Field

Thermodynamics

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

Molecular speeds at 4 temperatures. The distribution of molecular speeds in a gas, with each curve enclosing the same area. Raising the temperature moves the peak right and lowers it: the same molecules, spread over a wider range of speeds.

The speeds in a still room

The air in a quiet room is not still. Every molecule in it is moving at hundreds of metres per second, and temperature is a single number summarising an entire distribution.

Ways to arrange 10 coins. The number of distinct arrangements giving each number of heads, for 10 coins. Every individual arrangement is equally likely; the middle wins because there are more ways to reach it.

Entropy is a count, and the arrow of time is arithmetic

Nothing in mechanics prefers a direction. Entropy is not a force pushing things toward disorder — it is the observation that some outcomes have vastly more ways of happening than others.

A Carnot cycle on pressure–volume axes. Two isothermal steps joined by two adiabatic ones, forming a closed loop. The gas expands 9.6-fold in reaching the cold reservoir at 0.50 of the hot one, and the area enclosed is the net work done over one cycle.

The ceiling on every engine, set before it was designed

There is a maximum efficiency no heat engine can exceed, and it depends on nothing but two temperatures. Not the fuel, not the working substance, not the cleverness of the engineer.

Pressure, counted as momentum arriving at a wall. Molecules with speeds drawn from the Maxwell–Boltzmann distribution and directions drawn uniformly in the plane of the figure. Those moving toward the wall will bounce off it, reversing the component perpendicular to it and delivering twice that momentum each — and pressure is nothing but the rate at which that momentum arrives. Because the directions here lie in a plane rather than in space, the perpendicular component carries half the energy rather than the third it carries in a real gas.

Pressure is a rate of arrival, and the gas law falls out of counting

Nothing in a gas is pushing on the walls. Molecules arrive, bounce, and leave, and pressure is the momentum they deliver per second — from which the ideal gas law follows with no thermodynamics in it at all.

A spike, spreading. The solution of the diffusion equation at three times, with a seeded random walk histogrammed behind it. The area under every curve is the same because nothing is lost; only the width changes, and it grows as the square root of the time.

The equation that only runs forwards, and the walk underneath it

A drop of ink spreads and never gathers. The equation describing it is one of the few in physics that is not reversible — and underneath it is nothing but a coin being tossed.

Heating 1 kg of water from -20°C to 130°C. Temperature against heat added for 1 kilogram of water taken from -20 to 130 degrees Celsius. The two flat stretches are the melting and the boiling, where 334 and 2260 kilojoules go in and the temperature does not move. Melting costs as much as warming the water by 80 degrees; boiling costs as much as warming it by 541, which is 73 per cent of the whole journey.

The heat that changes no temperature, and where it actually goes

A kettle reaches a hundred degrees in a minute and takes five more to boil dry. The heat going in during those five minutes changes nothing a thermometer can see, and it is most of the energy in the whole process.

$The isothermal atmosphere against the real one. Pressure as a fraction of its sea-level value, against altitude. The curves are the isothermal barometric formula at 220, 288, 400 kelvin, whose scale heights are 6.4, 8.4, 11.7 kilometres. The points are the measured standard atmosphere. At 20 kilometres the 288 kelvin model is 71 per cent out, because the air up there is not at 288 kelvin.$

Why the air thins with height, and why that is the same law as the speeds

The pressure of the atmosphere falls exponentially with altitude, and the distribution of molecular speeds falls exponentially with energy. These are not two results that happen to look alike. They are one statement read on two axes.

A path through a crowd. A point crossing a field of 90 scatterers, rebounding off each. The mean length of 4000 such segments is 0.2983 box widths, against the textbook form 1/2nr = 0.3086 — a departure of -3.3 per cent, from a measurement that knows nothing of the formula. It does not agree exactly and should not: the closed form is derived for a vanishingly dilute field and these discs cover 9.2 per cent of the plane. Two finite-density effects pull opposite ways — crowding shortens the path, and discs shadowing one another lengthen it — so which side of the formula a given field lands on is not something the formula can tell.

How far a molecule gets

A molecule of air travels about sixty-eight nanometres between collisions — some two hundred times its own size, and a ten-millionth of the width of a room. That ratio is the reason a gas can be treated as a continuous substance at all, and the reason it sometimes cannot.

Seven walks from one point. 7 random walks of 400 steps each, all starting at the same place. None of them goes anywhere in particular and none of them stays put; the typical distance reached after n steps is the square root of n, so quadrupling the time doubles the spread. The tracks are seeded, so this is a property of the figure rather than of any one run.

The jiggle that proved atoms

A pollen grain in still water never stops moving. For eighty years that was a curiosity with no explanation; then it became the measurement that settled whether matter is made of particles, by turning a microscope and a stopwatch into a count of how many molecules are in a mole.

One mass, two entropies. The entropy of a solar mass as ordinary gas, generously counted at ten Boltzmann constants per proton, against the entropy of a solar-mass horizon. The first is 1.19·10⁵⁸ k and the second 1.05·10⁷⁷ k — a factor of 8.83·10¹⁸. This is why a horizon had to be given an entropy: without one, dropping anything at all through it destroys entropy and the second law fails.

The entropy that lives on a surface

Throw a cup of tea through a horizon and the entropy of the outside world falls. Either the second law is wrong or the horizon has an entropy of its own — and the only quantity available for it turns out to be its area, in units of a length made from gravity, quantum mechanics and the speed of light together.

The staircase equipartition cannot climb. The heat capacity of hydrogen at constant volume, in units of R, against temperature on a logarithmic axis. The three translational directions contribute 3/2 at every temperature. The two rotations switch on near 85.4 K — the temperature at which kT matches the first rotational step — taking the total to 5/2, computed here by summing the rigid rotor's partition function over two hundred levels rather than by assuming the plateau. The vibration switches on near 6332 K, taking it to 7/2. At 50 K the value is 2.469; at 300 K the value is 2.502; at 5000 K the value is 3.376. Classical equipartition predicts 7/2 at every temperature, including at four kelvin, and the size of the steps is set by ħ — which is how a heat capacity measures a quantum constant.

Half a kT for every way of moving

A heat capacity ought to be a count. Every quadratic term in a system's energy carries half a kT of it, so warming a gas is a matter of enumerating the ways its molecules can move — and the fact that the count comes out wrong for hydrogen is how a thermometer measured Planck's constant.

