proportion is a property of its shape — on any piece of metal large enough to see. Make the metal small enough and cold enough, and joined to the world only by tunnel junctions, and the proportion breaks into steps: one electron's charge costs more energy than the heat or the battery can supply, so no current flows at all until it can, and then the electrons cross one by one. A charge of a single electron becomes something a voltmeter can see.

5 figures · part 8 on Conductors

The tilt that starts the reversal, in a well of soft crystal. A planar defect three wall parameters wide (three times √(A/K)) in which the crystal's anisotropy falls to zero, drawn as the anisotropy K(x) across it; the curve is the shape of the first tilt of the magnetisation to become unstable as a reverse field is raised, the lowest mode of −A d²/dx² + K(x), and the dashed line is its eigenvalue. The equation is Schrödinger's, with the exchange stiffness A in place of ħ²/2m and the anisotropy as the potential, and the reversal begins in its ground state. Here the ground state lies at 0.373 K, so the magnet reverses at 37 per cent of the anisotropy field. The mode reaches out of the well a distance of about √(A/K) on each side, because exchange will not let the tilt change abruptly.

The magnet that reverses where its crystal is weakest

A perfect crystal of neodymium-iron-boron should hold its magnetisation against a reverse field of 7.7 tesla. The best magnets made of it give way at one to three. The shortfall, known for eighty years as Brown's paradox, is not a failure of the crystal but of its edges: reversal begins wherever the crystal is weakest, in a layer a few nanometres thick. Working out how weak that layer can afford to be turns out to be a problem already solved in quantum mechanics — the nucleation field is the ground-state energy of a particle in a well shaped like the defect.

5 figures · part 7 on Magnetisation

A row of magnets with its field on one side. Two wavelengths of a Halbach row: blocks of permanent magnet, 4 to a wavelength, each magnetised a 90° turn from the last (block arrows), with the magnetic field drawn as arrows above and below, their lengths proportional to its strength. Just above the row the field is 5 times stronger than the same distance below it. The magnetisation turning one way along the row puts the field on that side; turned the other way, it would put it underneath. With finer blocks the weak side empties further, and a continuously turning magnetisation leaves it with no field at all.

The magnets that put their whole field on one side

Lay bar magnets in a row, each turned a quarter turn from the last, and the row's field appears almost entirely on one side, with almost nothing on the other — although every magnet in it, alone, is perfectly symmetric. Turn the magnetisation smoothly instead of in steps and the weak side has no field at all, exactly. Nothing is shielding it. The two halves of the pattern each make a symmetric field, and their fields line up on one side and cancel on the other, because a magnetisation that turns as it goes can only make the field that decays in one direction.

5 figures · part 9 on Magnetism $Where the energy of a charged capacitor goes. The energy stored in a 1 nF capacitor charged to 10 V, in an identical empty one connected to it through a 100 Ω resistance, and dissipated as heat, as fractions of the starting energy, against time in units of the time constant RC/2 (50 ns here). Charge flows until both capacitors sit at 5 V. Each then holds a quarter of the original energy, and the other half has gone into the resistance, 86 per cent of it within the first time constant. The stored total (dashed) falls to one half and stays there.$

The half a wire always takes

Charge a capacitor, connect it to an identical empty one, and wait. Charge flows until both sit at half the voltage, and when it stops, the two together hold exactly half the energy the first one started with. The other half has gone, and it has gone whatever the wire was made of: a thick copper bar and a megohm resistor take the same half, one in picoseconds and the other in milliseconds. Remove the resistance altogether and the energy still goes, as radio waves. The loss is not a property of the wire. It is what sharing a conserved quantity between two quadratic stores always costs.

6 figures · part 7 on Field energy

Thermodynamics

Heat, disorder, and the one law with a direction in it.

The period of a ball bouncing on a gas. The period of a 16 mm steel ball (16.8 g) oscillating in a vertical tube that fits it on top of a flask, against the flask's volume on a logarithmic axis, for helium, air and carbon dioxide at room temperature, if every compression is adiabatic: T = 2π√(mV/γPA²). On a 10 litre flask the ball swings with a period of 0.983 s on helium, 1.072 s on air and 1.117 s on carbon dioxide. The gas is the spring, and its stiffness is γ times the pressure: the gas whose molecules have fewest ways to store energy is the stiffest, because less of the work done in compressing it goes into motions that do not push on the walls.

