Illustrated Physics
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Made into an instrument — part 3 of 3

The point at which a principle stops explaining something and starts measuring it — a critical angle sold as a refractometer, a Doppler shift weighing a planet, a null result testing a law.
Three arrivals, and the one that overtakes. Arrival time against distance from the shot for a 35 km crust at 6 km/s over a mantle at 8 km/s: the direct wave, a line through the origin with slope 1/v₁; the reflection from the base of the crust, a hyperbola; and the head wave, a straight line of slope 1/v₂ that begins at the critical distance, 79 km, where it touches the reflection. Close to the shot the direct wave arrives first. The head wave starts later but travels most of its path at the faster speed, and beyond the crossover distance, 185 km, it arrives first and stays first. At 300 km it beats the direct wave by 4.8 s, though it has travelled 26 km further. Waves

The wave that arrives first by going the long way

A shot fired at the ground sends a wave straight along the surface layer to a distant listener, and another down to a faster rock beneath, along the boundary and back up. The second path is longer, and beyond a certain distance it arrives first, because most of it is run at the faster speed. Huygens's construction shows what the second wave is: a front drawn by wavelets that the disturbance racing along the faster floor sends up into the slower layer, the Mach cone of a source moving faster than the layer can carry sound. Reading where it overtakes the direct wave gave Andrija Mohorovičić the thickness of the Earth's crust in 1909, and gives every refraction survey since the depth to whatever lies beneath.

 A number of details that frequency cannot change. The number of separately resolvable depths along one line of an ultrasound image, the deepest echo divided by the axial resolution, against frequency, for dynamic ranges of 50, 60 and 80 dB in soft tissue; dashed, the same for a medium that absorbed like water, as the square of the frequency, with 60 dB. In tissue the count is D/(α₀Nc), the same at every frequency: 325 for 50 dB, 390 for 60 dB, 519 for 80 dB. It is a property of the tissue, through α₀, and of the electronics, through D, and changing the frequency only trades depth for sharpness one for one. In a medium with an f² law the count would fall as 1/f, from 88,548 at 1 MHz to 1,771 at 50 MHz. It is the near-linear absorption of tissue that makes the trade exact. Waves

The depth an ultrasound image pays for its sharpness

An ultrasound scanner sees finer detail at higher frequencies, because shorter waves make shorter pulses, and sees less deep, because tissue absorbs higher frequencies more strongly. Both effects scale as one over the frequency, so they cancel in the one number that matters: how many separate depths fit along a line of the image. For soft tissue, which absorbs nearly in proportion to frequency, that number is about four hundred whatever the frequency — set by the tissue and by the scanner's electronics and by nothing else. A scan of the abdomen at three megahertz and a scan of the skin at fifty are the same picture at different magnifications.

 The redshift of a white dwarf weighs it. The gravitational redshift at the surface of a cold white dwarf, expressed as the velocity that would give the same Doppler shift, against the star's mass; computed from the radius each mass is forced to have. The Sun's surface redshift is 636 m/s. A white dwarf of 0.6 solar masses shifts its light by 30.1 km/s, one of 1.0 by 77.6, of 1.2 by 128 and of 1.35 by 223. Because the radius is not free, the curve is single-valued and steepening: a measured shift returns one mass. The cold model puts Sirius B, at 1.018 solar masses, at 80.8 km/s; its measured mass and radius together give 80.0. Astrophysics

The redshift that weighs a dead star

Light leaving the surface of an ordinary star is reddened by gravity, but the shift alone says little, because a star's radius is free and the shift depends on mass over radius. A white dwarf has no free radius. Degenerate electrons fix its size from its mass, so one measured line shift returns one mass — and the gauge grows sharper the closer the star is to collapse. The first measurement of it, in 1925, was hailed as a confirmation of general relativity and was wrong by a factor of four, in agreement with a forecast that was wrong by the same factor.

 A line carved into the X-rays of a magnetised star. A model X-ray spectrum of the kind fitted to accreting pulsars, drawn as energy per logarithmic interval on a logarithmic scale: a hard continuum that bends over above about 25 keV, with the photons near the cyclotron energy removed by resonant scattering. Dashed, the same continuum without the field. The fundamental is placed at 38 keV, where lines of this kind are seen; thermal motion of the scattering electrons along the field at kT = 8 keV broadens it to a width of about 4.8 keV. The second harmonic falls at 73.0 keV, a little below twice the fundamental. Read through ħeB/m with the relativistic level spacing and the redshift of a 1.4 solar-mass, 12 km star, z = 0.24, the fundamental says the field where the line forms is 4.24 × 10⁸ T. The depths and widths here are illustrative, not fitted to a star. Astrophysics

The circling that comes in quanta

An electron circling a magnetic field radiates at the frequency of its circling, and classically that is all: a continuous glow at whatever energy the circling has. On a neutron star the field is a hundred million tesla, the quantum of circling is a hard X-ray, and an electron lifted one step up falls back in a quarter of a femtosecond. So every electron there sits on the bottom step, and the X-rays that match the step are scattered out of the beam. The gap they leave is a line, and its energy is the field.

 A ring turns, and its vibration turns less. Four snapshots of a thin ring vibrating in its lowest flexural mode, squashing alternately into two ellipses, while the whole ring is turned steadily about its axis; the deformation is exaggerated. The dot marks one point of the ring; the dashed line, the axis of the vibration's greatest swing. As the ring turns through 30°, 60° and 90°, the pattern of vibration turns through 18°, 36° and 54° — 60 per cent of the ring's angle. Measured from the ring, the pattern has slipped back 36° by the quarter turn. The vibration is neither carried along with the material nor left fixed in space. It follows the turning by a fixed fraction that depends only on the mode's shape, which is the effect G. H. Bryan described in 1890 from the note of a turning wine glass. Mechanics

The vibration that turns part of the way

Strike a wine glass and turn it on the table while it rings, and the note beats: the pattern of the vibration does not turn with the glass. Nor does it stay still in the room. For a ring vibrating in its lowest mode it follows exactly three-fifths of the rotation and slips back the other two-fifths, a fraction that depends only on the shape of the vibration. That fraction, worked out by George Bryan in 1890, is how some of the most precise gyroscopes ever built measure an angle directly, with nothing spinning in them at all.

 Where a speck lands decides how much it weighs. The fractional drop in frequency of a cantilever's first and second bending modes when a small mass lands on it, per unit of that mass as a fraction of the beam's, against where along the beam it lands, from the clamp to the free tip. The response is the square of the mode's displacement at the landing point divided by twice the mode's effective mass: a quarter of the beam for both modes (0.250 and 0.250), since each is measured against its own tip. At the tip both modes respond fully — the first by 2.0 times the landed fraction, the second by 2.0. Near the clamp neither responds, so a speck landing there is invisible. Halfway along, the first mode drops by 0.23 and the second by 1.02; at 0.783 of the length the second mode has a node and does not notice the speck at all. A single frequency cannot tell a light speck at the tip from a heavier one further in. Mechanics

The weight a frequency can find

A spring's frequency is the square root of its stiffness over the mass it carries, so adding a little mass lowers the note by half the fraction added. Nothing in that rule cares about gravity, and nothing in it cares about size. It weighs astronauts in orbit by the swing of a chair, films a fraction of an atom thick on a quartz plate, and single molecules on a beam a few micrometres long — and it improves without limit as the thing that vibrates gets lighter. What it cannot do on its own is say where the added mass sat, and that turns out to matter as much as how much there was.

 A filter made of glass powder and oil. The fraction of light transmitted straight through a 5 mm layer of N-BK7 grains packed to half its volume in the matching liquid, against wavelength, for grains of radius 5, 10 and 20 μm, from van de Hulst's extinction for large, weakly refracting particles. At the crossing the grains vanish and the layer is clear. A few tens of nanometres away each grain shifts the light passing through it in phase by enough to scatter a little of it out of the beam, and a thousand grains in a row scatter all of it: the passband is 51.7 nm wide at half height for 5 μm grains, 36.3 nm for 10 μm, 25.5 nm for 20 μm. Larger grains make a narrower filter, because the phase a grain imposes grows with its size; the same mismatch of index that a fine powder lets through, a coarse one scatters. Optics

The colour at which glass disappears

Lower a glass rod into an oil of the same refractive index and it vanishes, except for a faint coloured outline. The outline is the clue. Glass and oil disperse light differently, so their indices can agree at only one wavelength; at every other the glass is still there, bending and scattering a little. Grind the glass to powder and pack it in the oil, and the mixture is clear at that one wavelength and opaque at the rest — a colour filter made of nothing but two transparent materials, whose colour moves by a whole hue for a few degrees of warming.