A ratio in the exponent. The Boltzmann factor against the energy of a state measured in units of kT, with the logarithm up the axis so that the straight line is the whole content. Every kT of energy costs a factor of e, so 10, 20, 30 times kT are factors of 10^-4.3, 10^-8.7, 10^-13.0. At 300 K, kT is 25.9 meV, so a barrier of 0.35 eV is 13.5 kT and a factor of 1.3e-6. That is the sense in which a third of an electronvolt is not a small energy: it is small compared with a chemical bond and enormous compared with kT, and it is the second comparison that decides whether anything happens.

The exponential that decides everything

Maximising the number of ways a reservoir can arrange what is left after taking E out of it gives one factor, e to the minus E over kT. Its exponent is a ratio, which is why a barrier of a third of an electronvolt — nothing at all by chemical standards — is the difference between instantly and never.

Ways to arrange 12 coins. The number of distinct arrangements giving each number of heads, for 12 coins. Every individual arrangement is equally likely; the middle wins because there are more ways to reach it.

What a system actually minimises

A ball falls to the bottom of a bowl and a gas fills a room, and neither of those is the rule. A system in contact with a large reservoir minimises U − TS, and the minus sign is the reservoir's own entropy written in the system's variables — which is why a rubber band pulls harder when it is heated.

The phase boundary of water, from one equation. Pressure against temperature for water on a logarithmic pressure axis spanning 6.6 decades. The vaporisation curve is integrated from Clausius–Clapeyron between the triple point at 273.16 kelvin and 611.7 Pa and the critical point at 647.096 kelvin, with a single latent heat of 43.32 kilojoules per mole — the value the two published points on the curve imply. The measured latent heats are 45.05 at the triple point and 40.65 at the reference point, and the fitted value sits between them, because a constant latent heat is an average over the interval. The sublimation curve below the triple point is not measured but predicted, from the two latent heats adding where all three boundaries meet: 51.1 kilojoules per mole, which reaches 103.2 Pa at 253.1 kelvin against a measured 253.15. The melting curve is drawn at the slope Clapeyron gives it, -13.5 megapascals per kelvin, which is a volume ratio and nothing else: water's solid is 917 against 1000 kilograms per cubic metre for its liquid, so melting shrinks it and the line leans backwards. Across the whole 6.6 decades of this axis that line moves 5.2 kelvin, and one atmosphere shifts the melting point by 0.0075 kelvin. At 1 atmosphere the boundary is crossed at 373.1 kelvin, where water boils. The one place the curve fails is its top end: a constant latent heat reaches 37.4 MPa at the critical temperature where the measured critical pressure is 22.1 MPa, 70 per cent high, because the latent heat falls to zero at the critical point and this curve does not know that.

A boiling point is a pressure, not a temperature

Nothing about water names one hundred degrees; the air does. Where a liquid turns to vapour in its bulk is fixed by what pushes on it, which makes the familiar figure a coordinate on a curve — 71 °C on Everest, 119.5 °C in a sealed pot — and one latent heat draws the whole curve.

The ceiling, inverted. How many joules of heat a perfect machine can move per joule of work, against the outside temperature, with the inside held at 21 °C. The upper curve is heating — T_h/(T_h − T_c), which is what the Carnot argument becomes when the cycle is run backwards — and the lower one is cooling the outside, T_c/(T_h − T_c). They differ by exactly one everywhere, to 1.8e-15 across the whole range as drawn, because the work put in is delivered as heat along with whatever was moved. The dashed line at one is a resistive heater, which is 100% efficient and is the worst option on the figure. At 7 °C and −7 °C the ideal coefficients are 21.0 and 10.5; a real machine reaching 25% of the ideal gets 5.3 and 2.6, which is still several times what burning the same energy would give.

The engine that pays back more than it takes

Carnot's argument puts a ceiling on how much work a flow of heat can be made to do. Run the same cycle backwards and the ceiling inverts into a floor that is greater than one — so a machine can deliver three or four joules of heat for every joule it consumes, and a perfectly efficient electric heater is the worst way to warm a room.

The entropy of mixing, and the entropy of not mixing. The entropy gained when two ideal gases at the same temperature and pressure are allowed to mix, per particle and in units of Boltzmann's constant, against the proportion of the mixture that is the first gas. The curve has no property of either gas in it — not their masses, not their sizes, not how strongly they interact, since ideal gases do not — and it is largest at 0.500, where it reaches ln 2 = 0.6931. Below it is the same quantity for two samples of the SAME gas, which is zero at every proportion: removing the partition between two halves of a box of nitrogen changes nothing that can be measured, and putting it back recovers the original state. The two results are correct and they do not join up. Make the two gases more and more alike — two isotopes, then two nuclear spin states, then nothing at all — and the upper curve does not descend to meet the lower one; it stays exactly where it is until the two species become identical, and then jumps. What the figure is really about is that the jump is in the counting and not in the gas.

Mixing what is already mixed

Let two different gases into each other's halves of a box and the entropy rises by a fixed amount that contains nothing about either gas. Do it with the same gas on both sides and it rises by nothing. Make the gases more and more alike and the answer does not converge — it jumps.

The part of the curve no fluid follows

One equation for a real gas produces isotherms with a rising middle section, which says a substance would expand as the pressure on it grows. Nothing does that. What replaces it is a horizontal line whose height is fixed by making two areas equal, and the condition is not a convenience.

The viscosity of a gas, over 8 decades of pressure. The viscosity of 3 gases at 300 K against pressure, on a logarithmic pressure axis and a linear viscosity one. The lines are flat, and that is the whole figure. Viscosity is the rate at which momentum is carried across a shear, which is the density of carriers times the distance each one carries it: ⅓ρv̄λ. Doubling the pressure doubles the density and halves the free path, and the two cancel exactly, so the same gas at a hundredth of an atmosphere is exactly as viscous as at one — which is not what anybody expects of a thinner gas and is what is measured. nitrogen comes out at 17.9 μPa·s against a measured 17.9, helium comes out at 19.3 μPa·s against a measured 19.9, argon comes out at 21.7 μPa·s against a measured 22.7. The flatness ends when the free path reaches the apparatus rather than the next layer of gas: at a vessel 10 mm across that is around 0.68 Pa for nitrogen, 1.94 Pa for helium, 0.69 Pa for argon, below which there is no gas-to-gas hand-off left to make.