The ball that weighs how a gas stores heat

Drop a steel ball into a glass tube that fits it closely, on top of a flask of gas, and it does not fall to the bottom. It bounces, up and down, on the gas trapped beneath it, with a period of about a second. The gas is a spring, and its stiffness is the pressure multiplied by a number that counts how many ways the gas's molecules can hold energy. So a stopwatch on a bouncing ball measures something that otherwise needs a calorimeter: whether the molecules can rotate, whether they can vibrate, and how far a vibration has woken up at the temperature of the room.

5 figures · part 10 on Equipartition $A race between the flame and the end gas. The Livengood–Wu integral of the end gas — the fraction of its ignition delay used up — against time from the spark, for 95-octane fuel at compression ratios 9, 11 and 13; the dotted line marks when nine-tenths of the charge has burned. If the integral reaches one before then, the end gas ignites by itself while a sizeable part of the charge is still unburned, and knocks. At a ratio of 9 the flame wins easily: the integral ends at 0.90. At 11 it reaches one when 92 per cent of the charge has burned, just short of knock; at 13, when only 78 per cent has, and the rest detonates. The integral climbs fastest at the end, where the end gas is hottest and most compressed, which is why knock is heard late in the burn.$

The squeeze a petrol engine is not allowed

Every textbook gives a petrol engine's ideal efficiency as one minus the compression ratio raised to a small negative power, and every reader can see that the efficiency keeps climbing as the ratio rises. Real petrol engines stop near ten or eleven. Nothing in the thermodynamics stops them. The fuel does: the charge being compressed is already fuel and air, and the burning gas behind the flame squeezes the rest until it ignites on its own, in a hammer-blow that wrecks pistons. An octane number buys nothing but time against that, and a diesel escapes it by compressing air and adding the fuel only when it wants ignition.

5 figures · part 10 on Heat engines

Relativity

Space and time, drawn on the same axes.

The now a travelling twin can measure

The standard account of the twin paradox has the traveller's sense of “now on Earth” lurch forward by years at the moment of turning round. That lurch belongs to a recipe — borrow the simultaneity of whatever inertial frame the traveller happens to be in — and the recipe is not something the traveller can measure. Timing the home clock by echo, as a radar does, gives a now that the traveller can measure, that never jumps and never crosses itself, and that during the turnaround coincides, surprisingly, with the stay-at-home's own.

5 figures · part 7 on Simultaneity $An electron that runs into light and loses its energy to it. The energy of an electron of 511 MeV (γ = 1000) as it passes head-on through a 10-cycle pulse of 0.8 µm light, as a fraction of its starting energy, against the number of laser cycles it has crossed, for normalised field strengths a₀ = 30 and 100: with radiation reaction (solid) and without (dashed). Without it, the electron is shaken sideways while in the light and leaves with exactly the energy it brought, as a plane wave requires. With it, each half-cycle near the pulse's peak radiates away a slice: the electron leaves with 76 per cent of its energy at a₀ = 30 and 22 per cent at a₀ = 100, the rest gone as gamma rays.$

The light that takes back an electron's energy

An electron at rest in the most intense laser light ever made feels its own radiation as a force a millionth of the light's push — the textbook reason radiation reaction never matters. Send the electron into the light at nearly the speed of light and the arithmetic turns over. In its own frame the light is stronger by twice its Lorentz factor, the power it radiates grows as the square of that, and a pulse a few tens of femtoseconds long can strip it of most of its energy as gamma rays. That is where the classical theory of a radiating charge, argued over for a century, finally has to answer to experiment — and where it starts to fail for quantum reasons.

5 figures · part 15 on Relativistic dynamics

Quantum

Where the continuous picture runs out, and what replaces it.

Fringes that identical nuclei add. The cross-section for two identical spinless nuclei repelling each other, divided by the classical answer — the Rutherford counts for the nucleus hit and the nucleus thrown, added — against the scattering angle in the centre-of-mass frame, for Sommerfeld parameters η = 1, 4 and 16 (η is half the closest approach in units of the wavelength over 2π). Because the detector cannot tell which nucleus it caught, the two amplitudes add before squaring, and the cross term oscillates in angle: at 90° the two paths are mirror images and the rate is exactly twice the classical one at every energy. Between 30° and 90° the curve completes about 2 oscillations for η = 4 and 7 for η = 16 — their number grows in proportion to η, which is to say in proportion to 1/ħ.

