Tunnelling — the series
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The wall that is not quite a wall
A particle without enough energy to climb a barrier sometimes appears on the other side of it. The probability falls exponentially with the barrier's width, which is why the effect is invisible at ordinary scales and why it can be turned into a microscope.
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A wall that a factor of two makes impassable
Polonium-212 lives three tenths of a microsecond. Thorium-232 lives fourteen billion years. The alpha particles they emit differ in energy by a factor of two, and the lifetimes differ by twenty-four decades — because the quantity that decides is not the energy but an exponent built from it, and an exponent is where small differences go to become enormous.
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The last atom does all the seeing
A tunnelling rate falls by a factor of eight for every tenth of a nanometre of extra barrier, which is normally quoted as the reason nothing ever tunnels anywhere. Read the other way it is a microscope: the second-nearest atom of a blunt metal tip carries a two-hundredth of the current the nearest one does, so a tip nobody sharpened resolves a single atom, and the resolution comes from an exponential rather than from any piece of engineering.
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Two walls that let more through than one
Put a second barrier behind the first and the transmission does not fall — at particular energies it rises to exactly one, through a pair of walls each of which stops all but a few per cent. Probabilities cannot do that. Amplitudes can, and the region between the barriers is a box whose levels say where.
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How long the crossing takes
Tunnelling has a probability, and asking how long it takes turns out to be a different kind of question. The delay a transmitted packet shows stops growing once the barrier is opaque, so a thicker wall is crossed in the same time — and several defensible clocks give several different answers.
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The circuit that goes through a wall
Tunnelling is usually told about electrons and alpha particles — single, small, quantum things passing through barriers they cannot climb. In 1985 it was seen in an electrical circuit: the phase difference across a Josephson junction, a coordinate shared by all the electrons in two pieces of superconducting metal, trapped in a well and escaping from it through the barrier rather than over it. The evidence was a temperature below which the circuit's escape rate stopped caring how cold it was. The same circuit showed discrete energy levels, and its descendants are the qubits of superconducting quantum computers.
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The electrons a field pulls from cold metal
A metal holds its electrons behind a step a few electronvolts high, and to get them out the usual way is to heat the metal white-hot until some climb over it. Put a strong enough field outside instead and the step tilts into a triangle a couple of nanometres wide, and electrons leave a cold metal by tunnelling through it. The current grows thirty decades as the field rises tenfold, a sharp needle at a thousand volts reaches the field that a flat plate would need a million volts for, and the electrons that come out all have nearly the same energy — which is why the brightest, sharpest electron microscopes are fed from a single etched tungsten point.
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The atom a light wave opens like a wall
Red light cannot free an electron from hydrogen: each photon carries 1.55 electronvolts and the electron is bound by 13.6. Make the light intense enough, though, and the atom ionises anyway — by absorbing nine photons at once, or, at higher intensity, by having its potential tipped over by the light's electric field until the electron tunnels out through the side. Which of the two happens is decided by a single ratio, found by Leonid Keldysh in 1964: how long the electron needs to get through the barrier, against how long the field holds still. The tunnelling side of that ratio is where attosecond physics begins.