Illustrated Physics
physics, drawn
The collection

Every essay — page 37

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 same damped motion in two phase planes. A cloud of damped oscillators that start on a small circle of positions and velocities, drawn at times 0, 2, 4, 6 (outlines) with the centre's path. Left: position against the physical momentum mẋ. The cloud spirals inward and shrinks: its area falls as e^(−γt), to 0.30 of its start by t = 6, as friction squeezes every motion towards rest. Right: position against the canonical momentum of the Caldirola–Kanai Lagrangian, p = e^(γt)mẋ. The same cloud keeps exactly its starting area while it is stretched out of shape, as Liouville's theorem requires of any Hamiltonian flow. The friction has been hidden in the definition of momentum: the canonical momentum grows exactly as fast as the real one decays.

The friction an action can hold only by changing its clock

The principle of least action generates every conservative law of motion from a single integral, and it has no place for friction: there is no ordinary Lagrangian whose equation of motion is a damped oscillator's. Multiply the Lagrangian by an exponential of time and friction appears — but only by redefining momentum so that it grows as fast as the real momentum decays. The phase-space area the principle conserves is then no longer the one that counts motions, and quantised, the damped oscillator becomes more sharply known than the uncertainty principle allows. Friction belongs to a system and the surroundings it loses energy to, and an action for the system alone can only fake it.

5 figures · part 8 on Least action The force a rider feels on the way up a loop. The force of the seat on a rider, in multiples of the rider's weight, against how far the track has turned on the way from the bottom (0) to the top of the loop (1), for the 20 m circle and clothoid of the previous figure, each entered at the speed that leaves 0.5 g at the top. On the circle the force jumps the moment the car enters the loop, from 1 g on the straight to 6.5 g, and falls steadily to the top. On the clothoid it starts at 1 g, because the curvature starts at zero, and rises smoothly to 4.3 g partway round before falling. The clothoid's car also enters more slowly — 22.7 m/s against 23.2 — because its tighter top needs less speed to hold the car on.

The loop that is not a circle

A roller coaster's vertical loop looks circular from a distance and is not. A circular loop, entered fast enough for the car to stay on the track at the top, presses its riders into their seats at six times their weight at the bottom — six, whatever the circle's size — and slams that force on in an instant at the entry. The fix, found for railways a century earlier, is a curve whose curvature grows steadily with distance, the Euler spiral: the same curve that describes how light spreads round the edge of a shadow. Tight at the top, gentle at the bottom, it lets the force build instead of arriving all at once.

5 figures · part 9 on Circular motion

Waves

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

Every wave a plate can carry, at every frequency. The phase velocities of the guided waves in an aluminium plate (longitudinal speed 6.32 km/s, shear 3.13), against the product of frequency and thickness in MHz·mm, from the Rayleigh–Lamb equations: symmetric modes, in which the two faces bulge and thin together (light), and antisymmetric ones, in which they bend together (dark). At low frequency only two exist. The symmetric S₀ is a stretching wave at the plate velocity, 5.44 km/s; the antisymmetric A₀ is a bending wave whose speed falls towards zero, 0.96 km/s at 0.1 MHz·mm. At high frequency both approach the 2.92 km/s of a Rayleigh wave on each face. Higher modes enter at cut-off frequencies where the plate's thickness holds a whole number of half-wavelengths of one bulk wave — the first at 1.56 MHz·mm — arriving from infinite phase velocity and slowing as the frequency rises.

The plate that carries two kinds of sound

Tap the edge of a sheet of aluminium and the sound that runs along it is not one wave but two, and neither is the sound of the metal. One stretches the sheet and travels at 5.44 km/s, faster than a shear wave and slower than a compression wave in the same metal. The other bends it, travels at a speed that depends on how high the note is and how thick the sheet is, and at low frequency crawls at a few hundred metres a second. Both are made of the same two bulk waves bouncing between the faces, and the two faces together decide everything.