The scattering quantum mechanics returns unchanged

Rutherford worked out how alpha particles bounce off a nucleus by treating them as tiny planets on hyperbolic orbits, two years before Bohr's atom and fifteen before quantum mechanics. He had no right to be exactly correct, and he was: the full quantum calculation returns his formula without a single correction, at every energy. Coulomb's force is the one force for which that happens. Make the two nuclei identical, though, and quantum mechanics adds fringes no orbit can produce — doubling the rate at right angles for one kind of particle and halving it for the other.

5 figures · part 6 on Correspondence

Two kinds of flicker in one heat bath. The variance of the number of photons in one mode of black-body radiation, against hν/kT, both on logarithmic axes, split into its two parts: n̄, the variance a shower of independent particles would have, and n̄², the variance of the intensity of randomly phased waves; their sum is what thermodynamics demands of Planck's law. Where the photons are rare, at hν much more than kT, the particle term wins; where they are crowded, the wave term wins; they are equal at hν/kT = ln 2 = 0.693, where each mode holds one photon on average. At hν = 5kT the wave term is 0.68 per cent of the particle term; at hν = kT/10 the particle term is 10.5 per cent of the wave term.

The flicker that is half wave and half particle

In 1909, sixteen years before quantum mechanics, Einstein asked how much the energy in a small corner of a hot oven should fluctuate, and answered with nothing but thermodynamics and Planck's law. The answer has two terms. One is exactly what a spray of independent particles would give; the other is exactly what randomly overlapping waves would give. Neither theory of light could produce the sum, and the sum is what the oven does. The two terms are equal where each mode of the radiation holds one photon on average — a dividing line that runs through every hot thing, from the microwave sky to the Sun.

5 figures · part 6 on Photon

Fluids

Matter that will not hold a shape, and the forces that act in it anyway.

$The force to pull a foot out of packed sand. The suction that resists pulling a foot (a sole of 250 cm², 10 cm long) straight up out of sand, as water is drawn through the sand into the space the foot leaves — Darcy's law with a Kozeny–Carman permeability — against the pulling speed, on logarithmic axes, for compacted sand (fraction 0.6) of three grain sizes and for loose sand (0.41) of 0.1 mm; the dotted line is a 70 kg person's weight. The force is proportional to the speed and inversely to the square of the grain size. Pulled at a centimetre a second from compacted 0.1 mm sand, a foot resists with 2.5 kN, 4 times the person's weight; the speed at which the suction equals that weight is 2.71 mm/s. In the loose sand before it compacted, the same pull would need 15 per cent of the force; with clay filling the pores of the compacted sand, as in natural quicksand, a thousand times more, and the speed a body's weight can pull at falls to microns a second.$

The sand that lets a body in and will not let it out

Quicksand cannot swallow anyone: liquefied, it is nearly twice as dense as water, and a person in it floats with their chest clear. What makes it dangerous is the opposite asymmetry. Going in is easy, because a step breaks the gel holding the grains apart and the sand turns liquid. Coming out is hard, because the sand settles and packs around whatever sank, and a trapped foot can only rise as fast as water can seep through the packed grains to fill the space it leaves. Pulling harder barely helps; letting water in does.

5 figures · part 9 on Rheology

The sand whose friction depends on how fast it flows

A heap of sand stands at its angle of repose and starts to slide a few degrees steeper; between those angles there are steady avalanches, and their speed is decided by one number. The inertial number compares how long a grain takes to fall into a gap opened under it with how long the flow takes to open the gap. Friction rises with it, from the static value to a ceiling, and that single dependence explains why grains flow steadily on only a twelve-degree window of slopes, why a flowing layer has the velocity profile Bagnold measured, and why a deeper avalanche is faster — but not as a liquid would be.

5 figures · part 10 on Granular matter

Astrophysics

Gravity read as geometry, and the laws carried where no laboratory can follow.

The light that climbs out of a cluster of galaxies

A cluster of galaxies is a well a few megaparsecs wide, and its galaxies sit at different depths in it. Light from the one at the bottom climbs furthest, so every other member should look slightly blue beside it — by ten kilometres a second, against galaxies that rush about at a thousand. No single cluster can show it. Thousands stacked together can, but only once a second effect of exactly the same size, the slowing of the galaxies' own moving clocks, has been taken out — and it cannot be separated by choosing heavier clusters, because both are set by the same depth.