 The hyperfine structure, read off a room-temperature cell. The difference between the probe's absorption with the pump off and on, which removes the Doppler hump and leaves only the Doppler-free features, against detuning. The three transitions, labelled by the excited level F′, sit at −423.6, −266.65 and 0 MHz, and the three crossovers midway between them at −345.1, −211.8, −133.3 MHz. In this model, which empties the ground level only by exciting it, the crossover between F′ = 2 and 3 is the second strongest feature and the weak transitions to F′ = 1 and 2 are small. In real rubidium spectra the crossovers are often the strongest of all, because excited atoms can fall to the other ground level and be lost to the transition altogether — optical pumping, which the model leaves out and which deepens every hole the pump burns. The positions do not depend on any of that: the separations between the features are the hyperfine splittings of rubidium's excited state, read to a fraction of a megahertz in a glass cell on a bench. Quantum

The lines a warm vapour hides

Shine a tunable laser through a cell of rubidium vapour and the absorption is one smooth hump half a gigahertz wide, though the atoms' own lines are eighty times narrower and three of them lie inside it. The atoms are moving, each sees the light Doppler-shifted by its own speed, and their lines are smeared together. Send a second, stronger beam back the other way and narrow dips appear in the hump at exactly the frequencies of the hidden lines — because only atoms standing still can be talked to by both beams at once. The vapour stays at room temperature and the motion is not removed; it is selected against.

 A current that grows thirty decades with the field. The current density of electrons tunnelling out of a cold metal against the field at its surface, on a logarithmic scale, from the Fowler–Nordheim law, for work functions of 2.7 eV (lanthanum hexaboride), 4.5 eV (tungsten) and 5.6 eV (a surface barely willing to let electrons go). For tungsten the current is 0.009 A/m² at 2 GV/m, 5·10⁵ at 4 GV/m and 6·10⁹ at 8 GV/m — rising by more than twenty orders of magnitude between 1 and 4 GV/m. The work function sits in the exponent as a three-halves power, so lowering it from 4.5 to 2.7 eV raises the current at 3 GV/m by a factor of 2·10⁵. A current density of a million amperes per square metre, an ordinary working value for a field emitter, needs about 4.2 GV/m on tungsten. Quantum

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.

 Two clocks that slow together. For a muon circling a 1.45 T magnetic field, its mean life as the laboratory measures it and the time it takes to go round once, against its Lorentz factor γ, on logarithmic scales. Time dilation stretches the life to γ × 2.197 μs: 6.6 μs at γ = 3, 64.4 μs at γ = 29.3, the muon g − 2 experiments' value. The orbit grows with the momentum, so the revolution takes γ times longer too: 15.3 ns at γ = 3, 149 ns at γ = 29.3. The two lines are parallel. Their ratio, the number of turns in one mean life, is 431 at every energy — set by the field and the muon's own properties, eBτ/2πm, with γ cancelled out. Relativity

The turns a muon makes at any energy

A muon lives two microseconds, and in a storage ring it lives longer the faster it goes, because its clock runs slow. Its orbit runs slow too: a faster muon carries more momentum, bends less in the same field and takes longer to go round. The two slowings are the same factor of gamma, so they cancel. A muon in a 1.45 tesla ring makes 431 turns in a mean life whether it is moving at nine-tenths of the speed of light or at nine nines, and the only way to more turns is a stronger magnet. The same cancellation is why the first cyclotrons stopped working near twenty million electronvolts.

 How a field enters a superconductor that pins it. The magnetic field inside a slab of type-II superconductor, against position across its thickness, as an applied field is raised from zero, in units of the full-penetration field H = Jc a. Each line is the profile at an applied field of 0.5 H, 1.0 H, 1.5 H, 2.0 H. The field enters from both faces as a wedge whose slope is the most current the pinned vortices can carry, Jc; at 0.5 H it reaches halfway to the middle, at H* it just reaches the middle, and beyond that the whole slab carries Jc and the profile rides up with the applied field. A type-I superconductor would show no field inside at all, and a normal metal the applied field everywhere. Electromagnetism

The field a superconductor keeps after all

A superconductor is famous for throwing magnetic field out, and the experiment that showed it is the one that made superconductivity a state of matter. Most superconductors that are actually used do something closer to the opposite: they let the field in as threads, grip the threads where they are, and keep them when the field is taken away. The result is a slope of field inside the material that is as steep as the grip allows and no steeper, which is all that is needed to explain why such a superconductor has a hysteresis loop, heats up in an alternating field, can hang a magnet underneath itself, and can be made into a magnet stronger than any of iron.

 Rays and the surfaces of equal optical path. Rays from a point source 20 mm in front of a curved glass surface (radius 4 mm, index 1.5), traced exactly, and the surfaces on which the optical path from the source — distance times index — takes the same value (curves, every 2.5 mm of path). In air the surfaces are spheres round the source. In the glass the rays from the edge of the surface cross the axis at 12.8 mm, well short of the paraxial focus at 20.0 mm, and the equal-path surfaces are no longer spheres. They are still at right angles to every ray: measured on a fan of 641 rays over 10 surfaces in the glass, the largest departure from 90° is 0.005°. Further in, the surfaces fold into cusps where neighbouring rays cross, and there a surface has no single normal. Optics

The surface every ray is normal to

Light from a point, bent by any number of lenses and mirrors, comes out as a tangle of rays that no longer meet anywhere. Hidden in the tangle is a surface every ray crosses at a right angle: the set of points the light reaches at the same optical time. That a surface always exists is a theorem two centuries old, and it is the reason a modern wavefront sensor works — an array of tiny lenses measures only the direction each patch of light is travelling, and the measurements can be added up into a shape only because they are the slopes of one.

 Ramsey fringes: two short pulses and a long wait. The fraction of atoms found in the upper state against the detuning of the drive from the atoms' frequency, in cycles per pulse length, for two π/2 pulses of length τ separated by a free time T = 10τ (solid), computed from the exact two-level evolution. Fringes of period 1/T ride under an envelope set by the short pulses (dotted, the response to one pulse of length 2τ). The central fringe is 0.0444 cycles per τ wide at half height, close to 1/2T. A single long pulse covering the same total time, 12τ (dashed), gives a peak 0.0666 wide: 1.50 times wider, and with no way of telling a large detuning from a small one by its side fringes alone. Quantum

The wait that sets the precision

To measure an atom's frequency, the obvious method is to drive it and look for the response, and the sharpness of the answer is set by how long the drive lasts. Norman Ramsey found in 1949 that most of the drive is wasted. Two short pulses with a long wait between them do better than one long pulse, because during the wait the atom keeps its own time undisturbed, and any difference from the drive's time piles up as an angle the second pulse can read. Every primary clock in the world runs on that idea, and its precision is set by two numbers: how long the atoms can be left alone, and how many of them there are.

 The mass law: how much sound a limp wall stops. The transmission loss of a wall that only has mass — no stiffness — for sound arriving square-on, against frequency on a logarithmic axis, for surface masses of 10 kg/m², 20 kg/m², 40 kg/m². It is 10 log(1 + (ωm/2ρc)²) decibels. At 500 Hz, 10 kg/m² stops 31.6 dB, 20 kg/m² stops 37.6 dB, 40 kg/m² stops 43.6 dB. Doubling the mass or the frequency adds six decibels, and nothing else about the wall matters: it is the wall's inertia, set against air's characteristic impedance ρc = 413 rayl, that turns the sound back. Waves

The wall that stops sound by its weight

A wall between two rooms keeps out sound not by absorbing it but by being hard to shake. The sound's pressure pushes the wall back and forth, the moving wall becomes a loudspeaker on the far side, and how much gets through depends almost entirely on the wall's mass per square metre against the frequency: six decibels more for every doubling of either. Read as impedance, a wall is a mass placed in series with the air, and the same reading explains the frequency at which a stiff pane of glass nearly vanishes and why two thin walls with a gap beat one thick one.

 The field along the axis of two coils. The magnetic field along the common axis of two identical coaxial loops carrying the same current, against distance from the midpoint in units of the loops' radius, each normalised to its value at the midpoint, for separations of 0.6, 1, 1.4 radii. Closer than one radius the field peaks at the centre; further apart it dips there between two peaks; at exactly one radius — Helmholtz's spacing — the curvature at the centre vanishes and the field is flat, staying within a part in a thousand of its central value out to 0.17 radii either side. Electromagnetism

The two coils one radius apart

A single loop of wire makes a field that is strongest at its centre and falls away in every direction. Two loops on the same axis, spaced exactly one radius apart, make a field that is flat at the midpoint to a part in a thousand over a region a third of the coils' size — and flat sideways as well as along the axis, although only the axis was designed. The sideways uniformity is free because a magnetic field in empty space obeys Laplace's equation, which ties its variation in one direction to its variation in the others, term by term.

 Where cancelling a 500 Hz tone works. Sound at 500 Hz (wavelength 69 cm) arriving from every direction at random, as it does in a room or a cabin, and a small loudspeaker 50 cm to the left of a microphone (black dot), driven to cancel the sound exactly at the microphone. Contours mark where the sum is 20 dB quieter than the original (red), 10 dB quieter (blue), unchanged (grey) and 6 dB louder (black), in a plane through both. The zone at least 10 dB quieter is 12.0 cm across, at right angles to the line from speaker to microphone — 0.18 of a wavelength — and beyond the unchanged contour the cancelling source only adds sound. Silence has been made at a point, not in a room. Waves

The silence that fits in a tenth of a wavelength

Two sounds of equal strength and opposite phase add to nothing, so any noise can be cancelled by playing its inverse. At one point. A microphone and a loudspeaker can silence the air exactly where the microphone is, and nowhere else for certain: in the diffuse sound of a room the quiet zone is a few tenths of a wavelength across, under ten centimetres at a kilohertz, and beyond it the cancelling speaker only adds noise. That is why noise cancellation works in a headphone and not in a room, and why it works on the drone of an engine and not on a voice.

