Every essay — page 35
Mechanics
Motion, force, and the quantities that refuse to change.
The stack that leans past its own table
Stack identical books on the edge of a table, each pushed out as far as it will go without falling, and four of them are enough for the top book to lie entirely beyond the table's edge. Keep going and the overhang grows without limit — the stack can reach as far out as anyone likes — but only as half the harmonic series, so that two book-lengths need 31 books, three need 227 and five need more than twelve thousand. The arithmetic is the same that settles whether a ladder leaning on a wall slips or a wardrobe topples, and the slow growth is the price of having nothing but the stack's own weight to hold it back.
The kick that does not change the beat
A pendulum clock has to push its pendulum, or friction would stop it within minutes, and every push risks disturbing the very period the clock exists to keep. In 1826 George Airy worked out exactly when a push does no harm: at the bottom of the swing, where the pendulum is moving fastest, an impulse changes how far it swings and leaves the timing untouched. A push before the bottom makes the clock gain; after it, lose. Three centuries of escapement design are a search for a mechanism that pushes where Airy said — or that pushes in the wrong place in a way that cancels some other error.
Waves
Oscillation, and everything that turns out to be an oscillation.
The pattern two gratings make that neither contains
Lay one fine net curtain over another and broad, swirling bands appear that are in neither curtain. Two sets of lines a tenth of a millimetre apart, differing by one part in a hundred, make bands a centimetre apart. This is moiré: the beat of two gratings in space, as two notes a little out of tune beat in time. It magnifies whatever makes the gratings differ — a twist, a stretch, a shift — by the ratio of the bands to the lines, so it is used to measure strain in bridges and to align the layers of microchips. And two sheets of carbon, twisted by just over one degree, make a moiré on which electrons stop moving and the material superconducts.
The ripples that answer at half the shaking
Shake a dish of water up and down fifty times a second and nothing happens — until the shaking passes a threshold, when the whole surface erupts into a pattern of standing ripples, squares or stripes, each crest rising and falling twenty-five times a second, at exactly half the frequency of the shaking. Michael Faraday saw it in 1831. The size of the ripples is not set by the dish. It is chosen by the water itself, as the one wavelength whose natural frequency is half the drive's, and the threshold is set by how quickly the water's own viscosity would kill that wave.
Optics
Light, and the small number of rules it obeys.
The twist that carries light round a corner
Between two crossed polarisers, a sandwich of liquid crystal a few micrometres thick turns black to white. Its long molecules lie flat, but turned a quarter-turn from one face of the layer to the other, and polarised light entering along the molecules at one face comes out along them at the other — rotated by ninety degrees and able to pass the second polariser. Charles Mauguin found in 1911 that a slowly twisting birefringent layer drags light's polarisation round with it. Sixty years later the effect became the liquid-crystal display. The layers in those displays, though, are too thin to drag anything: the light inside them wanders off and comes back, at exactly the right thickness.
The light that comes back bluer when it is warm
Shine a green laser on a crystal and a tiny fraction of the light comes back with a different colour: a little redder, having given a quantum of energy to one of the crystal's vibrations, or a little bluer, having taken one. Losing energy is always possible. Gaining it needs a vibration already excited, so the bluer light is fainter, and fainter still the colder the crystal. The ratio of the two is a Boltzmann factor, fixed by quantum statistics and nothing else. It is a thermometer that needs no contact and no calibration — and in a long glass fibre, it is thousands of thermometers at once.
Electromagnetism
Charge, field, and the lines drawn between them.
The glow a thin wire wears before it sparks
Raise the voltage on a thin wire inside a metal tube and, long before anything sparks across, the wire starts to glow faintly violet and to hiss. The air right next to it is ionising, and the air a millimetre further out is not. The field round a wire falls away so fast that an avalanche of ionisation can start at the surface and find nowhere to go. That partial breakdown, corona, costs power lines energy in the rain, sets the size of the wires they are made from, cleans the smoke from chimneys and counts particles in detectors — and the field it needs is not a property of air but of the wire's radius.