5 figures · part 9 on Guided waves The sideways shaking that arrives longest waves first. The transverse ground motion 3000 km from a sudden shear source, synthesised from the computed dispersion of the fundamental Love wave in a 35 km crust, with periods from about 8 to 120 seconds. Nothing arrives before 11.0 minutes, the travel time at the mantle's shear speed. Then the longest periods come in first — 80 s waves at their group velocity of 4.23 km/s, after 11.8 min — and the period shortens steadily through the train, 30 s waves arriving at 14.3 min. The strongest shaking comes last, near 14.8 min, where the group velocity passes through its minimum and waves over a band of periods arrive together. Read off a real seismogram, the arrival time of each period is the crust's dispersion curve, and the crust's thickness with it.

The shaking a uniform Earth could not carry

Early seismographs recorded a large sideways shaking that arrived after the body waves and before the Rayleigh wave, and no theory of a uniform Earth allowed it: a horizontal shear wave at a free surface reflects as itself and nothing holds it there. Augustus Love showed in 1911 that a layer does. A crust slower than the rock beneath traps the shaking between a perfect mirror at the top and total reflection at the bottom, and because the long waves reach deeper and run faster, the order in which the periods arrive is a measurement of how thick the crust is.

5 figures · part 11 on Wave motion

Optics

Light, and the small number of rules it obeys.

Three shapes of one cell, delaying light by the same total. The phase delay of 633 nm light across the middle of a model cell holding 300 pg of dry matter, in three shapes — rounded up, spreading and flattened — each with the same contents dissolved in volumes of 942, 965, 982 μm³. The rounded cell delays the light by 3.41 rad at its centre, the flat one by only 0.55. But the delay summed over the whole image is the same for all three, 536 rad·μm², and it gives back 300.0 pg through the refractive increment α = 0.18 mL/g: a cell is weighed by the light it delays, whatever shape it takes.

The cell weighed by the light it delays

A living cell is nearly transparent, and the light that passes through it comes out almost as bright as it went in. What changes is its timing: the cell's proteins and nucleic acids raise its refractive index a little above the water around it, and the light is delayed by a fraction of a wave. Measure that delay at every point of the image and add it up, and the sum is the cell's dry mass — the weight of everything in it except water — whatever shape the cell takes and however much water it holds. The water drops out because the medium is water too; the shape drops out because the delay is an integral of concentration along the path. Light becomes a balance that weighs a living cell to a part in a thousand without touching it.

5 figures · part 14 on Imaging How long a lens must hold back its central light. The time by which a lens must delay light passing through its centre relative to light passing its edge, so that every part of a short pulse reaches the focus together, against the lens's radius, for focal lengths of 0.1 mm, 1.0 mm, 10.0 mm (solid), in femtoseconds on logarithmic axes: the extra path from the edge, √(R² + f²) − f, over c. The dashed line is what a flat structure 1 μm thick can supply if its building blocks span a group index of 1: 3.3 fs. A 1 mm focal-length lens reaches it at a radius of 45 μm; a 10 mm one at 141 μm. A glass lens of 10 mm focal length and 5 mm radius holds its centre back by 3937 fs, which it does by being 2.27 mm thicker in the middle. A flat lens has no room for that.

The delay a flat lens has no room for

A glass lens is thick in the middle for a reason that is easy to miss. To focus light of every colour at one point, a lens must do more than bend each colour by the right amount: it must make every part of a light wave arrive at the focus at the same moment, and the light passing the edge has further to go. The glass in the middle is what holds the central light back to wait for it. A lens made flat — a kinoform, a metasurface a micrometre thick — has nowhere to keep that delay. The geometry of the focus sets how much delay is needed, the thickness sets how much is available, and between them they cap how large an achromatic flat lens can be: tens of micrometres, not centimetres.