 Two ways for a swing to die. A mass on a spring released 10.6 dead-band widths from rest, against time in units of 1/ω. Red: sliding on a dry surface, whose friction is a constant force; each swing is exactly a cosine, and the turning points fall in a straight line by two dead-band widths per half-cycle until the mass stops, 2.5 cycles after release, at −0.60. Blue: the same mass with viscous damping (damping ratio 0.05), whose force is proportional to speed; the swings shrink by the same fraction each cycle, along an exponential, and never stop. The period is the same in both and the same as with no damping at all to within the viscous case's 0.13 per cent. Mechanics

The swing that dies in a straight line

A pendulum in air loses the same fraction of its swing every cycle, so its amplitude falls along an exponential and, in principle, never quite reaches zero. A mass on a spring sliding over a dry surface does something else. Its friction is a fixed force, so it loses a fixed amount of amplitude every half-swing — the swings shrink in a straight line — and it stops completely, after a countable number of swings, somewhere inside a band around its natural position whose width is the friction divided by the stiffness. Where in that band it stops depends on where it started, which is why a barometer with friction in it is tapped before it is read.

 A governor that hunts. The speed of an engine with a centrifugal governor after its load is suddenly increased, against time in units of √(ℓ/g), for three amounts of friction in the governor's linkage: damping 0, 0.25, 0.6, against Vyshnegradsky's minimum for this governor, 0.397. With no friction the speed oscillates about its new, slightly lower value with a growing swing — the governor hunts, opening and closing the throttle out of step with the engine — until the arms hit their stops and the curve ends. At damping 0.25, below the minimum, it still hunts, more slowly. At damping 0.6, above the minimum, the oscillation dies away and the engine settles at its new speed. The friction that seems to spoil the mechanism is what makes it work. Mechanics

The governor that needed friction to work

James Watt's steam engines were kept at a steady speed by two heavy balls on hinged arms, spun by the engine itself: run faster and the balls fly out and close the steam valve; run slower and they drop and open it. The balls stand at a height set by the speed alone. As engines grew and governors were made more sensitive, many began to hunt — speeding and slowing in a growing rhythm, the governor always too late. In 1868 James Clerk Maxwell wrote the equations down and showed why: a governor with no friction cannot settle at all, and the more precisely it is meant to hold the speed, the more friction it needs.

 How far below the air a surface facing the sky falls. How much colder than the air a surface facing the night sky becomes, when insulated from below and with air at 5 °C, against how strongly the air can warm it, measured by the convection coefficient (3 to 5 W/m²K in still air, 20 or more in a breeze), for sky emissivities of 0.72, 0.82, 0.97 — clear and dry, clear and humid, and overcast. Under a clear dry sky in still air the surface sits 12.3 °C below the air; a breeze of 20 W/m²K halves that and more; under cloud the drop is 1.3 °C. The surface is radiating to something colder than the air: the upper atmosphere and, through the window near ten micrometres, space. Thermodynamics

The cold reservoir overhead

On a clear, still night a car roof can grow frost while the air around it is several degrees above freezing. Nothing in the air is cold enough to freeze water. The roof is radiating its heat upward to a sky whose radiation back is that of something twenty degrees colder than the air — part of it the cold upper atmosphere, part of it space itself, seen through a window in the infrared where the air is transparent. The clear sky is a cold reservoir available everywhere, and it can be used: to make frost, to cool buildings below the air temperature even in sunshine, and in principle to run an engine at night.

 A pond that is hottest at the bottom and does not turn over. Temperature, salt and density against depth in a salt-gradient solar pond: a fresh upper layer 0.3 m deep at 25 °C, a gradient layer 1.2 m thick in which the salt rises from 2 to 20 per cent and the temperature from 25 to 80 °C, and a storage layer of hot brine 2 m deep (shaded bands are the two mixed layers). The density rises steadily downward, from 1011 to 1122 kg/m³, so the hottest water is also the heaviest and stays at the bottom. The dashed line is the same temperatures with no added salt: the bottom water would then be 25 kg/m³ lighter than the top, and the pond would overturn. Fluids

The pond that is hottest at the bottom

Water heated from below rises, which is why a pond in the sun is never much warmer than the air: the heat is carried to the surface and lost there. Put a metre of salt gradient in the way and the hot water at the bottom is also the heaviest, cannot rise, and keeps its heat, behind an insulating layer that sunlight passes straight through. Ponds built this way reach eighty degrees under an ordinary sky. The salt does not collect any extra light. What it buys is temperature.

 The waterfall hidden in a river mouth. The height of waterfall that would release as much energy per cubic metre of fresh water as mixing it into a large body of salt solution, against the solution's salt content by mass, for sodium chloride at 25 °C: the osmotic pressure divided by the weight of a cubic metre of water. Seawater is worth a 290 m fall; the brine rejected by a desalination plant, about twice as salty, 617 m; a saturated salt solution 3864 m. The curve bends upward because concentrated brine is less ideal than dilute and its osmotic coefficient rises above one. Every river mouth on Earth is a waterfall of this height that nobody sees, since all of its energy goes into the stirring of the estuary. Fluids

The waterfall at every river mouth

Where a river meets the sea, fresh water mixes into salt and the free energy of mixing is released as nothing more useful than a little warmth and stirring. It is not a little energy: a cubic metre of river water entering the sea gives up as much as if it fell 290 metres. A desalination membrane run backwards can catch some of it, and the arithmetic of doing so is the arithmetic of every source with an internal resistance — the most power comes at half the pressure, and half the work is the price of getting it quickly.

 A lens with its glass taken out, focusing the same. Two lenses of focal length 200 mm and aperture 100 mm in acrylic (n = 1.49), each with its flat face to a parallel beam and the exact aspheric curve that sends every ray to one focus: solid (top), 12.2 mm thick at the centre, and the same curve cut into 13 rings 1 mm deep with the glass between them removed (bottom), on a backing 0.4 mm thick. Thickness is drawn six times larger than height, and the distance to the focus is not to scale. Every ray leaves each lens at the same angle from the same height, because the angle a ray turns through at a surface depends only on the slope of the surface where it crosses, and every ring keeps the slope it had. What was removed was glass the rays travelled through without turning. Optics

The lens with its glass taken out

Snell's law turns a ray at a surface by an angle set by the slope of the surface where the ray crosses, and the glass behind the surface does not enter it. So a lens can be sliced into rings, the glass between the slopes thrown away, and the rays will not notice. Fresnel did it for lighthouses in 1822. The waves notice — every step cuts a few hundred wavelengths out of them — unless the steps are made exactly one wavelength deep, and then the lens becomes something else: a diffractive element whose colours run backwards, and which can cancel a glass lens's colour with a twentieth of its power.

 Earthquake waves through the Earth, and the ring they do not reach. Paths of compressional (P) waves from an earthquake at the top of the Earth, traced through the mantle, the liquid outer core (orange) and the solid inner core (darker), drawn in one half of a cross-section: rays that stay in the mantle (blue) and rays that pass through the core (red), with Snell's law applied shell by shell to a reference model of the Earth's speeds. The mantle rays curve back up because the speed rises with depth, and reach the surface no further than 97° from the source. Rays that strike the core are bent sharply inward, because the speed drops from 13.7 to 8.1 km/s at its surface, and those that turn in the liquid outer core come out no closer than 144°. Between the two, marked on both sides, is a ring of the surface that these direct P waves do not reach: the P-wave shadow, which is how the core was found. A few rays that just enter the solid inner core (purple, dashed), where the speed jumps up again, are bent back out early and land inside the shadow, as close as 115° — the faint arrivals from which the inner core was found. Waves

The shadow that shows the core is liquid

Nobody has been more than a few kilometres into the Earth, and its interior was mapped from the timing of earthquake waves alone. The decisive observations were of waves that do not arrive. Seismometers between about 100° and 140° from a large earthquake record no direct compressional wave, because something deep inside bends the rays away; and over two-fifths of the planet beyond 100° no direct shear wave arrives at all, because that something cannot be sheared. A slow, liquid core casts both shadows, and a few faint waves inside the first one revealed a solid core within it.

 The square root of an X-ray's energy, one step per element. The square root of the energy of each element's Kα X-ray line, in units of the Rydberg energy, against its atomic number, for 24 elements from aluminium to lead (dots), with Moseley's law, √(3/4)·(Z − 1), drawn as a line. The points march up in equal steps, one per element, because each step adds one proton to the nucleus and one unit to the charge the falling electron feels. When Moseley first did this, in 1913–14, the line had gaps where no known element fell: the numbers marked, 43, 61, 72 and 75, were found later as technetium, promethium, hafnium and rhenium. At high atomic number the points rise above the line, by 6 per cent for lead, because the innermost electrons there move fast enough for relativity to deepen their binding. Quantum

The X-ray line that counts the protons

Strike a metal with fast electrons and it gives off X-rays at a few sharp energies characteristic of the metal. In 1913 Henry Moseley measured the strongest of them for element after element and found that the square root of its energy rose in equal steps, one step per element — as if something inside each atom were being counted. It was the charge on the nucleus. The periodic table had been ordered by weight; Moseley's line ordered it by protons, fixed the elements it was missing, and showed that an electron deep inside a heavy atom behaves like the electron in hydrogen, with the charge turned up.