The atom whose nucleus is a reflection
An electron set down on liquid helium cannot go in, because the helium atoms' closed shells repel it, and it cannot go far, because the liquid polarises and pulls it back with the field of an image charge. The image is weak, three-hundredths of the electron's charge. So the electron sits in a one-dimensional hydrogen atom whose nucleus is its own reflection: its levels follow hydrogen's 1/n² series at 0.66 milli-electronvolts instead of 13.6 electronvolts, and it hovers eleven nanometres above the surface. Microwaves at 126 gigahertz lift it to the next level, and a field pressing down on it tunes the line.
Thermodynamics
Heat, disorder, and the one law with a direction in it.
The ring that forgets and then remembers
Put a few hundred balls on a ring, all white, and mark a handful of the gaps between them. Each tick, every ball moves one place round and changes colour if it crosses a mark. Nothing is random and everything can be run backwards. Yet the colours mix, half and half, exactly as Boltzmann's equation for a gas says they should, and the entropy rises to its maximum and stays there — until, after one full turn, every ball is white again. Mark Kac built the model in 1956 to show where the arrow of time in Boltzmann's equation comes from, and what it quietly assumes.
The rings a reaction lays down in a gel
Let one salt soak into a tube of jelly that holds another, and where they meet a solid should form, spreading smoothly behind the advancing front. It does not. It forms in sharp, separate bands, close together near the entrance and further and further apart, each one a fixed multiple of the distance of the last. Raphael Liesegang saw the rings in 1896 and they have been found since in rocks, in agate, in gallstones and in microchips. Nothing in the jelly is patterned to begin with. The pattern comes from a solid that will not start until the solution is overloaded, and that then empties the solution around it.
The salt that dissolves in the air's own water
Leave a dish of salt in a bathroom and it does not just clump; on a humid enough day it turns into a puddle, though no water was poured on it. Above 75 per cent humidity, common salt pulls water out of the air until it has dissolved itself. The number is not a property of salt's attraction for water in any vague sense. It is the vapour pressure of a saturated salt solution, read as a fraction of pure water's: wherever the air holds more water than that, the solution is the state with the lower chemical potential. Bring the humidity back down, and the puddle does not turn back into salt until the air is far drier — about 45 per cent.
The column that boils from the middle
Water at the bottom of a geyser's tube is hotter than water anywhere else in it, and it is not the water that boils first. The weight of the column raises the boiling point with depth faster than the heat from below raises the temperature, so the column reaches its boiling curve partway down, under a cooler surface layer. A little boiling there lifts the water above. Everything beneath is then at a lower pressure than the one it was heated under, so it is superheated and flashes, and the eruption feeds itself: past about fourteen centimetres of water thrown out, each slug of steam makes more room than it was given.
Relativity
Space and time, drawn on the same axes.
The angle a collider counts in logarithms
The two proton beams of the Large Hadron Collider meet head on with equal energies, so the collisions ought to happen at rest in the laboratory. They do not. Each collision is really between two fragments of protons carrying unknown, unequal shares of the momentum, and every one is moving along the beam at a different speed. Particle physicists therefore describe what comes out in a variable that a boost along the beam simply shifts: rapidity, the quantity in which speeds add. A detector cannot measure rapidity directly. It measures an angle, and converts it to a logarithm.
The satellites launched into the wrong orbit
In August 2014 two European navigation satellites were left on the wrong orbit by a frozen fuel line in their rocket's upper stage: an ellipse instead of a circle. For navigation they were nearly useless. For relativity they were a gift. A clock on an elliptical orbit dips deeper into the Earth's gravity and speeds up as it falls, then climbs and slows, and both effects make it lose time near the bottom of the ellipse and gain it back near the top — a wobble of 367 nanoseconds every 12.9 hours, set by the orbit alone. Watching that wobble for three years checked the gravitational slowing of clocks five times more closely than anything had in the forty years before.
Quantum
Where the continuous picture runs out, and what replaces it.