The viscosity that does not care how much gas there is

Pump most of the air out of a vessel and the air that is left is exactly as viscous as it was. Maxwell derived that in 1860, did not believe it, and spent six years building an apparatus to measure it — which is a better description of how a prediction becomes knowledge than any amount of agreement would have been.

Why heating a perfect spring changes nothing

A harmonic solid vibrates harder when heated and does not get any longer. Thermal expansion lives entirely in the term that the harmonic approximation throws away — and so does the fact that a solid conducts heat at a finite rate, which is the same discarded term doing a second job nobody would have connected to the first.

Two straight lines that are not the same line. Half the difference between the liquid and vapour densities, in units of the critical density, against the distance from the critical temperature — both logarithmic, over 5 decades. The van der Waals curve is solved for the coexisting pair at each temperature and its slope in the last decade is 0.500, which is the mean-field ½. Real fluids give 0.326. The two differ by 11 per cent at t = 0.1 and by a factor of 7.9 at the bottom of the axis, which is why an equation with the wrong exponent in it looked right for eighty years.

The point at which the two become one

Heat a sealed tube of carbon dioxide and the meniscus inside it does not boil away — it fades, the two densities converging until there is nothing to separate. Twenty millikelvin before that happens the fluid turns milky, and the exponent describing the last approach is a number van der Waals got wrong and could not have got right.

The work one molecule and one bit are worth. The pressure of a gas of one molecule against its volume, at 300 K, in units of the volume it starts in. The shaded area is the work the molecule does pushing a partition out isothermally, and it is measured here by integrating the drawn curve rather than written down: expanding by 1.5× yields 0.4055 kT against ln 1.5 = 0.4055; expanding by 2× yields 0.6931 kT against ln 2 = 0.6931; expanding by 4× yields 1.3863 kT against ln 4 = 1.3863; expanding by 8× yields 2.0794 kT against ln 8 = 2.0794, agreeing to 2.0e-10. The doubling is the one that matters, because a partition inserted in the middle leaves the molecule on one side or the other, and knowing which is what lets the load be attached to the right face. That single expansion delivers kT·ln2 = 2.87 zeptojoules at 300 K. It looks like work extracted from one temperature, and it is — until the engine is asked to run again, which requires forgetting which side the molecule was on.

The bit that has to be paid for

One molecule in a box, a partition, and the knowledge of which side it went — enough, between them, to extract work from a single reservoir, which the second law forbids. The engine is real and the arithmetic is right. What closes the loophole is that the cycle does not finish until the knowledge has been thrown away, and throwing away one bit costs exactly what the expansion delivered.

The ceiling, the estimate, and three power stations. Two efficiencies against the ratio of the cold reservoir's temperature to the hot one. The upper curve is Carnot's 1 − Tc/Th, which is a ceiling on the work per unit of heat and is reached only by an engine that runs infinitely slowly, because a reversible heat flow needs a vanishing temperature difference to drive it and therefore infinite time. The lower curve is 1 − √(Tc/Th), the efficiency of an engine with finite thermal contact run for the most power rather than the most work. Three measured plants are marked: West Thurrock, coal runs at 36 per cent against a ceiling of 64 and a finite-time estimate of 40; CANDU, nuclear runs at 30 per cent against a ceiling of 48 and a finite-time estimate of 28; Larderello, geothermal runs at 16 per cent against a ceiling of 33 and a finite-time estimate of 18. Every one of them is closer to the lower curve — within 4.4 points at worst, against 16.5 at best from the ceiling. The second law is not what limits a working power station. What limits it is that somebody wants the electricity this year.

The engine that has to finish

Carnot's ceiling is exact and it is reached only by an engine that takes for ever, because a reversible heat flow needs a vanishing temperature difference to drive it. Ask instead for the most power rather than the most work per joule of heat, and the answer is a different function of the same two temperatures — and three measured power stations sit on it rather than on the ceiling.

What a coordinate is worth, by the shape of its energy. The mean energy stored in one coordinate, in units of kT, against the power with which that coordinate enters the energy. The curve is 1/n and the points are the same average obtained by integrating the Boltzmann weight numerically, agreeing to 3.3e-7 per cent at worst. an energy going as |x|^1 holds 1.0000 kT; an energy going as |x|^1.5 holds 0.6667 kT; an energy going as |x|^2 holds 0.5000 kT; an energy going as |x|^3 holds 0.3333 kT; an energy going as |x|^4 holds 0.2500 kT; an energy going as |x|^6 holds 0.1667 kT. The familiar half a kT is the case n = 2 and nothing more general than that: a coordinate whose energy is linear in it — the momentum of an ultrarelativistic particle, or a field with no restoring force but a constant tension — carries a whole kT, and one confined by a very steep wall carries almost nothing. Equipartition is a theorem about quadratic terms, and calling it a theorem about degrees of freedom is the substitution that makes it fail.

The share that is not half a kT

Equipartition is quoted as half a kT for every degree of freedom, and it is nothing of the kind. It is half a kT for every *quadratic* term. A coordinate whose energy is linear in it carries a whole kT, and a gas hot enough that its particles' energy is pc rather than p²/2m therefore holds twice what the counting says — which drops its ratio of specific heats to four thirds and puts a star on the edge of being able to hold itself up.

What a thermal camera reads off a shiny surface. The temperature a camera calibrated for a black body reports, against the emissivity of the surface it is pointed at, for surfaces truly at 323 K, 373 K, 473 K in a room at 293 K. Every curve begins at the true temperature when the emissivity is one and ends at the room's temperature when it is zero, because a surface that emits nothing reflects everything and the camera is then looking at the room. polished aluminium at 0.05 reads 312 K; stainless steel, oxidised at 0.8 reads 451 K; matt black paint at 0.95 reads 468 K; human skin at 0.98 reads 471 K for a surface truly at 473 K. That is not a fault in the instrument. It follows from Kirchhoff's law — a poor emitter is a poor absorber and therefore a good reflector — so the shortfall in a shiny surface's own glow is made up almost exactly by whatever is reflected in it, and no measurement of the light leaving a surface can separate the two without knowing the emissivity in advance.