 A current that falls every 4.9 volts. The share of electrons reaching the anode of a mercury-vapour tube against the accelerating voltage, from a simulation of 3000 electrons at each voltage: the electrons must arrive at the grid with more than 1.5 eV to climb the last small retarding voltage, and lose 4.886 eV — the energy of mercury's first excited state — whenever they hit an atom with at least that much, after a random further distance averaging 0.03 of the gap. The current rises with voltage, then collapses each time the electrons have gained just enough to excite an atom and too little left to reach the anode: minima at 6.3, 11.2, 16.1, 21.0, 25.8 V, about 4.9 V apart. Energy was being handed to the atoms in lumps of 4.886 eV and in no other amount — the first direct evidence, in 1914, that an atom's internal energy is quantised. Quantum

The electrons that pay in fixed amounts

Fire electrons through mercury vapour and raise the voltage that drives them, and the current they carry should simply rise. In 1914 James Franck and Gustav Hertz found it rising, then collapsing, then rising again, over and over, every 4.9 volts. Below that energy an electron bounces off a mercury atom and keeps almost everything; above it, it can hand the atom exactly 4.9 electronvolts and no other amount. The atom will accept energy only in the size of the gap between its levels — shown here by collisions rather than by light, and misread by its discoverers as something else entirely.

 Water drops that charge two cans to a spark. The voltage between the two cans of a Kelvin water dropper against time, on a logarithmic axis, starting from a stray difference of 1 V, for 10, 20, 40 drops a second in each stream; drops 3 mm across, each with a capacitance of 0.17 pF to its ring, cans of 20 pF. Each drop carries a charge induced by the opposite can's potential into its own can, which raises the opposite can's induced charge on the next drop: the difference grows exponentially, multiplying by e every 6.0 s at 20 drops a second. It passes the 10 kV that will jump a few millimetres of air after 55 s — from one volt to a spark, with nothing but falling water. Electromagnetism

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.

 The photon a fast electron throws back. The highest energy of a laser photon scattered straight back by an electron it meets head-on, against the electron's energy, for a carbon-dioxide laser, an infrared and a green one, on logarithmic axes: dashed, 4γ² times the laser photon's energy, the double Doppler shift of a mirror moving at the electron's speed; solid, the exact edge with the electron's recoil, E·x/(1 + x) with x = 4γε/mc²; dotted, the electron's own energy, which no scattered photon reaches. A 1 GeV electron turns 1.17-eV infrared photons into gamma rays of 17.6 MeV, within 1.8 per cent of the mirror's figure. At 46.6 GeV and 2.35 eV the mirror's figure is 78.2 GeV, more than the electron has to give; the photon actually comes back with 29.2 GeV. Relativity

The photon a fast electron throws back

Shine an infrared laser at a beam of gigaelectronvolt electrons and gamma rays come back out of the collision, each carrying seventeen million times the energy of the laser photon it started as. The electron acts as a mirror moving at nearly the speed of light, and a moving mirror multiplies the energy of light by two Doppler factors. Push the electron's energy far enough and the mirror arithmetic promises photons more energetic than the electron itself — and the photon's own momentum, which the mirror ignored, steps in to stop it.

 Every colour at its own angle, from one charge. The wavelength radiated by a charge passing over a grating, as a multiple of the grating's period d, against the angle from the charge's direction, for speeds of 0.3, 0.776, 0.99 of light's, in the first order: λ = d(1/β − cos θ). The shaded band is visible light for a grating of period 1.67 micrometres, the one Smith and Purcell used in 1953. At 0.776c — 300 keV electrons, their speed — visible light comes out between 0° and 30° from the beam, blue-green straight ahead and red at the wider angles; straight ahead the wavelength is 0.29d, 482 nm, and straight back 2.29d. A slow charge at 0.3c radiates only at wavelengths longer than 2.33d. A fast one at 0.99c sends 1.0 per cent of a period straight ahead, the d/2γ² of an undulator. Astrophysics

The rainbow a passing electron leaves on a grating

An electron moving steadily in a straight line through empty space does not radiate, at any speed. Send it skimming over a ruled metal grating, without touching it, and it lights up — every colour at its own angle, blue-green ahead and red further out, from an electron that is neither turning nor slowing. The grating hands the electron's field the one thing it lacked: a wavenumber that lets part of it escape. It is the same mechanism as the blue glow in a reactor pool, with a ruled surface standing in for the slow light in the water.

 Electrons that reach the anode, and electrons that turn back. Paths of electrons leaving a cathode 4 mm across at rest, in a cylindrical diode with an anode 8 mm across held at 4000 V, with no space charge, for axial magnetic fields of 0.80, 0.98, 1.02 and 1.30 times Hull's cut-off field of 142.2 millitesla; computed by integrating the Lorentz force. Below the cut-off the field only bends the path, and the electron still reaches the anode — at 0.98 of the cut-off it arrives almost tangentially. Just above it the electron turns back just short of the anode and returns to the cathode, then repeats the arc further round; at 1.30 times the cut-off it turns back well inside. Nothing reaches the anode, and the current stops completely within a few per cent of the field. Electromagnetism

The field at which no electron reaches the anode

Put a hot wire inside a metal tube, make the tube positive, and electrons stream across from wire to tube. Add a magnetic field along the axis and they curve on the way, and still arrive — until, at one definite field, every one of them turns back a hair's breadth short of the tube and the current stops dead. The field at which it happens can be found without knowing anything about how the voltage is distributed between the wire and the tube, because one quantity the electron carries is fixed by the magnetic field alone. The microwave oven runs just inside that line.

 The level at which a hinged gate swings open. The height of the centre of pressure on a vertical gate, as a fraction of its height H, against the depth of water above the gate's bottom (solid), approaching the centroid at half the height (dotted) as the water deepens; the dashed lines are hinges at 0.3H, 0.4H, 0.45H. A gate hinged on a horizontal axis and resting against a sill on the downstream side is held shut while the centre of pressure is below its hinge and swung open the moment it passes above. A hinge at 0.3H opens when the water is 0.90H deep, before it reaches the gate's top; at 0.4H, at 1.33H; at 0.45H, at 2.17H. A hinge at or above the centroid never opens at any depth, and the opening level grows steeply as the hinge approaches it — the setting is a choice of hinge position, made once, with no mechanism, sensor or power. Fluids

The floodgate that opens at a chosen depth

Hang a flat gate on a horizontal hinge across a channel and it can be made to stay shut while the water rises, press harder against its seat for a while, and then swing open on its own at one particular level — with no float, no motor and no sensor, only the position of the hinge. The trick is that the water's push on a submerged surface acts below the surface's middle by an amount that shrinks as the water deepens, so the point the push acts at climbs as the flood rises. Put the hinge on that climb and the gate opens where the climb crosses it.

 A resistance counted in whole numbers. The Hall resistance of a gallium-arsenide layer with 3 × 10¹⁵ electrons per square metre, against the perpendicular field (solid), beside the classical B/ne (dotted); and the resistance along the current, on an arbitrary scale (red). Classically the Hall resistance rises in proportion to the field. In the layer it climbs in steps and stays on flat plateaus at h/νe² — 25813, 12906, 8604, 6453 ohms — each centred where the classical line crosses it, at integer filling. On each plateau the resistance along the current falls to zero: the current flows with no dissipation at all. Between plateaus both change. The model drawn here gives each Landau level a width 0.18 of the level spacing and lets only the middle 0.16 of it carry current across the sample. Quantum

The resistance counted in whole numbers

Pass a current along a thin layer of electrons in a strong magnetic field and measure the voltage across it. Classically the ratio rises steadily with the field. In fact it climbs in steps, and on each step it sits at the fundamental constant h/e² divided by a whole number — 25,812.807 ohms, then half that, then a third — the same to better than a part in a thousand million in every sample, every material and every laboratory, however dirty the layer and however irregular its shape. The steps exist because of the dirt, and they are exact because of a count that disorder cannot change.

 Each foil divides the heat by one more. The radiant heat flowing from a wall at 293 K to one at 77 K — room temperature to liquid nitrogen — in watts per square metre on a logarithmic axis, against the number of thin shields placed between them, for walls and shields all black-painted, dull metal and aluminised film. With nothing between them, black walls exchange 340 W/m²; aluminised walls 6.3. Each shield adds one more equal resistance in series, so N shields divide the flux by N + 1: thirty aluminised foils bring it to 204 milliwatts per square metre. Between black walls a single aluminised foil passes 6.2 W/m², less than thirty black shields do, 11.0 W/m², because a shield's resistance is 2/ε − 1 and a shiny one is worth 54 black. Thermodynamics

The thin foils that stop radiant heat

In a vacuum, heat can cross a gap only as radiation, and a single sheet of foil a few hundredths of a millimetre thick, hung in the gap and touching nothing, halves it. Two sheets cut it to a third, thirty to a thirty-first. The foil does not need to be thick or cold or clever; it needs only to be shiny, because a sheet that absorbs little also emits little, and each one becomes a radiator in its own right, floating at a temperature between its neighbours. The golden blankets on spacecraft and the silvering inside a vacuum flask are the same arithmetic of resistances in series.