The nucleus that would make positrons from nothing
Dirac's equation gives the innermost electron of an atom an energy that falls as the nuclear charge rises, and at 137 protons the formula fails outright. Real nuclei have a size, and with that correction the level does not stop: it falls through zero and on towards minus the electron's rest energy, the edge of the sea of states that Dirac's theory says are already full. It gets there at about 170 protons. Past that point an empty innermost level could be filled from the sea, and the vacuum round the nucleus would emit positrons of its own accord. No nucleus that large exists — but two uranium nuclei, for an instant, come close enough to be one.
The atom a light wave opens like a wall
Red light cannot free an electron from hydrogen: each photon carries 1.55 electronvolts and the electron is bound by 13.6. Make the light intense enough, though, and the atom ionises anyway — by absorbing nine photons at once, or, at higher intensity, by having its potential tipped over by the light's electric field until the electron tunnels out through the side. Which of the two happens is decided by a single ratio, found by Leonid Keldysh in 1964: how long the electron needs to get through the barrier, against how long the field holds still. The tunnelling side of that ratio is where attosecond physics begins.
The echo that gives back everything but the wandering
Tip a sample of protons in a slightly uneven magnetic field and their signal dies within milliseconds. None of them has relaxed: they have fanned out, each precessing at the rate its own patch of field sets. Turn every spin over halfway through and the fan closes again, and the signal comes back as an echo, smaller only by the decay that was real. What the echo cannot return is a phase gained while a spin moved, and that one loss, which grows as the cube of the waiting time, is how a scanner finds a stroke within minutes.
The atoms that measure better together
A clock read with a hundred independent atoms locates its phase no better than the scatter of a hundred coin tosses allows, because each atom answers the final question by itself. Let the atoms interact for a moment before they are read and that scatter can be shaped: the round uncertainty of their combined spin is sheared into a thin ellipse, and a phase error invisible against the coin-toss noise becomes four standard deviations wide. The gain grows with the number of atoms, and it is real only if the detector can count atoms nearly one by one.
Fluids
Matter that will not hold a shape, and the forces that act in it anyway.
The bottle that pours at one rate however full it is
Water running from a hole in the foot of an open bottle slows as the bottle empties, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. Seal the bottle and push an open tube through the stopper, down into the water, and it stops slowing: the flow holds steady from full until the level reaches the bottom of the tube. Nothing regulates it. The tube's tip is the one point inside where the pressure is the atmosphere's, the water above it hangs from an air pocket below atmospheric, and the outlet sees only the height of the tip.
The grounding line with nowhere to stop
Where an ice sheet flowing into the sea lifts off its bed and begins to float, buoyancy fixes how thick it is: just thick enough to touch the rock, about 1.1 times the depth of the water. The ice crossing that line goes as the 19/4 power of the thickness, so twice the depth sends out twenty-seven times the ice. On a bed that deepens inland, a grounding line that retreats a little moves into deeper water, exports more, and retreats further. No steady state can sit there, and an ice sheet whose edge reaches such a slope crosses the whole of it.
The outlet that jams by chance
A hopper whose outlet is a few grains wide does not flow slowly. It flows at the full rate and then stops dead, when a handful of grains wedge into an arch across the opening, and it flows again only when something knocks the arch down. The number of grains that pass between one jam and the next is random and exponentially distributed, as if every grain leaving had the same small chance of being the last. Its average rises so steeply with the opening's size that it looks like a threshold, and whether there is one is still argued: two laws agree wherever an outlet can be watched, and they part only after millions of grains.
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 vessel whose level falls evenly
Water leaves a hole in the floor of a vessel faster when the vessel is full, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. In a cylinder that makes the level fall quickly at first and slowly at the end, so hour marks on its wall crowd towards the bottom. A level that falls at one rate needs a vessel that widens as the outflow quickens: its radius must grow as the fourth root of the height. The Egyptians who made the oldest surviving water clock, about 1400 BC, gave it sloping sides, which halves the error of a cylinder. They also gave it a scale for every month, because the hours they wanted to count were not all the same length.
Astrophysics
Gravity read as geometry, and the laws carried where no laboratory can follow.
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