5 figures · part 11 on Refraction How narrow a laser's line can be, against its power. The Schawlow–Townes limit on linewidth, πhνΓ²n/P with Γ the cavity linewidth and n the inversion factor, against output power on logarithmic axes, for a helium–neon laser with a 30 cm cavity of finesse about 300 (Γ = 1.6 MHz) and for a semiconductor laser a third of a millimetre long (Γ about 30 GHz, n = 2), the latter also with Henry's linewidth enhancement 1 + α² for α = 4 (dashed). At a milliwatt the helium–neon laser's limit is 0.0025 Hz — millihertz, a coherence length of tens of millions of kilometres — and the semiconductor laser's 7.2·10⁵ Hz, 1.2·10⁷ Hz with the enhancement. Both fall in proportion to one over the power: more photons in the mode make each spontaneous kick a smaller fraction of the field. The square of the cavity linewidth is why a short, lossy diode cavity has a line ten billion times broader.

The width a perfect laser still has

A laser's light is the nearest thing to a single pure frequency that anything makes, and it is still not one. Every photon spontaneously emitted into the lasing mode adds a kick of random phase, and because nothing in a laser cares what its phase is, nothing pulls the phase back: it wanders, and a wandering phase is a line of finite width. Schawlow and Townes worked out how wide in 1958, before any laser had been built. For a milliwatt helium–neon laser the answer is a few thousandths of a hertz, a coherence length a quarter of the way to the Sun — and no real laser of that kind has ever come close, because mirrors move. For a semiconductor laser the answer is megahertz, and the measured lines were wider still, by a factor nobody expected.

5 figures · part 9 on Coherence How fine a grid has to be to polarise. The fraction of the power transmitted by a grid of thin parallel wires, against the ratio of the wire spacing d to the wavelength, on logarithmic axes — for the field along the wires with three wire radii (solid), and for the field across the wires with the thickest (dashed), from the quasi-static theory of strip gratings, valid while the spacing is under about half a wavelength. Across the wires nearly everything passes at every spacing. Along them the leak is about four times the square of (d/λ)·ln(d/2πa): 0.1% of the power at a spacing of a hundredth of a wavelength, 10% at a tenth, 64% at four-tenths, for wires of radius 3% of their spacing. Thicker wires block better because the inductance of the grid falls. The diamond marks Hertz's grid of 1888, 4% leaking along the wires; a visible-light polariser needs the same ratio at a wavelength of half a micrometre, which means wires about 140 nanometres apart.

The grid that stops the light along its wires

A row of parallel wires looks like a fence, and a fence ought to let through a wave that shakes along its slats. A grid of wires does the opposite. A field along the wires drives electrons up and down them, the currents re-radiate, and the wave is reflected; a field across the wires can move charge only through a wire's width, and passes. Heinrich Hertz used such a grid in 1888 to show that his new waves were polarised. The same grid, shrunk two hundred thousand times to wires 140 nanometres apart, polarises visible light in projectors — and every sheet of polarising plastic is the same idea made from chains of iodine.

5 figures · part 11 on Polarisation

Electromagnetism

Charge, field, and the lines drawn between them.

Where the two theories part: the magnetic permeability. The voltage across the spinning wall as a fraction of a metal's, against the material's relative permeability μ, for a permittivity ε = 6. Lorentz's electron theory (flat) polarises the material only through the force on its charges, so μ does not enter: (ε − 1)/ε = 0.833 at every μ. Relativity gives (εμ − 1)/εμ, which agrees exactly at μ = 1 — so no ordinary insulator, such as the ebonite H. A. Wilson spun in 1904, can tell them apart — and climbs towards a metal's value as μ grows. At μ = 3 (dot) the relativistic voltage is 13.3 per cent larger. That is why Wilson and Wilson needed an insulator that was also magnetic, and made one from steel spheres set in wax.

The voltage a moving magnet adds to an insulator

Spin a hollow cylinder of insulator in a magnetic field along its axis and a voltage appears between its inner and outer surfaces, because every piece of it is moving through the field. How large that voltage is turns out to depend on whether the insulator is magnetic, and the dependence was predicted by one theory and missed by the other. Maxwell's equations hold in a moving material only if the material's response is written in its own frame and carried into the laboratory by relativity — and then a moving magnet is also an electric dipole.