The glow that says nothing about the surface

A thermal camera pointed at a saucepan of boiling water reads a hundred degrees. Pointed at a polished aluminium block at the same temperature it reads about twenty-five, and the instrument is working perfectly. What it is measuring is emissivity as much as temperature — and a surface's emissivity is forced to equal its absorptivity, at every wavelength and every angle, by an argument with no physics of matter in it at all.

Each stage takes 25.0 per cent of what is left. Entropy against temperature for a spin-½ paramagnet at 0.25 T and 1 T, with the cooling cycle drawn between them: a vertical drop is isothermal magnetisation, a horizontal move is adiabatic demagnetisation. Starting from 1 K the treads are at 1.000 K, 0.250 K, 0.062 K, 0.016 K, 3.91 mK. Each is 0.2500 of the one before — a ratio read back off the drawn treads rather than written into them, and equal to the field ratio 0.25/1 because this refrigerant's entropy depends on the field and the temperature only through their quotient. The steps therefore shrink in proportion to what is left, and no finite number of them arrives.

The staircase that never reaches the floor

Absolute zero is unreachable, and the reason is not that the apparatus is not good enough. Every stage of cooling removes a fixed fraction of what is left rather than a fixed amount, so the steps shrink in proportion to the distance remaining — and the fixed fraction cannot be made one, because the entropy curves at two field strengths are required to meet where the axis is.

$The fraction of walks that have come home, against how long they have walked. The proportion of 1,600 lattice random walks that have returned to their starting point at least once, against the number of steps taken, on a logarithmic horizontal axis, in one, two and three dimensions. In one dimension almost every walk is home almost at once and the fraction climbs toward one. In two it climbs more slowly — the return is still certain, but only logarithmically, so a two-dimensional walk that has not come back after a thousand steps is unremarkable. In three the curve flattens: it reaches 0.3481 and stops, against the exact value 0.3405, drawn as a line. That number is Watson's integral, and it is the probability that a three-dimensional walk ever comes home at all. The difference between the cases is not one of degree. In one and two dimensions the expected number of returns is infinite and a diffusing particle visits every site eventually; in three it is finite, and a molecule released in a room will, with probability two-thirds, never pass through its starting point again. The same statement runs the other way round: a reaction that needs two diffusing partners to meet is a very different problem on a membrane from what it is in a cell.$

The walk that comes home

A particle wandering at random on a line returns to where it started, with certainty. On a plane it returns, with certainty. In three dimensions the probability is 0.3405 — so two out of three molecules released in a room never pass through their starting point again, and the difference between the cases is not a matter of degree.

Entropy that is still there at absolute zero, counted and measured. Four substances whose entropy does not go to zero when they are cooled as far as anybody can cool them, with the entropy counted from the arrangements they froze into beside the entropy measured by integrating their heat capacities. Ice is the famous one: every oxygen has four hydrogen bonds and the rule is that two hydrogens sit near it and two far, which leaves six of the sixteen placements legal, and Pauling's count of the whole crystal collapses to R ln(3/2) = 3.371 J per mole per kelvin against a measured 3.41 — an agreement to one per cent from an argument on one line. Carbon monoxide and nitrous oxide are the easy cases, molecules that can lie either way round in the lattice and have too little to gain by choosing. The worst of the four is off by 25 per cent, which is the honest state of this subject: the counts are crude, they ignore the correlations between neighbouring choices, and they still land within sight of a calorimeter. What the figure is really about is that the third law has an escape clause and the escape clause is measurable. A perfect crystal has one arrangement and zero entropy; a crystal that ran out of time while it had many has the logarithm of however many it stopped at, permanently.

The entropy that is still there at zero

The third law says a perfect crystal has no entropy at absolute zero. Ice has 3.41 joules per kelvin per mole left over, and the number can be recovered from one line of counting — two hydrogens near each oxygen and two far, six legal arrangements out of sixteen, R ln(3/2). The law has an escape clause and the escape clause is measurable.

The gas that leaves is not the gas inside

Put a small hole in a container of gas and what comes out is faster and hotter than what stays behind — its mean kinetic energy is 2kT against the 3/2 kT of the gas it came from. Nothing has heated it. A fast molecule simply reaches the hole more often than a slow one, so the sample that escapes is biased by exactly one factor of speed, and every consequence of effusion is that factor.

The barrier a new phase has to climb

Water vapour three times supersaturated is thermodynamically desperate to condense and will sit there indefinitely if it is clean enough. The obstacle is that a droplet has to start small, and a small droplet is nearly all surface — so the first nanometre of every phase transition costs energy rather than releasing it, and what decides whether anything happens is the height of that cost divided by kT.

The temperature that runs off the top of the scale. On the left, the entropy of a collection of two-level systems against how many of them are in the upper level. It rises, reaches 0.69314 per spin — which is ln 2, and is where half of them are up — and then falls, because a system with every spin up is as orderly as one with every spin down. On the right, the slope of that curve, which is one over the temperature. Below the maximum it is positive and ordinary: adding energy adds entropy, and the temperature is what everybody expects. At the maximum it is zero, which means the temperature is infinite. Past it the slope is negative — adding energy now removes entropy — and the temperature is negative. Such a system is not cold. It is hotter than any positive temperature whatever: put it in contact with anything at all and energy flows out of it, because that raises the total entropy. The quantity that orders systems by which way heat flows is not the temperature but its reciprocal, which runs smoothly from large and positive through zero to negative, and it is the temperature that has the discontinuity. None of this is possible unless the energy has a ceiling, which is why it happens in a spin system and not in anything that can move: a gas has no upper bound on its kinetic energy, so its entropy never turns over and its temperature is never negative.

Hotter than any temperature there is

A system whose energy has a ceiling can be pushed past the point where adding energy adds entropy. Its temperature is then negative — and negative temperatures are not cold. They sit above every positive temperature on the only scale that decides which way heat flows, and a working laser is at one.