 A whisper that grows into a note. The amplitude of the tube's lowest mode against time, in units of the time sound takes to cross the tube (a period is two), started from a small disturbance, with the gauze at a quarter of the length, at 0.12 of it, and at three-quarters; heat-transfer strength K = 1. At L/4 the disturbance grows some fortyfold over about thirty-five periods and then stops growing, at an amplitude of 0.83 in these units, where the air's to-and-fro speed at the gauze is comparable to the steady upward draught and the heat transfer, which goes as the square root of the air's speed, can no longer follow it in proportion. At 0.12 the gauze is near the edge of the singing range and the sound grows only slowly. At 3L/4 the same disturbance dies away within a few periods. Waves

The tube that sings when heated low down

Hold a wide metal tube upright, push a red-hot wire gauze a quarter of the way up inside it, and take the flame away. The tube begins to howl — a loud, steady note at its lowest resonance, lasting until the gauze cools. Put the gauze a quarter of the way down from the top instead and the tube is silent; lay the tube on its side and it stops. Heat is driving a sound, and whether it drives or damps depends on where the heat is released and when, in a rule Lord Rayleigh stated in 1878 that now governs rocket engines and power-station turbines.

 The shift a member galaxy shows against the centre. The predicted gravitational shift of a cluster member's light relative to the central galaxy's, in km/s, against the member's projected distance from the centre, averaged along the line of sight with the members assumed to follow the mass out to twice R200, for clusters of 1 × 10¹⁴ M☉, 3 × 10¹⁴ M☉, 1 × 10¹⁵ M☉. Every member is blueshifted relative to the centre, because its light climbs out of a shallower part of the well. For the heaviest the shift is −13.2 km/s at half a megaparsec and −21.6 at two; for the lightest, whose members end at 1.9 Mpc, −4.4 and −5.7 at one and a half. Projection blunts the profile: members seen near the centre include many that lie far in front or behind it. Astrophysics

The light that climbs out of a cluster of galaxies

A cluster of galaxies is a well a few megaparsecs wide, and its galaxies sit at different depths in it. Light from the one at the bottom climbs furthest, so every other member should look slightly blue beside it — by ten kilometres a second, against galaxies that rush about at a thousand. No single cluster can show it. Thousands stacked together can, but only once a second effect of exactly the same size, the slowing of the galaxies' own moving clocks, has been taken out — and it cannot be separated by choosing heavier clusters, because both are set by the same depth.

 The diamonds where the island's charge is fixed. The stability diagram of a single-electron island with identical junctions: bias voltage (units of e/CΣ) against the charge the gate induces (units of e). Inside each shaded diamond, labelled with the number of extra electrons the island holds, every possible tunnelling step costs energy and no current flows; outside, at least one step pays for itself and electrons pass one at a time. The diamonds repeat every time the gate charge rises by one electron, and touch at gate charges of e/2, 3e/2, … where two charge states cost the same and the island conducts at any bias. Their height is e/CΣ in each direction. Probing the model at three points outside the diamonds gives currents of 0.60, 0.25, 0.53; inside them, nothing. Electromagnetism

The island that takes electrons one at a time

A capacitor holds charge in proportion to its voltage, and the proportion is a property of its shape — on any piece of metal large enough to see. Make the metal small enough and cold enough, and joined to the world only by tunnel junctions, and the proportion breaks into steps: one electron's charge costs more energy than the heat or the battery can supply, so no current flows at all until it can, and then the electrons cross one by one. A charge of a single electron becomes something a voltmeter can see.

 Fringes that bend into hooks beside a line. The interference fringes seen in a spectrograph behind an interferometer with 10 cm of sodium vapour at 10¹⁴ atoms per cubic centimetre in one arm and a glass plate in the other, against wavelength across the D₂ line (horizontal) and position along the slit (vertical, in fringe spacings). Far from the line the plate tilts every fringe evenly. Near the line the vapour's dispersion sweeps each fringe up on one side and down on the other, and every fringe turns back on itself in a hook: the turning points sit −100 and 100 picometres from the line centre, the same for every fringe. The line itself, a few picometres wide, is a dark gap between them; the hooks lie far outside it, in vapour that is transparent. Optics

The hooks that weigh an absorption line

A strong absorption line is black at its centre, and how black it is says almost nothing about how many atoms made it — double them and the line hardly darkens. The atoms are still there, and they still bend light: on either side of the line, where the vapour is transparent, its refractive index rises and falls by an amount proportional to their number. In 1912 Dmitry Rozhdestvensky found a way to read that index straight off a photograph. Interference fringes passed through a spectrograph curl into hooks beside the line, and the distance between the hooks, squared, counts the atoms — whatever the line's shape and however saturated its core.

 A point of light split by an uncoated roof. The image of a distant point across the direction of the roof edge, behind an Amici roof in glass of index 1.517, for unpolarised light, as a fraction of the peak an undivided pupil would give, against position in units of the diffraction width λ/D: with a phase-coated roof, and with bare glass. The coated roof gives the ordinary diffraction pattern of the full aperture. Bare glass leaves the two halves of the pupil only partly able to interfere, and the image's peak falls to 0.70 of its proper height, its central lobe widening across the edge into a shoulder on each side — a slight doubling of every point, which an observer sees as a loss of crispness and contrast. Optics

The roof that splits a binocular's image

A slim, straight binocular turns its image upright with a roof — two glass faces meeting at a right angle, which reflect every ray twice by total internal reflection and lose no light at all. They lose sharpness instead. Total reflection shifts the phases of the two polarisations of light by different amounts, and the half of the beam on one side of the roof's edge meets the two faces in the opposite order from the other half. The halves leave in different polarisations, interfere only partly at the focus, and every star becomes a slightly doubled smudge — unless a coating a fraction of a micrometre thick makes the glass behave like a mirror.

 The period of a ball bouncing on a gas. The period of a 16 mm steel ball (16.8 g) oscillating in a vertical tube that fits it on top of a flask, against the flask's volume on a logarithmic axis, for helium, air and carbon dioxide at room temperature, if every compression is adiabatic: T = 2π√(mV/γPA²). On a 10 litre flask the ball swings with a period of 0.983 s on helium, 1.072 s on air and 1.117 s on carbon dioxide. The gas is the spring, and its stiffness is γ times the pressure: the gas whose molecules have fewest ways to store energy is the stiffest, because less of the work done in compressing it goes into motions that do not push on the walls. Thermodynamics

The ball that weighs how a gas stores heat

Drop a steel ball into a glass tube that fits it closely, on top of a flask of gas, and it does not fall to the bottom. It bounces, up and down, on the gas trapped beneath it, with a period of about a second. The gas is a spring, and its stiffness is the pressure multiplied by a number that counts how many ways the gas's molecules can hold energy. So a stopwatch on a bouncing ball measures something that otherwise needs a calorimeter: whether the molecules can rotate, whether they can vibrate, and how far a vibration has woken up at the temperature of the room.

 A tornado's winds, folded. The radial wind across a line through the centre of a tornado-like vortex 400 m across with peak winds of 60 m/s — towards the radar on one side, away on the other — as it truly is (grey) and as a radar with a Nyquist velocity of ±25 m/s reports it (red). Outside the core the winds are slower than 25 m/s and are reported correctly. Near the core they exceed it, and the reported speed folds over: the strongest inbound winds appear as outbound and the outbound as inbound, so the tight pair of opposite velocities that marks a tornado — the velocity couplet — is turned inside out. Forecasters and the algorithms they use learn to read the sharp jumps between neighbouring gates as folds rather than winds, and to unfold them by continuity from the slower winds around. Waves

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.

 The long pulse that arrives as a spike. The output of the matched filter for the chirp, in decibels against delay in units of 1/B, beside the same filter's output for an unmodulated pulse of the same duration (dashed). The plain pulse's echo is a broad triangle 100 units wide; the chirp's is a spike 0.878/B wide at its half-power points — compressed by the time-bandwidth product, 50. The compression is not free of shape: the spike has sidelobes, the first at −13.6 dB, from the abrupt edges of the band, and a weak echo sitting in a strong echo's sidelobe can be hidden by it. The energy is all there — the filter has concentrated the whole pulse's echo into one instant of output. Waves

The long pulse that arrives as a spike

A radar that wants to see far must send a lot of energy, and a transmitter limited in peak power can only do that with a long pulse; a radar that wants to tell close targets apart needs a short one. A chirp — a pulse whose pitch rises steadily from start to finish — is both. Received through a filter that delays its low notes more than its high ones, every part of the echo arrives at the same instant, and fifty microseconds of pulse leave the receiver as a spike one microsecond wide. Resolution turns out to belong to bandwidth, not to duration, and the price of the trick is paid in sidelobes and in a target's speed being mistaken for its range.