5 figures · part 7 on Maxwell equations How much a tiny imbalance of charge would take off a body's weight. The electric repulsion between the parts of any body, as a fraction of their mutual gravity, if every nucleon carried an unbalanced charge δ (in units of the electron's), on logarithmic axes. It is (δ/δc)², with δc = 8.93 × 10⁻¹⁹, for a grain of sand, a planet or a galaxy alike. At the imbalance Lyttleton and Bondi proposed, 2 × 10⁻¹⁸, repulsion would beat gravity 5.0 times over, everywhere — their mechanism for an expanding universe. Experiments with gas let out of tanks had bounded the imbalance near 10⁻²⁰ within a year, where the ratio is 1.3·10⁻⁴, and modern ones near 10⁻²¹, 1.3·10⁻⁶.

The imbalance of charge that would outweigh gravity

Gravity and electricity both fall as the inverse square, so Gauss's law treats them identically: the field of any round body counts what is inside it. If every nucleon in ordinary matter carried a tiny unbalanced charge, the body's charge would follow its mass everywhere, and its electric repulsion would be a fixed fraction of its gravity at every size from a grain of sand to the universe. Below about one part in a billion billion of an electron's charge, gravity always wins; above it, repulsion always does. In 1959 two astronomers proposed that the universe expands because the true imbalance is just above that line.

5 figures · part 7 on Gauss's law

Thermodynamics

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

The extra work in letting the gas expand further. Pressure against volume, the volume in units of the combustion chamber and the pressure on a logarithmic axis, for two ideal engines that compress the charge by the same ratio of 10 and add the same heat: an Otto cycle that expands by 10 too and throws away gas still at 3.8 bar (dashed), and an over-expanded cycle that lets the burned gas expand 26.8 times, until it is back at the 1 bar it came in at (solid). The shaded region between the expansion line and the intake pressure, beyond the Otto engine's stroke, is where the extra work is done (on this logarithmic axis its area is not to scale): 136 kJ per kilogram of charge, raising the efficiency from 55.3 to 63.6 per cent. It is taken from gas that an Otto engine releases through its exhaust valve still pushing.

The engine that expands further than it compresses

A petrol engine's efficiency is usually quoted as a function of its compression ratio, and its compression ratio is held near ten because a higher one makes the fuel detonate. But the efficiency does not come from the compression. It comes from the expansion — from how far the burned gas is allowed to push the piston before it is thrown away — and an ordinary engine expands its gas exactly as far as it compressed it, simply because the same cylinder does both. Let the gas expand further than it was compressed and most of what a higher compression ratio would have given comes back with no knock at all. The price is paid in power, and it is why the most efficient petrol engines on the road are built this way.

5 figures · part 11 on Heat engines The wait after an eruption, against the eruption. For 400 simulated eruptions of the model geyser: the interval to the next eruption against the duration of the eruption just finished (dots), and the straight line through them, interval = 33.8 min + 10.5 × duration, with a correlation of 0.94. The eruptions fall in two clusters, short ones of about 2.2 minutes followed by waits near an hour and long ones of about 5.0 minutes followed by waits near an hour and a half, and the line runs through both. Its slope is the ratio of the discharge rate to the refill rate, 10.7: each minute of eruption throws out water that takes 10.7 minutes to replace. Plotted against the eruption that follows instead, the same intervals show a correlation of 0.05 — nothing. The interval is set by the past and tells nothing about the future.

The geyser that remembers one eruption

Old Faithful is famous for being predictable, and its predictability has an odd shape. Its eruptions come in two kinds, short and long, and the wait after each is short or long to match — about an hour after a short eruption, about an hour and a half after a long one. So the next eruption can be forecast from the last, to within about ten minutes, and from nothing else. The reason is a bookkeeping of water. An eruption throws out a volume of water that the geyser must take back from below before it can erupt again, and a long eruption throws out more. The geyser carries a memory of exactly one eruption: how much it has to refill.