Throttling a gas, and the curve that says which way it goes. Curves of constant enthalpy for a van der Waals gas, in temperature and pressure both measured against the critical values. A gas pushed slowly through a plug or a valve keeps its enthalpy, so it moves along one of these curves — from right to left, since the pressure falls. Where a curve slopes upward to the right the gas cools as it expands; where it slopes downward it warms. An ideal gas would give horizontal lines and no change at all, because its enthalpy depends on the temperature alone; every curve here is bent, and the bending is the attraction between molecules and the room they take up, fighting. The dashed line through the tops of the curves is the inversion curve, and the maxima were found on the drawn points rather than put there — they lie on the closed form to 0.65 per cent. Which side of it a gas starts on decides the sign of the effect, and that is the whole of why air can be liquefied by throttling at room temperature and hydrogen cannot: hydrogen has to be pre-cooled below its own inversion temperature first, which is why Dewar needed liquid air before he could get liquid hydrogen, and why Onnes needed liquid hydrogen before he could get helium.

The gas that cools by being let go

Push a gas through a plug and its temperature changes, although no work is done on anything and no heat goes anywhere. Which way it changes depends on where it starts: inside a dome in the pressure–temperature plane it cools, outside it warms, and hydrogen at room temperature is outside — which is why liquid hydrogen needed liquid air first.

The gas that nobody counted

A box of gas holds however many molecules were put in it. A box of radiation holds however many photons the temperature says, because the walls make and destroy them until the free energy is least — and one dropped assumption changes every result. The pressure becomes a third of the energy density instead of two thirds, the entropy goes as the cube of the temperature, and the adiabatic index comes out at exactly four thirds.

Two experiments, two computations, one coefficient. The Seebeck coefficient of a resonant conductor against where its resonance sits relative to the chemical potential, together with the Peltier coefficient divided by the temperature. The first is obtained by applying a temperature difference and finding the voltage that stops the current; the second by applying a voltage at uniform temperature and taking the ratio of the heat flow to the current. Different driving, different measurement, different integral — and the two curves agree to 3.8e-7 of the sweep's own scale across the whole of where they pass through zero and change sign. That equality is Kelvin's relation Π = ST, guessed in 1854 from an argument its author knew was not sound and proved by Onsager in 1931 from microscopic reversibility. It is not a property of this conductor; it holds for every one.

The second experiment that cannot disagree

Heat one end of a wire and a voltage appears across it. Pass a current through the same wire at uniform temperature and it carries heat. Those are two different experiments with two different apparatus, and the coefficient in front is the same number in both — not approximately, and not for some materials. The reason is that the equations of motion underneath look the same run backwards.

A stiffness that does not go to zero — it falls off a cliff. The renormalised stiffness of a two-dimensional superfluid against temperature, obtained by integrating the flow of the bare stiffness and the vortex fugacity, with the bare stiffness drawn for comparison. Below the transition the vortices are bound in pairs, screen one another and leave a finite stiffness; above it they unbind and there is none. What is remarkable is the value at which it disappears: 0.6430, against 2/π = 0.6366. That number does not depend on the material, on the bare fugacity, on the core energy, or on anything else — every two-dimensional superfluid loses its stiffness at exactly two over π times its own transition temperature, and measurements on helium films of widely different thicknesses fall on that line. A transition at which a quantity jumps to zero from a value nobody can adjust is unlike anything the usual classification of transitions describes.

The transition with nothing to order

Every transition in this collection so far has an order parameter — a quantity that is zero on one side and not on the other. In two dimensions a continuous symmetry cannot break at any temperature above zero, so there is nothing for such a quantity to be, and by the usual reckoning there can be no transition. There is one anyway, and what changes at it is whether vortices are bound in pairs.

The year, arriving underground at four different times. Temperature against depth in soil of diffusivity 0.5 mm²/s, at four times of year, measured from the annual mean. The surface swings by ±12 K; the swing underground is smaller and later, and both are governed by one length, δ = √(2D/ω) = 2.24 m. The amplitude falls as e^(−z/δ) — the dashed envelope — and the phase lags by z/δ radians, so the curves lean over as they go down and cross the axis at different depths. At 7.0 m the lag is half a year: the ground there is at its coldest in August and its warmest in February, in antiphase with the sky, with a swing of 0.52 K left. That is a cellar, and it is also why a water main below about a metre and a half does not know that it froze last week.

The summer that reaches the cellar in December

Drive the diffusion equation at its boundary instead of releasing something into it and the solution is a decaying, lagging oscillation with a single length in it. That length governs both the shrinking and the delay, which is why the depth at which the ground is coldest in August is fixed by the same number as the depth at which the seasons stop being felt at all.

Three curves that can only meet at a point. Water's phase diagram within a kelvin of its triple point, with each boundary drawn at the slope Clausius and Clapeyron give it from measured latent heats and densities: 44.4 Pa/K for boiling, 50.3 for sublimation, and -135 bar per kelvin for melting — negative, and so steep that it is drawn vertical here, because ice is the less dense phase and pressure therefore melts it. Two things follow that no amount of measurement could adjust. The three slopes are not independent: the sublimation and vaporisation curves differ in slope by 5.92 Pa/K, which is exactly what the fusion latent heat predicts, because going solid → gas directly and solid → liquid → gas must cost the same enthalpy. And the sublimation curve is the steeper of the two, so the two cross rather than touch — which is why the triple point is a crossing and not a tangency, and why ice sublimes below it and melts above it.

Why the triple point is a point

Three phases of one substance coexist at one temperature and one pressure and nowhere else, and the reason is arithmetic rather than chemistry: count the numbers that describe the state, count the conditions equilibrium imposes, and subtract. The same subtraction says four phases of one substance are impossible, and it says so without knowing what the substance is.

The temperature a molecule does not have

Temperature fixes a system's average energy and nothing more. The actual energy wanders, by an amount tied to the heat capacity, and the relative size of the wandering falls as one over the square root of the number of degrees of freedom — so a mole has a temperature and a molecule does not.

Melting curves, and the one that leans the wrong way. Melting temperature against pressure for water, benzene, naphthalene, each measured from its own melting point at one atmosphere, with pressure in bars. The slope of every coexistence line is the latent heat divided by the temperature and the change in volume, and the latent heat of melting is positive for everything — so the sign of the slope is the sign of the volume change, and nothing else. Almost everything expands on melting and its line leans forwards. Water's solid is less dense than its liquid, so its line leans backwards at 135 bars a kelvin: pressing on ice at just below zero melts it, and it takes 135 atmospheres to gain a single degree. The anomaly is not in the thermodynamics; it is in the fact that ice floats.