 A disc that makes its own field once it turns fast enough. A self-exciting disc dynamo started from rest, its motor's torque set so that, with no current, the disc would run at 0.8, 1.5, 2.5 times the critical speed R/M. Dashed: the disc's speed, in units of the critical speed. Solid: the current in its coil, in units of √(G/M), starting from a stray seed of a millionth, of either sign. Time is in units of the circuit's own L/R. At 0.8 the disc settles at its free-running speed, below critical, and the seed dies. Above it the disc spins up past the critical speed and nothing happens for a while — the current is growing exponentially from a millionth — until it reaches a tenth, at t ≈ 29 for 1.5 and 11 for 2.5 and becomes large enough to brake the disc. Speed and current then ring and settle at exactly the critical speed and a current of ±√(g − 1): 0.71 and 1.22, of the sign the seed happened to have. Astrophysics

The dynamo that reverses with nothing pushing it

A copper disc spinning in a magnetic field drives a current from its axle to its rim. Wire that current through a coil wound round the disc and the coil supplies the field the disc needs — and above one definite speed, a resistance divided by an inductance, the arrangement makes its own field out of any stray one, with nothing else magnetic anywhere. It cannot choose which way the field points; the stray field chooses. Couple two such discs, each feeding the other's coil, and with the motors' torque held perfectly steady the field flips direction again and again at intervals that follow no pattern. The simplest dynamo that works is also the simplest one that reverses.

 One height inside the bottle where the pressure is the air's. Gauge pressure against height inside a sealed bottle with an open tube reaching down to 10 cm above its outlet, while it is bubbling, at three water levels: 30.0, 22.0, 13.0 cm. Each line rises at the same hydrostatic slope, ρg, from the air pocket at the top, which is below atmospheric, to the outlet at the foot. All three cross atmospheric pressure at the tube's tip — 7.4 mm below it, the extra a bubble needs to leave a 2 mm tube — and so all three reach the outlet at the same 906 Pa above atmospheric, whatever the level. Dashed: an open bottle at the same levels, whose pressure at the outlet is 2937, 2154, 1273 Pa. Fluids

The bottle that pours at one rate however full it is

Water running from a hole in the foot of an open bottle slows as the bottle empties, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. Seal the bottle and push an open tube through the stopper, down into the water, and it stops slowing: the flow holds steady from full until the level reaches the bottom of the tube. Nothing regulates it. The tube's tip is the one point inside where the pressure is the atmosphere's, the water above it hangs from an air pocket below atmospheric, and the outlet sees only the height of the tip.

 Where a kick lands decides whether the clock gains. A pendulum's state as a point on a circle: horizontally its angle, vertically its angular speed, both scaled by the swing, so that undisturbed it goes round the grey circle clockwise once a period and its phase is the angle round the circle from the top. An escapement's kick raises its speed: an upward jump. Kicked at the bottom of the swing (top of the circle), the point jumps straight outward — a bigger swing, phase unchanged. Kicked 42° of phase before the bottom, the jump also carries it forward round the circle, by 9.8°, and the pendulum arrives early; kicked the same amount after the bottom, it is set back by 9.8° and arrives late. The kick is exaggerated here to 0.32 of the top speed to make the angles visible. Mechanics

The kick that does not change the beat

A pendulum clock has to push its pendulum, or friction would stop it within minutes, and every push risks disturbing the very period the clock exists to keep. In 1826 George Airy worked out exactly when a push does no harm: at the bottom of the swing, where the pendulum is moving fastest, an impulse changes how far it swings and leaves the timing untouched. A push before the bottom makes the clock gain; after it, lose. Three centuries of escapement design are a search for a mechanism that pushes where Airy said — or that pushes in the wrong place in a way that cancels some other error.

 One spray of particles, seen from two frames. Massless particles sprayed evenly in every direction from a source, as distributions in two variables. Left: against the cosine of the angle from the beam axis, for the source at rest (flat) and the same source moving along the axis at 0.8c (peaked forward), which crowds the particles forward until 81 times as many go straight ahead as straight back. Right: the same two sprays against pseudorapidity, η = −ln tan(θ/2). In η the moving spray is the resting one moved over by 1.099, the rapidity of 0.8c, with its shape — ½ sech² η, a peak of 0.5 and a width of 1.76 at half height — unchanged. A boost along the beam that distorts every distribution in angle or velocity only translates a distribution in rapidity. Relativity

The angle a collider counts in logarithms

The two proton beams of the Large Hadron Collider meet head on with equal energies, so the collisions ought to happen at rest in the laboratory. They do not. Each collision is really between two fragments of protons carrying unknown, unequal shares of the momentum, and every one is moving along the beam at a different speed. Particle physicists therefore describe what comes out in a variable that a boost along the beam simply shifts: rapidity, the quantity in which speeds add. A detector cannot measure rapidity directly. It measures an angle, and converts it to a logarithm.

 The tick an elliptical orbit adds to a clock. The periodic part of the time a satellite clock gains or loses against one on the ground, after its constant rate offset is removed, against hours from closest approach, for the two Galileo satellites stranded in 2014 on orbits of eccentricity 0.156 and period 12.9 hours, a GPS satellite at 0.01 and a Galileo satellite on its intended near-circular orbit. The stranded satellites' clocks run ahead and behind by ±367 ns every orbit: slow near closest approach, where they are deepest and fastest, fast near the far point. A GPS clock wobbles by ±23 ns, and a satellite on a circular orbit by almost nothing. The wobble is −2√(GMa) e sin E/c², fixed by the orbit alone, which is what makes it a test. Relativity

The satellites launched into the wrong orbit

In August 2014 two European navigation satellites were left on the wrong orbit by a frozen fuel line in their rocket's upper stage: an ellipse instead of a circle. For navigation they were nearly useless. For relativity they were a gift. A clock on an elliptical orbit dips deeper into the Earth's gravity and speeds up as it falls, then climbs and slows, and both effects make it lose time near the bottom of the ellipse and gain it back near the top — a wobble of 367 nanoseconds every 12.9 hours, set by the orbit alone. Watching that wobble for three years checked the gravitational slowing of clocks five times more closely than anything had in the forty years before.

 Light that turns with the molecules it passes. Through a layer of liquid crystal whose molecules turn steadily through 90° from the entrance face to the exit (dashed line), the direction of the light's polarisation against depth, for linearly polarised light entering along the molecules, in a thick cell and a thin one; u = 2dΔn/λ measures the layer's birefringence against the wavelength. In the thick cell the polarisation turns with the molecules, never more than a few degrees behind, and leaves rotated by 90°: 100.0 per cent of the light passes an analyser set along the exit molecules. In the thin cell the light barely notices the twist; its polarisation lags further and further behind and leaves turned only part of the way, with 31 per cent passing. Mauguin saw the first case in 1911: a birefringent medium that twists slowly enough drags the light's polarisation round with it. Optics

The twist that carries light round a corner

Between two crossed polarisers, a sandwich of liquid crystal a few micrometres thick turns black to white. Its long molecules lie flat, but turned a quarter-turn from one face of the layer to the other, and polarised light entering along the molecules at one face comes out along them at the other — rotated by ninety degrees and able to pass the second polariser. Charles Mauguin found in 1911 that a slowly twisting birefringent layer drags light's polarisation round with it. Sixty years later the effect became the liquid-crystal display. The layers in those displays, though, are too thin to drag anything: the light inside them wanders off and comes back, at exactly the right thickness.

 The two lines a vibration adds to scattered light. The light scattered by silicon's optical vibration at 520 cm⁻¹, against its shift from the 532 nm laser line in cm⁻¹ (negative, lost to the crystal; positive, gained from it), on a logarithmic intensity axis, at 100 K, 300 K and 600 K; the strong unshifted line and its wings are cut out at the centre. The Stokes line, where the light gives up a quantum of vibration, barely changes: 1.00, 1.09 and 1.40 in relative strength. The anti-Stokes line, where it takes one, needs a vibration already excited and grows from 7·10⁻⁴ of the Stokes line at 100 K to 0.103 at 300 K and 0.36 at 600 K. The light comes back bluer only as often as the crystal is warm enough to pay for it. Optics

The light that comes back bluer when it is warm

Shine a green laser on a crystal and a tiny fraction of the light comes back with a different colour: a little redder, having given a quantum of energy to one of the crystal's vibrations, or a little bluer, having taken one. Losing energy is always possible. Gaining it needs a vibration already excited, so the bluer light is fainter, and fainter still the colder the crystal. The ratio of the two is a Boltzmann factor, fixed by quantum statistics and nothing else. It is a thermometer that needs no contact and no calibration — and in a long glass fibre, it is thousands of thermometers at once.

 Two fine gratings that make a coarse one. Top: two gratings of dark bars laid over each other, one with a period of 10 units and the other of 11, both with bars half a period wide. Bottom: the average transmission of the pair, smoothed over a few periods. Where the bars of the two gratings coincide, light passes through the gaps between them; where the bars of one fill the gaps of the other, nothing passes. The two drift in and out of step once every 110 units — the moiré period, p₁p₂/|p₁ − p₂| — producing broad dark and light bands 11 times coarser than either grating. Neither grating contains a period of 110; their product does. Waves

The pattern two gratings make that neither contains

Lay one fine net curtain over another and broad, swirling bands appear that are in neither curtain. Two sets of lines a tenth of a millimetre apart, differing by one part in a hundred, make bands a centimetre apart. This is moiré: the beat of two gratings in space, as two notes a little out of tune beat in time. It magnifies whatever makes the gratings differ — a twist, a stretch, a shift — by the ratio of the bands to the lines, so it is used to measure strain in bridges and to align the layers of microchips. And two sheets of carbon, twisted by just over one degree, make a moiré on which electrons stop moving and the material superconducts.