5 figures · part 15 on Phase change

Relativity

Space and time, drawn on the same axes.

A cloud thrown from one event into empty space. A spacetime diagram, time up, one space dimension across, light at 45° (the edges of the shaded cone). Particles leave one event at the bottom with 13 different speeds, equally spaced in rapidity from −2.10 to 2.10 — from 0.970c one way to the same the other — and coast in straight lines (thin). The curves are the hyperbolas on which every particle's own clock reads 1, 2, 3: the cloud's own instants. Measured along any one of them, the particles are evenly spaced — the cloud is uniform — and the spacing grows in proportion to the clock: it is expanding. Nothing here is curved and nothing is created; it is special relativity in flat spacetime, and every particle, the central one included, sees the same thing.

The universe one explosion makes in empty space

Throw particles out of a single event at every speed below light's and let them coast. Drawn on a spacetime diagram, nothing curves and nothing expands — it is special relativity in an empty box. Yet the particles, slicing their history by their own clocks, find themselves in a universe that is the same everywhere, expanding, obeying an exact Hubble law with no speed limit, and filling a space of constant negative curvature. Edward Milne built a cosmology on this in 1933, and it shows that 'space expanding' and 'galaxies moving' are two slicings of one set of worldlines.

5 figures · part 7 on Spacetime diagram The readings of the moving clocks along one instant: a wave. The cosine of each moving clock's phase, read along a single laboratory instant, against position in light-periods of the clock, for clocks moving at 0.3c, 0.6c, 0.85c. The readings make a wave whose wavelength, measured from the drawing, is 3.18, 1.33, 0.62 light-periods: c²/(γvν₀), shrinking as the clocks move faster. For a clock that ticks at its rest energy over Planck's constant, ν₀ = mc²/h, that is h/γmv — de Broglie's wavelength, h over the momentum. Nothing about waves was assumed: only clocks, synchronised where they rest, read from a frame in which they move.

The wave a row of moving clocks leaves on an instant

Line up identical clocks, synchronise them where they stand, and send the whole row past a laboratory at a steady speed. On any one laboratory instant the clocks do not agree: the ones further ahead read less, by an amount that grows steadily along the row. The readings form a wave laid out in space, its crests are the moving row's instants, and they sweep along faster than light. Give each clock the frequency of its rest energy and the wavelength is exactly h/p. De Broglie's matter wave began, in 1923, as an argument about the relativity of simultaneity.

5 figures · part 8 on Simultaneity The parabola a family of isobars lies on. The atomic masses of the nuclei with 91 nucleons, as energy above the lightest, against the number that are protons, from the semi-empirical mass formula: a parabola with zirconium-91 at the bottom, which is where the stable isobar is. Left of the floor the nuclei have too many neutrons and β-decay towards it, each step turning a neutron into a proton and releasing the mass difference — 8.2 MeV from Kr, 5.8 MeV from Rb, 3.4 MeV from Sr, 1.0 MeV from Y — the steps shrinking as the floor nears, because the slope of a parabola does. Right of it the nuclei have too many protons and decay the other way, by capturing an electron or, where the drop exceeds 1.022 MeV, by emitting a positron: 6.2 MeV from Tc, 3.8 MeV from Mo, 1.4 MeV from Nb. Every arrow points downhill in mass, and nothing else decides its direction.

The parabola that decides which way a nucleus decays

A weak decay turns a neutron into a proton or a proton into a neutron and leaves the number of nucleons alone, so it moves a nucleus sideways among its isobars. Whether it can happen, and in which direction, is settled by weighing: a decay goes wherever the atom ends up lighter, by any amount at all, except that emitting a positron needs two electron masses more. Laid out against proton number, the masses of a family of isobars fall on a parabola — or, for an even number of nucleons, on two — and the shape of that parabola is why potassium-40 decays both ways and germanium-76 can only take two steps at once.