The melting curve that leans the wrong way

The slope of any coexistence line is the latent heat divided by the temperature and the change in volume. Latent heat is always positive, so the sign of the slope is the sign of the volume change — and for water the volume change is negative, which is the whole of why ice floats and why the melting curve leans backwards.

Effusion rate against molecular mass. The rate at which a gas escapes through a small hole, against its molar mass, normalised to hydrogen. The rate is a quarter of the number density times the mean speed times the area, and the mean speed goes as the inverse square root of the mass — so the rate does too, which is Graham's law of 1848. Hydrogen escapes four times faster than oxygen and 13.3 times faster than uranium hexafluoride. The practical consequence is isotope separation, and its difficulty is on this chart. The two uranium hexafluorides differ by 3 out of 352 in mass, so a single stage enriches by a factor of only 1.00429 — four parts in a thousand. Reaching 90 per cent from natural uranium's 0.72 per cent therefore takes about 1665 ideal stages, and a real cascade needs more because each stage is imperfect. That number is why gaseous-diffusion plants were among the largest industrial structures ever built, and why centrifuges — which separate by mass directly rather than by the square root of it — replaced them.

The gradient that drives the other thing

A concentration gradient drives a flow of matter and a temperature gradient drives a flow of heat. Each also drives the other, by coefficients that are equal — a relation nobody could have guessed and which follows from the fact that the underlying motion runs the same forwards and backwards in time.

$Runs that break the second law, and how often. The work done in a process repeated many times, and the same for the process run in reverse with its work reflected, for a free-energy change of 4 kT and a dissipation of 3 kT. The average work exceeds the free-energy change, which is the second law, and individual runs do not have to: the shaded tail is the fraction of runs that do less work than the free energy — trajectories in which the entropy of the universe went down — and it is 11.03% here. The two curves cross exactly at the free-energy change, whatever the dissipation, which is what makes an irreversible measurement able to report an equilibrium quantity.$

The second law, with a probability attached

Entropy increases, on average. For a small system pulled quickly, individual runs go the other way — and how often is not a matter of taste but an exact number, fixed by a relation with no adjustable constant in it and no requirement that anything be near equilibrium.

The pair potential, and the two things it does to a gas. The Lennard-Jones potential between two molecules, in units of its own depth and range, with the Mayer function it produces at 1, 3, 8 times the well depth in temperature. The virial coefficient is minus the integral of that function over volume, so the two parts of the potential contribute with opposite signs: the steep repulsive core makes the function minus one there, giving a positive contribution — molecules take up room — and the attractive well makes it positive, giving a negative one. At low temperature the attraction dominates and a gas is easier to compress than an ideal one; at high temperature the core dominates and it is harder. Between them is one temperature at which they cancel.

The first correction to the gas law

An ideal gas has no forces between its molecules. The first correction to what it does is computable from those forces alone — one integral over the pair potential — and its sign flips at a temperature where a real gas obeys the ideal law without being ideal at all.

One temperature, four pawls, and nothing gained. The net rate of a ratchet whose gas and whose pawl are at the same temperature, against the load, for notches 2, 5, 10, 20 times the thermal energy deep. Every curve passes through zero at zero load and is negative everywhere else. The device is not merely unable to lift a weight; under any load at all it turns the wrong way and lets the weight down, converting its potential energy into heat in the gas. Making the notch deeper slows everything down — an exponential in the depth — and does not change the sign anywhere. That is the second law arriving as a mechanism rather than as a prohibition. Nothing was assumed about entropy; the pawl was simply allowed to be as warm as everything else, and its own fluctuations undo exactly the rectification it was there to provide. Any rectifier small enough for thermal noise to matter has this problem, and the rectifier being clever does not help, because the same noise reaches the cleverness.

The engine a fluctuation cannot run

A ratchet lets a shaft turn one way and not the other. Put a paddle in a gas on the same shaft and molecular collisions appear to become a lifted weight — an engine running on one reservoir. It does not work, and following exactly why turns the second law from a prohibition into a mechanism: the pawl is as warm as the gas, and it lifts whenever it is asked to.

The energy that refuses to be shared

Put all the energy of a chain of masses into its longest mode and add a few per cent of nonlinearity, and equipartition says it should spread out among all thirty-two modes and stay there. It does not. It leaks into three or four neighbours and then comes back — almost exactly — and goes on doing so, and the calculation that found this was expected to be a demonstration that it would not happen.

$The temperature a planet ought to be. Each body's measured surface temperature against the temperature at which it would radiate away exactly the sunlight it absorbs — computed from two numbers, the sunlight reaching it and the fraction it reflects, with no other property of the body used. Points on the diagonal are bodies the one-line argument gets right. the Moon: balance 270 K, surface 250 K, −20 K with no atmosphere; Mercury: balance 433 K, surface 340 K, −93 K with no atmosphere; Mars: balance 210 K, surface 210 K, +0 K; Earth: balance 255 K, surface 288 K, +33 K; Venus: balance 227 K, surface 737 K, +510 K. The airless bodies fall below the line rather than on it, and the reason is the fourth power: a surface running from noon heat to night cold radiates like its hottest parts and averages like its coldest, so a mean thermometer reading is lower than the temperature that matches the emitted flux. Mars, whose atmosphere is thin and whose surface is nearly isothermal by comparison, sits on the line. Everything with a substantial atmosphere sits above it, by tens of kelvin on Earth and hundreds on Venus, and always in the same direction. Nothing here explains why. What the figure fixes is the size and the sign of what has to be explained.$

The height a planet is seen from

A body in sunlight settles where it radiates away what it absorbs, and that takes two numbers and one line of arithmetic. It gets the Moon right and Earth wrong by thirty-three kelvin. The correction is not that the atmosphere traps heat but that it moves the level space sees the planet from, and the rest is done by a lapse rate that is not a radiative quantity at all.

The entropy a substance keeps depends on how fast it was cooled. The entropy of a supercooled liquid in excess of its crystal's, against temperature, for a substance melting at 305 K with an entropy of fusion of 43 joules per kelvin per mole and a liquid heat capacity exceeding the crystal's by 62. The equilibrium curve — the one the liquid follows while it can still relax — falls steadily and would reach the crystal's entropy at 152.4 kelvin. It never gets there, because the liquid falls out of equilibrium first, at a temperature that depends on how long it is given: 0.01 s/K freezes at 196.1 K with 15.61 left, 1 s/K freezes at 188.1 K with 13.03 left, 100 s/K freezes at 182.1 K with 11.03 left. Ice's residual entropy is a count and does not move; a glass's is whatever it happened to have when it stopped being able to change, and that is a property of the experiment.