5 figures · part 7 on Gravitational redshift

The atoms the light stops touching

Every photon an atom scatters kicks it by the same small amount in a random direction, so a gas that keeps scattering light cannot be colder than one kick. The way below is not a stronger friction but a weaker touch: arrange for the light to stop scattering off atoms that are nearly at rest. Then the coldest atoms are not cooled, only left alone, for times that have no average — and the gas never settles into a temperature at all, but piles into a peak that narrows for as long as the light stays on.

5 figures · part 7 on Radiation pressure

The circle of electrons a wave can talk to. Electron velocities along and across the magnetic field, in units of c. Shaded: a horseshoe of 10 keV electrons (speed 0.195c), the shape a beam takes when it is driven down into a strengthening field, with the electrons moving up along the field missing. Curves: the electrons a wave travelling across the field can exchange energy with, for wave frequencies of 0.995, 0.980, 0.960 times the cyclotron frequency. Because a faster electron is heavier and circles more slowly, at Ω/γ, each resonance is a semicircle of radius c√(1 − ω²/Ω²): 0.100, 0.199, 0.280c. A wave at 0.981Ω resonates with the horseshoe's middle.

The radio that only heavier electrons can make

Above every aurora the Earth broadcasts a gigawatt of radio that no one on the ground can hear. It comes out just below the frequency at which electrons circle the field there, and it is a maser — amplified by the electrons themselves. The surprise is what makes the amplifier work. Without relativity it could not: summed over every electron, a wave at the circling frequency is always absorbed. The few per cent by which a fast electron is heavier, and circles more slowly, is not a correction to the mechanism. It is the mechanism.

5 figures · part 11 on Radiating charge

Two beams that each stay straight, and wind each other into whirlpools. Phase space of a one-dimensional particle simulation: every dot is an electron, plotted at its position along a periodic box one fastest-growing wavelength long (10.26 v₀/ωₚ) and its velocity, in units of the beam speed. One beam starts at +v₀, the other at −v₀, with a 0.0001 ripple in position. At t = 18/ωₚthe beams are visibly rippled; by 26 the ripple has grown into overturning, and by 40 the two beams have wound round each other into a single vortex, filamented into strands. When growth first stops, at ωₚt = 25.2, the wave's field is 0.56 m v₀ωₚ/e; electrons trapped in it bounce at 0.59 ωₚ, faster than the 0.354 ωₚ at which it was growing, and it traps any electron within ±1.92 v₀ of the wave's speed — zero, by symmetry — so both beams are inside its separatrix; total energy was conserved to 0.31%.

The two beams that unravel each other

A cold beam of electrons, alone, is perfectly stable: disturb it and it rings at its plasma frequency and carries the ringing downstream. Send a second beam through it the other way and the pair is not stable at all. A ripple of the right length grows by a factor of e in less than half a plasma period, takes a third of the beams' drift energy into an electric field, and then winds both beams into a single whirlpool in which their drift is gone. Neither beam can do it. The growth exists only in the pair, and a beam a millionth as dense as the plasma it crosses is enough to start it.

5 figures · part 10 on Plasma oscillation

A disc that makes its own field once it turns fast enough. A self-exciting disc dynamo started from rest, its motor's torque set so that, with no current, the disc would run at 0.8, 1.5, 2.5 times the critical speed R/M. Dashed: the disc's speed, in units of the critical speed. Solid: the current in its coil, in units of √(G/M), starting from a stray seed of a millionth, of either sign. Time is in units of the circuit's own L/R. At 0.8 the disc settles at its free-running speed, below critical, and the seed dies. Above it the disc spins up past the critical speed and nothing happens for a while — the current is growing exponentially from a millionth — until it reaches a tenth, at t ≈ 29 for 1.5 and 11 for 2.5 and becomes large enough to brake the disc. Speed and current then ring and settle at exactly the critical speed and a current of ±√(g − 1): 0.71 and 1.22, of the sign the seed happened to have.

The dynamo that reverses with nothing pushing it

A copper disc spinning in a magnetic field drives a current from its axle to its rim. Wire that current through a coil wound round the disc and the coil supplies the field the disc needs — and above one definite speed, a resistance divided by an inductance, the arrangement makes its own field out of any stray one, with nothing else magnetic anywhere. It cannot choose which way the field points; the stray field chooses. Couple two such discs, each feeding the other's coil, and with the motors' torque held perfectly steady the field flips direction again and again at intervals that follow no pattern. The simplest dynamo that works is also the simplest one that reverses.

5 figures · part 7 on Flux freezing

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