5 figures · part 11 on Mass-energy

Quantum

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

Reversing the magnetism in step with the swing. The rod hung from a fibre as a torsion pendulum with a period of 10 s and a quality factor of 200, its magnetisation reversed 40 times, once every half swing, in step with its motion, then left alone; the angle it turns through, integrated, in degrees. Each reversal adds the same small kick of angular momentum and the kicks add up, as pushes on a swing do: the swing grows to 15.46° if the magnetism is spin, 30.92° if it were orbital currents. A single reversal would turn the rod by about 0.45° — measurable in principle, buried in practice by the much larger twist that the coil's own field puts on any slight misalignment, which is why Einstein and de Haas drove the rod at its resonance and why their first result, g′ = 1, came out wrong.

The rod that turns when its magnetism flips

Hang an iron rod on a thin fibre inside a coil, reverse the current, and the rod turns a little. Nothing has pushed it sideways: reversing the magnetisation reversed the angular momentum the electrons inside it carry, and since nothing outside can twist the rod about its axis, the iron lattice has to take up the difference. Einstein and de Haas did it in 1915 to prove that magnetism is electric charge going round. They got the right effect and the wrong number, and the right number — twice what they expected — was evidence, years before anyone proposed it, that the electron's magnetism comes from something that is not a rotation at all.

5 figures · part 8 on Spin Two measures of how uncertain a split state is. For the two-peaked state, against half the separation of the peaks in units of their width: Heisenberg's product σₓσₚ divided by its minimum ħ/2 (solid), and the entropic sum Hₓ + Hₚ minus its minimum ln(πeħ) (dashed), both computed from the state's distributions. As the peaks separate the product grows without limit, 8.1 times the minimum at the right of the figure, because the variance counts the empty space between the peaks as uncertainty. The entropic excess levels off at 2 ln 2 − 1 = 0.386 (0.386 at the right): the position's entropy gains ln 2, one bit, for not knowing which peak, and the momentum's gives back 1 − ln 2 because its fringes pack it into narrow bands. The entropic relation says what is true of the state: it is a fraction of a coin toss away from a minimum-uncertainty packet, however far apart the two places are.

The sharpness a variance cannot see

Heisenberg's inequality is a statement about standard deviations, and a standard deviation is a poor measure of how sharply something is known. A particle that is certainly in one of two narrow places a metre apart has a position spread of half a metre, and satisfies the inequality with room to spare while being sharply localised. Measure uncertainty by information instead — by the Shannon entropy of each distribution — and the relation tightens: the sum of the two entropies has a floor that the split state cannot get under either, and the floor survives in places where the variance form says nothing at all.

5 figures · part 7 on Uncertainty A chaotic rotor heats without limit, and its quantum version stops. The mean kinetic energy of a rotor kicked once a period by a potential of strength K = 5, against the number of kicks, starting at rest. Classically (an ensemble of 4,000 rotors with random angles) the motion is chaotic and the momentum random-walks, so the energy grows in a straight line, 6.3 per kick, near the K²/4 = 6.25 a random walk of kicks K sin θ gives. Quantum mechanically, with an effective Planck constant ƛ = 1 and 0.5, the energy follows the classical line for a while and then stops, fluctuating about 58 and 123: the smaller ƛ lets it follow the classical growth for longer and climb further before it stops. Nothing in the quantum rotor's equations damps it; the growth stops by interference.

The heating a quantum rotor refuses

Kick a freely turning rotor hard, at regular intervals, and classical mechanics says its motion becomes chaotic and its energy grows without limit, the momentum random-walking upward with every kick. Do the same to a quantum rotor and it follows the classical heating for a while, then stops — not because anything damps it, but because the waves of its momentum states interfere so as to cancel further spreading. The correspondence principle, which promises classical behaviour when quantum numbers are large, is broken here in the most direct way: by a quantum system that refuses to get hot.