The entropy that depends on how fast it was cooled

Ice's residual entropy is a count, and it comes out the same whoever measures it. A glass's does not. A glass keeps whatever entropy it happened to have when its own relaxation time crossed the experiment's, so cooling ten times more slowly leaves less behind — and extrapolating the equilibrium liquid below that point takes its entropy under the crystal's at a finite temperature, which cannot happen and does not, for a reason that is still argued about.

The entropy each degree of freedom has not yet given up. The entropy carried by each kind of degree of freedom, drawn against the temperature at which it orders and hands that entropy over. Lattice vibrations freeze out around room temperature; electron spins in a paramagnetic salt order in the millikelvin range, which is what makes adiabatic demagnetisation work; and nuclear spins hold R ln(2I+1) — 11.5 joules per kelvin per mole for copper — down to some tens of nanokelvin, where their own dipolar interactions finally sort them out. A copper sample at a microkelvin therefore has a large entropy and violates nothing: its nuclear spin system has not reached its ground state, and the third law is a statement about ground states rather than about thermometers.

A law about spectra, not about heat

The third law is usually met as a statement about cooling. Its statistical form is a statement about a spectrum: the entropy of a system in its ground state is k ln g, and it vanishes only when the ground state is unique. Every apparent exception is a degeneracy or a system that never reached its ground state — and copper nuclei carry eleven joules per kelvin per mole down to a hundred nanokelvin without violating anything.

The rectangle every cycle is equal to. An ideal Otto cycle for air on a temperature–entropy diagram: compression ratio 9, intake at 300 K, 1400 kJ/kg added at constant volume. Compression takes the charge to 722 K, combustion to 2672 K, expansion back to 1110 K, and the exhaust cools at constant volume. The shaded loop is the work; the region under the lower curve is the heat rejected. Heat enters over a range of temperatures, and its entropy-weighted mean — heat divided by the entropy it brings — is 1491 K; the heat leaves at a mean of 619 K. The dashed rectangle between those two temperatures has exactly the loop's area, and 1 − 619/1491 = 58.5%, which is the Otto efficiency, checked to rounding. A Carnot engine between the coldest and hottest points of the same cycle would reach 88.8%.

The temperature an engine really takes its heat at

Carnot's ceiling is set by two temperatures, and no engine that burns fuel takes its heat in at one temperature or gives it out at another. It takes heat over a range, from the moment combustion starts to the moment it ends. For any reversible cycle there is an exact replacement for Carnot's two numbers: the average temperature at which heat arrives and the average at which it leaves, each weighted by the entropy the heat carries. The gap between a real cycle and Carnot is a gap between those averages and the extremes.

Two bodies an engine draws together. Two equal bodies of 4.186 kJ/K — a kilogram of water each — one at 90.0 °C and one at 10.0 °C, against the heat drawn from the hot one. The solid curves are the best possible engine running between them, a reversible one, which leaves the product of the two temperatures unchanged and brings both to the geometric mean, 320.7 K (47.5 °C). It draws 177.8 kJ from the hot body and delivers 20.8 kJ of work, C(√T₁ − √T₂)², checked against the heat balance. The dashed lines are the same bodies simply touching: they meet at the arithmetic mean, 323.1 K, having exchanged 167.4 kJ and delivered nothing. The 2.5 K between the two endpoints is the work, left behind as heat.

The work left in two buckets of water

Carnot's ceiling assumes reservoirs so large that taking heat from one and giving it to the other changes neither temperature. Two buckets of water are not reservoirs. Run the best possible engine between a hot one and a cold one and both temperatures move, the efficiency available shrinks as they do, and the engine stops when they meet — at the geometric mean of the starting temperatures, not the ordinary one. The work it delivered is exactly the difference between those two meeting points, and it is far less than the starting temperatures promise.

$Two entropies that agree until half filling. The entropy per unit of 100 two-level units against the fraction excited, by Boltzmann's definition, the logarithm of the number of arrangements at that energy, and by Gibbs's, the logarithm of the number at or below it. Below half filling they nearly coincide: at a quarter excited they are 0.538 and 0.542 per unit, and both approach the dashed large-system curve. Boltzmann's entropy then turns over and falls back to zero when every unit is excited; at three-quarters it is 0.538. Gibbs's cannot fall, because a running total cannot, and it levels off at ln 2 = 0.693, reaching 0.693 at three-quarters. The slope of each is one over its temperature.$

The count that decides which entropy is right

There are two ways to count the states of an isolated system: the states at its energy, which is Boltzmann's entropy, and the states at or below it, which is Gibbs's. For large systems in ordinary conditions they agree to the last measurable digit. For a system whose energy has a ceiling, past the halfway point, one gives negative temperatures and the other forbids them. Definitions cannot settle which is right, but a temperature is for something — saying which way heat will flow — and putting two such systems in contact lets the count of states answer.

$Nitrogen that runs the wrong way. The nitrogen mole fraction in each of two bulbs joined by a capillary, as in Duncan and Toor's experiment: one bulb starts with 0.50086 nitrogen and the rest carbon dioxide, the other with 0.49879 nitrogen and the rest hydrogen, at 35 °C. Solid curves: the capillary solved at each instant from the Maxwell–Stefan equations with the three pairs' diffusivities, 83.8, 68.0 and 16.8 mm²/s. Dashed: Fick's law for nitrogen alone, which can only let the two start values relax together. At the start the nitrogen gradient is 0.00207, yet nitrogen flows at 309 times the rate that gradient would drive. From 0.1 to 6.5 hours it flows from the bulb with less nitrogen into the bulb with more, opening a difference of 0.1468 at 6.5 hours; at 6.6 hours its flux passes through zero with a difference of 0.1468 still in place. Each gas is conserved to a part in 10⁹. The carbon dioxide moving out of the first bulb drags nitrogen with it, because the nitrogen–carbon dioxide pair has by far the smallest diffusivity and so the strongest friction.$

The gas that flows towards more of itself

Fick's law says a substance diffuses from where there is more of it to where there is less. In a mixture of three gases, nitrogen can do the opposite for hours — flowing into the bulb that already holds more nitrogen, and then stopping while a difference remains — and in a welded bar of steel, carbon crosses into the side that is already richer. Nothing is wrong with the second law. Diffusion flattens chemical potential, and with more than two components, or a second element changing it, that is not the same as flattening concentration.

