Doppler — the series
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The note that changes on approach, and the two ways of getting it
A moving source and a moving listener produce different formulas for the same shift, because the medium is watching. The difference is small, real, and the reason light had to be treated differently.
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The shift that survives at right angles
For sound it matters which of the two is moving, and the two answers differ. For light there is one answer — their geometric mean — and a term with no classical counterpart at all: a source going past at closest approach, with its distance not changing, is still shifted.
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The sky that crowds into a cone
A boost does not only shift frequencies. It remaps directions, so half of everything a fast traveller can see is squeezed into a forward cone of half-angle about 1/γ — and because brightness carries four powers of the Doppler factor, what lies ahead is overwhelming and what lies behind has effectively gone.
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The cone the source leaves behind
Take the Doppler construction past the speed of the wave and the wavefronts acquire an envelope. Its half-angle obeys sin θ = 1/M, an expression with no pressure, no density and no shape of the object in it — so a photograph of the cone is a speedometer. And the bang is not an event at the moment of crossing — it is a signature dragged along the ground for the whole of the flight.
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The brightness that is not the same for everyone
A moving source is not merely shifted in colour. Its light is concentrated forwards, so the same lamp is enormously brighter seen coming than seen going — by the fourth power of one number, which for a jet at ninety-nine per cent of light speed is a factor of a thousand million. The reason is that only one combination of intensity and frequency is the same for every observer, and everything else follows from it.
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The shift a mirror gives twice
A moving reflector is a receiver and a source in one, so it shifts a wave twice — and the two shifts are different functions of the speed, which is why the round trip is not the square of either. Everything a speed radar does follows from that, including the two things it cannot do.
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Everything from an exchange of pulses
Send a flash every second and ask how often the far observer receives them. That one measured ratio generates time dilation, the composition of velocities and the twin result, with no coordinate transformation written down anywhere and no convention chosen about what "at the same time" means far away.
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The Doppler shift with nothing coming closer
Every Doppler shift so far has needed something to approach or recede. Light can be shifted in frequency by something that does neither: a surface spinning in place, or a polarising plate turning in a beam that passes straight through it. A beam whose wavefronts wind round its axis, ℓ times per wavelength, comes back from a surface spinning at Ω shifted by exactly ℓΩ, at every distance from the axis. A circularly polarised beam through a spinning half-wave plate comes out shifted by exactly 2Ω, because the plate takes two units of angular momentum from each photon and does work on it. The shift is tiny and perfectly measurable, and satellite navigation has to correct for it.
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The speeds a pulsed radar folds into one
A weather radar measures the wind inside a storm by the Doppler shift of its echoes, but it never hears the shift itself. It listens in pulses, and between pulses it notes only how far the echo's phase has turned — which is known only to within a whole turn. So speeds that differ by a fixed amount give identical echoes, and every speed is folded into a window. Make the window wider by pulsing faster, and the echoes from distant rain arrive after the next pulse has gone and land at the wrong range. The two limits multiply to a constant the designer cannot touch.
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The loudspeaker that goes round
The swirling sound of a Hammond organ comes from a loudspeaker cabinet in which the speaker's horn turns, six or seven times a second, and the swirl is the Doppler effect — the horn's mouth swings towards and away from the listener at about six metres a second, and every note it plays rises and falls by a third of a semitone. But a pitch that rises and falls periodically is not a note being shifted: it is a note split into a comb of new frequencies, spaced by the rotation rate and spread in proportion to the note itself, so the turning horn leaves the bass nearly pure and blurs the treble into a shimmer. In a room each wall returns its own copy, swinging out of step with the others, and the copies beat against each other several times a turn.