5 figures · part 7 on Correspondence

Fluids

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

A surface whose thickness depends on how much of it is looked at. The rms roughness of a water surface at 20 °C, in nanometres, against the size of the patch over which it is measured, from the thermal ripples that fit inside the patch — with gravity (solid) and without it (dashed) — for ripples down to a molecular wavelength of 0.6 nm. Over 10 nm the surface is 0.16 nm rough; over a micrometre, 0.26; over a millimetre, 0.36; and beyond a few millimetres gravity flattens the longest ripples and the roughness stops at 0.390 nm. In free fall it would keep growing as the square root of the logarithm: 0.43 nm over a metre. An X-ray reflectivity measurement sees the ripples smaller than its own coherence length, typically some micrometres, and reports a thickness of about a third of a nanometre — a number that belongs to the instrument as much as to the water.

The surface whose thickness depends on the view

The surface of a glass of water looks like a perfect plane, and over most distances it nearly is. But it is at room temperature, and every ripple it could carry — from a few molecules long to a few millimetres — is shaken by heat with its own share of thermal energy. The ripples are tiny, a fraction of a nanometre high, and they add up in an odd way: every factor of ten in wavelength contributes the same amount of roughness. So the thickness of a water surface has no single value. It depends logarithmically on how large a patch is looked at, until gravity stops it at a few millimetres, and the X-ray measurements that report a third of a nanometre are reporting a property of their own resolution as much as of the water.

5 figures · part 11 on Surface tension Two columns of air side by side, falling at different rates. The air pressure against height inside a 100 m building kept at 21 °C (solid) and outside it at −10 °C (dashed), relative to the pressure outside at the ground, for a building whose openings are equal at top and bottom. Both fall by about 12 Pa a metre, the weight of a metre of air on each square metre, but the cold outside air is 12 per cent denser and its pressure falls faster. The two lines cross at the neutral plane, half-way up (dot). Below it the outside pressure is higher and pushes air in at every crack; above it the inside pressure is higher and pushes air out — 69 Pa at the roof, 69 Pa at the ground. The building is a chimney.

The building that breathes through its doors

In winter the lobby doors of a tall building are hard to push open and, once open, let in a gale, though there is no wind outside. The building is a chimney. Its warm air and the cold air outside are two columns of fluid standing side by side, and the lighter one loses pressure more slowly with height, so the two pressures can be equal at only one level. Below it the outside pushes in through every crack; above it the inside pushes out. The difference is a few tens of pascals, the weight of a few millimetres of water, and over the area of a door it is the push of a strong hand — set entirely by hydrostatics, and running backwards in summer.

5 figures · part 12 on Hydrostatics A plume rising into a stratified fluid, until it cannot. A turbulent plume from a small steady source of buoyancy, rising through a fluid whose density increases steadily downward, integrated from the Morton–Taylor–Turner equations with an entrainment coefficient of 0.1; height across, in units of F₀^(1/4)N^(−3/4), the only length the source's buoyancy flux and the stratification can make. Up: the buoyancy flux, as a fraction of the source's (solid); the momentum flux, as a fraction of its peak (dashed); and the plume's radius, as a fraction of its radius at the neutral level (dotted). The buoyancy flux falls from the start, because the fluid the plume entrains came from lower down and is denser than the fluid it is carried up into; it reaches zero at 4.37 — the level at which the plume will spread sideways — and goes negative. The momentum flux, built up by the buoyancy, peaks at 4.37 and is then spent carrying the now-heavy plume on to 5.75, where it stops. The radius grows almost in proportion to height until near the top, where the model's top-hat radius runs away as the momentum vanishes — the point at which the plume stops being a plume and becomes a spreading intrusion the equations do not describe.

The plume that stops below the surface

Hot smoke rises, oil and gas from a seabed leak rise, and in a fluid of uniform density they would go on rising for ever. Real oceans and atmospheres are stratified, denser lower down, and a rising plume carries its own downfall with it: it rises by drawing in the fluid around it, and the fluid it draws in near the bottom is denser than the fluid it is carried up into. Its buoyancy runs out, it overshoots, and it spreads sideways at a height set only by how buoyant its source is and how strongly the surroundings are layered — a quarter power of one and a minus three-quarters power of the other.