 A signal that dies, and comes back when the spins are turned over. The size of the signal from an ensemble of proton spins whose precession rates are spread by 20 Hz (root mean square) about the mean, with a true relaxation time T₂ of 80 ms, against time after they are tipped. The free signal falls to 1/e in about 10 ms and to 0.03 by 20 ms: not because any spin has relaxed but because they have fanned out. A π pulse at 30 ms (marked) turns every spin over, and at 60 ms the signal returns to 0.472 — exactly e^(−2τ/T₂), the dashed envelope, since every static difference in rate has cancelled. Without the pulse the signal at 60 ms is below one part in a million. Quantum

The echo that gives back everything but the wandering

Tip a sample of protons in a slightly uneven magnetic field and their signal dies within milliseconds. None of them has relaxed: they have fanned out, each precessing at the rate its own patch of field sets. Turn every spin over halfway through and the fan closes again, and the signal comes back as an echo, smaller only by the decay that was real. What the echo cannot return is a phase gained while a spin moved, and that one loss, which grows as the cube of the waiting time, is how a scanner finds a stroke within minutes.

 A round uncertainty sheared into a thin one. The uncertainty in the direction of 100 atoms' combined spin, seen along the spin, drawn out to one standard deviation in each direction. Left: the atoms each in an independent superposition — a disk of variance N/4 = 25 in every transverse direction, so a rotation shows only once it moves the spin by √N/2 = 5.0 units. Right: after one-axis twisting, which turns the spin about the vertical axis at a rate proportional to its height, so that the upper half of the disk is pushed one way and the lower half the other (arrows). The disk becomes an ellipse with variances 1.22 and 535, its long axis tilted 12.2° from the horizontal. Its narrow direction, turned to lie along the rotation to be measured, is 12.0 dB quieter than the disk, allowing for the 11.8% the twisting costs in the length of the spin. Quantum

The atoms that measure better together

A clock read with a hundred independent atoms locates its phase no better than the scatter of a hundred coin tosses allows, because each atom answers the final question by itself. Let the atoms interact for a moment before they are read and that scatter can be shaped: the round uncertainty of their combined spin is sheared into a thin ellipse, and a phase error invisible against the coin-toss noise becomes four standard deviations wide. The gain grows with the number of atoms, and it is real only if the detector can count atoms nearly one by one.

 Nine drops in eighty-four years. The time between successive drops of the pitch in Thomas Parnell's funnel, cut open in 1930, against the year each drop fell: 8.2, 7.2, 8.1, 8.3, 8.7, 9.3, 12.4, 13.4 years. The first seven intervals average 8.3 years and scatter by about a year either way; after the building was air-conditioned in the late 1980s the next two took 12.4 and 13.4, averaging 12.9. Read as a viscometer through the funnel's geometry, the early rate gives a viscosity of about 2.3 × 10⁸ Pa·s — some two hundred billion times water's. Fluids

The drop that takes a decade

In 1927 a physics professor in Brisbane poured heated pitch into a sealed funnel, waited three years for it to settle, and cut the stem. Nine drops have fallen since. The record is a viscometer read about once a decade, and it gives the pitch a viscosity two hundred billion times water's. It also records the building's air-conditioning: after 1988 the drops slowed from eight years apart to thirteen, and a fall of a degree and a half in the average temperature is enough to explain it. The same reasoning, applied to medieval window panes, settles an old story without guessing what glass does at room temperature.

 Three vessels emptying through the same hole. The water level against time in three vessels that each hold 25 litres to a depth of 35 cm and drain through the same 0.8 mm hole in the floor, the outflow following Torricelli's law. The cylinder empties in 16.0 hours, but its level falls fast at first and slowly at the end — a parabola in time — and it is half empty in depth after only 32% of the run. The bowl whose radius grows as the fourth root of the height lowers its level at one rate from top to bottom, a straight line, and empties in 12.9 hours. A straight-sided cone sloping outwards, the shape a potter can actually throw, comes between: half its depth goes in 49% of its run. Fluids

The vessel whose level falls evenly

Water leaves a hole in the floor of a vessel faster when the vessel is full, because the pressure at the hole is the depth of water above it. In a cylinder that makes the level fall quickly at first and slowly at the end, so hour marks on its wall crowd towards the bottom. A level that falls at one rate needs a vessel that widens as the outflow quickens: its radius must grow as the fourth root of the height. The Egyptians who made the oldest surviving water clock, about 1400 BC, gave it sloping sides, which halves the error of a cylinder. They also gave it a scale for every month, because the hours they wanted to count were not all the same length.

 A transparent cell, seen four ways. Brightness across the image of a transparent cell 20 μm across, which delays the light passing through its middle by 0.3 radians (and its nucleus by a third as much again) and absorbs none of it, imaged with green light (0.55 μm) through an objective of numerical aperture 0.25; brightness relative to the background. In focus with a plain objective (dashed) the cell is all but invisible: the brightness varies between 0.998 and 1.001. Defocused by 8 μm it shows, 0.96 to 1.06, but only at its edges and nucleus, as bright and dark fringes that do not follow its thickness. With a quarter-wave plate on the undiffracted light the cell appears in focus, its brightness following its thickness: with the plate one way it is brighter where it is thicker, up to 2.02 times the background; with the plate the other way, darker, down to 0.38. Optics

The specimen that is invisible until its light is delayed

A living cell in water is nearly transparent: it delays the light passing through it by a fraction of a wavelength and absorbs almost none, and a perfect microscope shows it as nothing. The delay is there in the light, and the eye cannot see a delay. Frits Zernike's remedy was to delay a different part of the light — the part the cell did not scatter — by a further quarter of a cycle, at the one place in a microscope where it is separated from the rest. The invisible phase becomes brightness, the cell appears, and the price is a bright halo round everything large.

 How a dark ridge fades into the sky. The apparent contrast against the horizon sky of a black ridge at a given distance, seen in green light (550 nm) along a level path at sea level, on a logarithmic scale: e^(−βx), the light from the ridge scattered out of the path and the sky's light scattered in. The dashed line is the eye's threshold, a contrast of 2%. Clean air: β = 0.0116 per km, visible to 337 km; light haze, 0.05 per km: β = 0.06 per km, visible to 64 km; haze, 0.3 per km: β = 0.31 per km, visible to 13 km. Pure air sets a limit of a few hundred kilometres to how far anything can be seen; in practice haze shortens it to tens. Optics

How far the air lets a mountain be seen

A dark mountain on the horizon fades not because its light grows too faint to see but because the air between it and the eye glows. Sunlight scattered into the line of sight fills the dark ridge in until it matches the sky behind it, and its contrast falls as a simple exponential of the distance. With the eye's threshold at two per cent, that gives a visual range of 3.912 divided by the air's scattering coefficient: about 337 kilometres for perfectly clean air in green light, far less in the hazes real air carries. The same arithmetic makes near ridges blue and far ones pale.

 How a sphere of gas rings. The acoustic pressure against distance from the centre of a spherical cavity, for its three lowest radial modes, in which the gas breathes in and out in spherical shells: sin(zr/a)/(zr/a), with z = 4.4934, 7.7253, 10.9041 the roots of tan z = z that make the gas's motion vanish at the wall. Filled with argon at the triple point of water, 273.16 K, a sphere 62 mm in radius rings in these modes at 3551, 6104, 8616 Hz. Radial modes are the ones precision work uses: they have no motion along the wall, so the wall's roughness and the gas's viscosity there barely touch them, and their frequencies are set by the volume rather than the shape — a slightly imperfect sphere shifts them only at second order. Thermodynamics

The note that fixed the kelvin

A sphere of argon, struck, rings at a pitch set by the speed of sound in it, and the speed of sound in argon contains only one quantity nobody could compute: the constant that converts a temperature into an energy. Argon's atoms can hold energy in exactly three ways, so its heat capacity is a count rather than a measurement, and its speed of sound is (5/3)kT/m with nothing left over. Ring the sphere at the temperature of melting ice, measure its size with radio waves in the same cavity, and Boltzmann's constant comes out to a part in a million. In 2019 that number stopped being measured and became the definition.

 A quiet resonator growing louder before it sings. The pressure in a resonator's 200 Hz mode over two and a half seconds, kicked continually by the same random noise, at three settings approaching the onset of self-sustained oscillation: the mode's natural decay rate falling from 20 to 6 to 2 per second. Each panel is on the same scale. Far from onset the noise is a faint, ragged hiss, each burst dying almost as soon as it starts. Closer, the bursts last longer and grow larger, because the mode forgets each kick more slowly and the kicks pile up; at the last setting the resonator hums in long swells of a nearly steady tone. Nothing has started oscillating on its own — every setting is below onset — but the noise has already begun to sound like the oscillation it is approaching. Waves

The noise that warns a tube is about to sing

A resonator that is about to break into self-sustained oscillation — a combustor about to hum, a heated tube about to howl — is silent on average right up to the moment it starts. Its noise is not. As the margin of stability shrinks, the random hiss in the mode grows louder, remembers each kick for longer and narrows towards the coming tone, in proportions fixed by the margin itself. The instability can be heard before it exists, except in the case engines most often present, where noise starts the song before the warning has properly begun.

