Potential — the series
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One number for every point, and nothing at all is lost
The electric field is three numbers at every point of space. Replacing it with one number loses nothing — and the reason it loses nothing is the same reason a hill can be drawn as a contour map.
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Nothing can be held still by a static field
However many charges are arranged, however cleverly, a charge placed among them has somewhere to fall. The reason is one line of arithmetic — the potential in empty space satisfies Laplace's equation, and a solution of that equation has no interior maximum or minimum — and the consequence is that every real trap for a charged particle works by breaking one of the assumptions rather than by being cleverer.
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The potential is where the wanderers stop
Start a random walker at a point between charged conductors and let it wander until it touches one of them. The average potential of the surfaces the walkers touch is the potential at the starting point — exactly, with no equation solved — and the charge a conductor keeps at each place on its surface is the chance that a walker arriving from far away touches it there first.
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The field that keeps Greenwich time
Over a calm ocean, a thousand kilometres from any storm, the air carries a downward electric field of about a hundred volts per metre, and it rises and falls by a sixth once a day. It peaks at the same instant on every ship on every ocean — near seven in the evening in Greenwich, whatever the local clock says. Nothing local can do that. The field is the far end of a circuit whose upper plate is a single conductor round the whole planet, and a conductor has one potential, so every patch of fair-weather sky is reading the sum of all the world's thunderstorms at once.
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The voltage that bends an electron like glass
An electron that has fallen through a potential difference V moves at a speed proportional to √V. Crossing a surface of constant potential, it keeps the part of its momentum that runs along the surface and changes the part across it, and the two rules together are Snell's law with √V in place of the refractive index. Every arrangement of charged electrodes is therefore a piece of glass for electrons. Three metal tubes make a lens that focuses whichever way its middle tube is charged — and, by a theorem proved in 1936, no lens built from round electrodes can be free of spherical aberration. That theorem kept electron microscopes some fifty times coarser than their wavelength for sixty years.
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The field a ring of wires lets through
A cage made of wires is supposed to work almost as well as a solid box, because the field that leaks through the gaps dies away exponentially within a gap's width. The exponential is real and it is the wrong part of the story. It describes the ripple the separate wires make; underneath it the average field goes straight through, at a level that falls only in proportion to the spacing and depends on the wires' thickness through a logarithm. A cage of twelve thin wires lets a quarter of the field in.
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The water drops that charge themselves to a spark
Two streams of water drip from one earthed pipe through two metal rings into two metal cans, and each ring is wired to the opposite can. Nothing is charged to begin with, nothing is rubbed, nothing is plugged in. Within a minute a spark cracks between the cans at ten thousand volts. A stray volt between them makes the drops forming in one ring pick up a slight charge, which they carry to the can that makes the other ring's drops pick up the opposite charge — a loop in which every drop strengthens the imbalance that charged it. Kelvin built it in 1867; it is a dynamo made of water and gravity.
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The atom whose nucleus is a reflection
An electron set down on liquid helium cannot go in, because the helium atoms' closed shells repel it, and it cannot go far, because the liquid polarises and pulls it back with the field of an image charge. The image is weak, three-hundredths of the electron's charge. So the electron sits in a one-dimensional hydrogen atom whose nucleus is its own reflection: its levels follow hydrogen's 1/n² series at 0.66 milli-electronvolts instead of 13.6 electronvolts, and it hovers eleven nanometres above the surface. Microwaves at 126 gigahertz lift it to the next level, and a field pressing down on it tunes the line.