5 figures · part 11 on Stratification The height at which hot air stops being light enough. Lift per cubic metre of hot air against height in the standard atmosphere, with the inside at 100 °C and 120 °C, and (dashed) what a 2800 m³ balloon carrying 550 kg plus its envelope needs per cubic metre, 0.241 kg. As the balloon climbs, the outside air thins, and although it also cools — which improves the temperature ratio — the density wins: lift per cubic metre falls by about a tenth for every kilometre. The balloon can climb only to where the curve crosses its need: 6.0 km with the envelope at 120 °C. Above the tropopause the outside temperature stops falling and the lift falls faster still; a hot-air balloon that reaches the stratosphere needs an envelope enormous compared with its load.

The balloon a cold morning lifts

A hot-air balloon is open at the bottom, so the air inside is at the same pressure as the air outside and lighter only because it is hotter. Its lift is the outside air's density times one minus the ratio of the two absolute temperatures — a small number, a third of a kilogram per cubic metre at best — and since the fabric cannot be heated much above a hundred degrees, the lift depends as much on the cold outside as on the heat inside. That is why balloons are the size of houses, why they fly at dawn, why each has a ceiling, and why the pilot must burn for where the balloon will be half a minute from now.

5 figures · part 12 on Buoyancy

Astrophysics

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

How much of a wave of gravity a bar can catch. A resonant bar's cross-section for gravitational waves, integrated over its resonance, (8/π)(GM/c)(v/c)², against its mass, on logarithmic axes, for sound speeds of 3.0 km/s, 5.4 km/s, 10.0 km/s (aluminium is about 5.4). It is proportional to the mass, which is why the bars weighed tonnes, and to the square of the speed of sound over the speed of light — the bar answers a strain only by being stretched against its own stiffness, and (v/c)² is about 3 × 10⁻¹⁰. Weber's first bar caught 2.3·10⁻²⁵ m² Hz: to absorb a single joule, a burst must carry 4.4·10²⁴ J per square metre per hertz at the bar's frequency. Dots: Weber's bar, and the two cryogenic aluminium bars that ran longest, ALLEGRO in Louisiana and NAUTILUS near Rome.

The bar a wave of gravity barely touches

The first gravitational-wave detectors were tonnes of aluminium, hung in a vacuum and listened to for ringing. A passing wave stretches and squeezes the bar, and the bar can answer only by vibrating against its own stiffness, so the fraction of the wave it catches is set by the speed of sound over the speed of light, squared: about three parts in ten billion. That one ratio explains why the bars had to be enormous and cold, why Joseph Weber's reported detections of 1969 would have required the Galaxy to be converting dozens of suns a day into gravitational waves, and why the waves were finally found by light instead.

5 figures · part 9 on Gravitational waves The same grains as a crystal and as a liquid. 160 grains repelling one another by a screened Coulomb force, held together by a bowl-shaped confinement as a levitated layer is, and jostled by gas collisions at two temperatures; each picture is the end of a simulation of their motion. Grains with exactly six close neighbours are coloured. Left: strongly coupled — thermal energy about a thousandth of the interaction at the spacing — the grains settle into a hexagonal lattice, 79 per cent of those away from the edge with six neighbours. Right: the same grains with their thermal energy raised seventy-fivefold, the lattice melted, 9 per cent. In the laboratory the grains are a hundred micrometres apart and big enough to film with an ordinary camera, so the melting of a crystal can be watched particle by particle.

The dust a plasma freezes into a crystal

Sprinkle microscopic plastic spheres into a glowing discharge and each one charges itself to tens of thousands of electrons, because the plasma's light, fast electrons reach it far more often than its heavy ions. The charge holds the grains up against gravity in the sheath above the electrode, and it makes their mutual repulsion so strong compared with their jiggling that, at room temperature, they freeze into a hexagonal crystal with a lattice spacing a camera can resolve. A plasma, the hottest and most disordered state of matter, is where the most strongly ordered one was found to form most easily.

5 figures · part 11 on Plasma oscillation

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