The condition three modes never meet

Whether two modes of a chain can hand energy to a third is arithmetic on the dispersion relation, and for a chain of masses the answer is never: a sine is concave, so the sum of two frequencies always exceeds the frequency of their sum. The smallest shortfall anywhere on a chain of N masses is π³/4(N+1)³ — never zero, and never far from it — and a shortfall turns a transfer into a beat.

$The modes of a wire, counted. Nyquist's argument of 1928, with its count performed. Two resistors joined by a lossless line are in equilibrium, and the line is a one-dimensional cavity whose standing waves are spaced c/2L apart in frequency. Each mode has an electric and a magnetic energy, both quadratic, so equipartition gives it kT — the same half a kT per quadratic term that a heat capacity counts. The upper points are how many modes fall in a band of a hundred and thirty-seven megahertz, for five line lengths, from 17 on a thirteen-metre line to 8,558 on one of six kilometres. The lower points are the power each end therefore receives, as a fraction of kTΔf, and they converge on one: a longer line has proportionally more modes and takes proportionally longer to deliver them, so the length cancels. The longest line lands within 0.005 per cent and the shortest is 4.5 per cent low, because thirteen metres holds only seventeen whole modes in the band and the remainder is a real granularity rather than an error. What is left in the limit is kTΔf — a noise power with no resistance in it at all, and none of the line's properties either.$

Half a kT in a piece of wire

Count the quadratic terms in a molecule's energy and equipartition gives a heat capacity. Count them on a transmission line instead and the same theorem gives a resistor's noise voltage — 4kTRΔf, with nothing in it about what the resistor is made of. A fifty-ohm input at room temperature says 0.91 nanovolts in every root hertz, and no design removes it.

Twice the kinetic energy, and what it equals. Twice the time-averaged kinetic energy of a bound orbit, divided by its time-averaged potential energy, against the power with which that potential depends on separation. Each point is a measurement: an eccentric orbit integrated for more than a hundred radial periods, with the two averages accumulated along it, and the radius checked to vary by at least a fifth so that the orbit is not trivially circular. The line is the exponent itself, and the points miss it by at most 6.6e-4. Two cases carry everything. At n = 2, a harmonic well, the two energies are equal — which is the ordinary equipartition statement, half a kT to the kinetic term and half a kT to the potential one. At n = −1, which is gravity and the Coulomb force, twice the kinetic energy equals minus the potential energy, so the total energy of a bound system is minus its kinetic energy. Nothing about temperature entered, and nothing about equilibrium: the relation holds for one orbit averaged over time as well as for a crowd averaged over members.

Weighing what cannot be put on a scale

Summed over every coordinate of a bound system, equipartition stops being a statement about temperature and becomes a relation between two averages: twice the kinetic energy equals n times the potential energy for a potential going as the nth power. For gravity that fixes a bound system's total energy from how fast its parts move — so a Doppler shift and an angular size return a mass, and for the Coma cluster the mass they return is fifty times the mass that shines.

A fridge with no work going into it

Every engine here so far turns heat into work or work into a heat flow. A machine exchanging heat with three reservoirs and doing no work at all can still move heat from cold to hot, and the ceiling on how much is the product of two Carnot expressions — an engine's efficiency times a fridge's coefficient of performance. A gas flame makes ice, and the accounting is one inequality in three entropy flows.

One dimensionless group between an engine and Carnot. The efficiency of a thermoelectric couple against the temperature of its hot side, with the cold side at 300 kelvin, for 4 values of the figure of merit, and the Carnot ceiling drawn above them. The expression has exactly one material quantity in it — the dimensionless group formed from the Seebeck coefficient squared, the electrical conductivity, the temperature and the thermal conductivity — and everything else is the two temperatures. At 600 kelvin, a figure of merit of one gives 10.8 per cent against a Carnot ceiling of 50.0, and a figure of merit of four gives 22.6. The approach to the ceiling is slow: every doubling of the group buys less than the last, so the difference between a good material and a perfect one is smaller than the difference between a poor material and a good one.

An engine with one number in it

A thermoelectric couple has no moving part and no working fluid, and its efficiency is the Carnot value multiplied by a factor containing exactly one dimensionless group of material properties. Sixty years of effort have moved that group from about one to about two, and the reason it is hard is that its three ingredients are not independent: raising the conductivity ruins the coefficient it is squared against, and the only lever that is really free is the heat the lattice carries.

The reaction that cannot go all the way

Chemistry speaks of reactions that go to completion and reactions that do not happen, and at equilibrium there are neither. The reason is a logarithm. The free energy of a half-finished reaction contains the entropy of mixing, whose slope is infinite at both pure ends, so every reaction's lowest point lies strictly inside — and the slope of that free energy, the chemical potential, is to particles what temperature is to heat.

The light of a diode at room temperature is as bright as a surface thousands of kelvin hot. How many photons occupy each mode of the light, on a logarithmic scale, against photon energy. The lowest curve is the thermal glow of a 1.42 eV semiconductor at 300 K with no voltage across it. The solid curve above it is the same device with 1.3 V across it, emitting only above its gap. The dashed curve is a blackbody at 2571 K, the temperature whose light has the same occupation as the diode's at 1.472 eV, just above the gap. They cross there and nowhere else: the diode's occupation falls a factor e every 25.9 meV, as its lattice's temperature requires, and the blackbody's every 222 meV. No single temperature describes the diode's light. At each photon energy it has a brightness temperature, and that temperature is 300 K multiplied by ε/(ε − qV).

The glow that carries a voltage

Thermal radiation has no chemical potential, because walls make and destroy photons freely. A light-emitting diode is a body that glows at room temperature with a voltage written into its light — Planck's law with the voltage as the photons' chemical potential — which is why its light can be as bright as a surface thousands of kelvin hot, why at low voltage it can put out more light than the power it draws and cool itself doing so, and why a reverse voltage makes a surface look colder than it is.

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