 The shadow a thunderclap's sound cannot enter. Sound rays from a point 3 km up a lightning channel, on an afternoon with 25 °C at the ground and the air cooling 6.5 K per kilometre upwards, so that sound travels slower the higher it goes; the vertical scale is stretched 3.5 times. Every ray curves upwards. Rays aimed below the horizontal reach the ground, reflect and climb away; the last ray to touch the ground grazes it 23.1 km from the channel. Beyond that, shaded, no ray arrives at all: a listener's ears 2 m up are inside the shadow from 23.7 km. The flash is visible there and the thunder is not, though the air between is perfectly clear and absorbs the low notes of thunder hardly at all. Waves

The thunder that passes over the listener's head

Lightning twenty-five kilometres away is plainly visible and usually silent, though the air between is clear and absorbs the low notes of thunder hardly at all. The thunder has not faded; it has gone over the listener's head. Daytime air cools upwards, sound slows as it climbs, and Huygens's wavelets, smaller at the top of every front than at the bottom, tilt each front towards the sky. Beyond the ray that just grazes the ground there is a shadow the sound cannot enter — and a hundred and fifty kilometres further out, the stratosphere can bend it back down.

 A gridiron of steel and brass drawn to the length that holds. The rods of a gridiron pendulum, to scale, for a seconds pendulum of 0.994 m: steel rods (dark) hang from the suspension and carry cross-bars from which brass rods (light) push upward, and from their tops the next steel rods hang down again, until the last carries the bob. Steel expands downward, lowering the bob; brass expands upward, raising it. They cancel when the steel's total length times its expansion equals the brass's: 2.52 m of steel against 1.52 m of brass, a ratio of 0.605. That is why gridirons are built of so many rods — the steel alone is 2.53 times the pendulum's length, folded into 3 stages. With zinc instead of brass, which expands 1.58 times as much, 1.61 m of steel would do. Real gridirons double every rod, side by side, so that the bob hangs symmetrically. Mechanics

The pendulum that must not grow when it warms

A pendulum clock keeps time by the length of its pendulum, and every material grows when it is warmed. A steel rod a metre long lengthens by a hundredth of a millimetre for each degree, and the clock loses half a second a day — a minute a fortnight between a cold winter and a warm summer, far worse than anything the clockmaker's escapement could cause. The cure, found in the 1720s, was to let the pendulum grow in two directions at once: one part downward, another upward, in exactly the proportion that leaves the bob where it was. The same trick, with different metals, kept the best clocks to a hundredth of a second a day for two centuries, and its limits are set by heat that does not spread evenly or quickly.

 Stopped for half a second, a raw egg starts again by itself. Two eggs spinning at 3 revolutions a second, each touched with a finger at t = 4 s so that its shell is held still for 0.5 s and then released. The cooked egg (solid) stops and stays stopped. The raw egg's shell (dashed) stops too, but its contents (dotted) are still turning — slowed to 2.15 revolutions a second during the hold, by viscosity working against the held shell — and once the finger lifts they drag the shell back into rotation, reaching 1.81 revolutions a second, 60 per cent of its speed before the touch. The table's friction is left out here, so that nothing else slows either egg. It is the oldest kitchen test of whether an egg is cooked, and the whole of the physics is a liquid's reluctance to stop turning. Mechanics

The egg that keeps turning after it is stopped

Spin an egg on a table, touch it for a moment to stop it, and let go. A cooked egg stays still. A raw one starts turning again by itself, as if something inside had kept going — which it has. A raw egg is two bodies, a thin shell and a liquid that the shell can turn only through the slow grip of viscosity, and the kitchen test that tells them apart is a measurement of how long that grip takes. The same two-body arithmetic says that a raw egg wastes most of the energy of a flick, starts out spinning six times faster than a cooked one given the same twist, and keeps a record of its past rotation in its interior for a second or two after its shell has forgotten.

 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. Optics

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.

 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. Thermodynamics

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.

 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. Thermodynamics

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.

 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. Waves

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.

 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. Waves

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.

 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. Relativity

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.

 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. Astrophysics

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.

 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. Quantum

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.

 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. Optics

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.

 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. Optics

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.

 Why dissolving beats evaporating near absolute zero. Cooling power against temperature on logarithmic axes, for pumping on liquid helium-4, pumping on liquid helium-3 — both with a pump of 100 litres a second at room temperature — and a dilution refrigerator circulating 100 micromoles of helium-3 a second (the T² law, dashed above 0.1 K where it no longer holds). Evaporative cooling is proportional to the vapour pressure, which collapses as e^(−L/T): helium-4 gives 7·10⁻¹¹ W at 0.3 K, helium-3 10⁻⁴ W at 0.3 K and 2·10⁻²⁴ W at 50 mK. The dilution refrigerator's "vapour" is the dilute phase, whose density of helium-3 stays at 6.6% however cold it gets, so its cooling falls only as T²: 2·10⁻⁵ W at 50 mK. Below about 0.3 K nothing that evaporates can compete, and most experiments that must stay continuously below a tenth of a kelvin — superconducting quantum computers, bolometers for the cosmic microwave background, searches for dark matter — run on dilution. Thermodynamics

The mixture that stays mixed at absolute zero

The third law says a mixture's entropy must vanish at absolute zero, so every mixture must either separate completely or order into a compound as it is cooled. Liquid helium-3 dissolved in helium-4 does neither. Below 0.87 kelvin it splits into two liquids, but the one that is mostly helium-4 keeps 6.6 per cent helium-3 however cold it gets — and the third law permits it, because the dissolved atoms are a degenerate Fermi gas with a single ground state and no entropy of mixing to lose. Pushing helium-3 across that boundary absorbs heat the way evaporation does, from a 'vapour' that never thins out. That is the dilution refrigerator, the machine that holds every superconducting quantum computer at ten millikelvin.

 One note becomes a comb. The spectrum of a steady tone heard through the turning horn, level with it, against frequency offset from the tone, for tones of 250 Hz (top), 1000 Hz and 4 kHz (bottom): the power in each line as a fraction of the whole, each row on its own baseline with the height of a row standing for all of the power, computed from the received sound over one turn. A pitch that swings periodically is not a shifted line but a comb of lines spaced by the rotation rate, 6.7 Hz, with powers Jₙ(β)², where β = 2πfr/c is 0.69, 2.75 and 11.0 for the three tones; the 1000 Hz comb matches the Bessel functions line for line. The comb is narrow for the low tone, which keeps 78% of its power in the central line, and broad for the high one, whose power is spread over about ±80 Hz — so the turning horn blurs the upper partials of an organ chord into a shimmer while its fundamentals stay nearly pure. Waves

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.

 The deeper the line, the closer to gravity. The shift of a solar line in sunlight seen from the Earth, against the line's depth, in the two-stream model with the convective velocities dying away above the photosphere over 150 km and a deeper line taken to form higher (600 km × depth²). Weak lines, formed low among the fastest flows, show 411 m/s — about two-thirds of the gravitational value; the deepest lines, whose cores form in the upper photosphere where the granules' motion has nearly stopped, show 627 m/s and are still climbing towards the 633 m/s that gravity alone gives, drawn as the dashed line. That is the measurement made with integrated sunlight reflected from the Moon and calibrated with a laser frequency comb: plot the shift against line depth, and read the gravitational redshift off where the strongest lines are heading. Its published value, 638 ± 6 m/s, agrees with general relativity. Astrophysics

The redshift the Sun's boiling hides

Light leaving the Sun climbs out of a gravitational well and should arrive redder by 633 metres a second in velocity terms — a prediction Einstein made in 1907, before he had general relativity. It took half a century to confirm, and the reason was not the size of the effect but the Sun's surface, which boils. Bright hot gas rising in granules and fainter cool gas sinking between them blueshift every line by a few hundred metres a second, by an amount that depends on the line and on where on the disc it is seen. The gravitational shift was found by treating that nuisance as a second measurement: deeper lines and lines near the limb both converge on the same number.

 The bend that depends on when the planet was there. The difference, in microarcseconds, between the quasar's deflection computed from Jupiter's position when the light passed it — its position as seen from the Earth, 53 minutes earlier — and from its position at the moment of observation, over the day of the 2002 pass. In those 53 minutes Jupiter moves 40998 km, 0.57 of its own radius, and the deflection, a vector of 1.14 mas pointing away from the planet, turns and shrinks by up to 46 µas — about one twenty-fifth of itself. That small term was what the experiment was designed to see. The VLBA measured 51 ± 9 µas, the value general relativity predicts for a deflection pointing away from the position light reveals. Astrophysics

The bend a moving planet gives

Jupiter bends starlight by sixteen thousandths of an arcsecond at its edge, a hundredth of what the Sun manages, and in 2002 radio telescopes spread across a continent measured the bend on a quasar three and a half arcminutes from the planet. The experiment was designed to see something smaller still: the fact that Jupiter moves, by half its own width in the time light takes to reach the Earth, so that the bend depends on where the planet was when the light went past. The measured term was announced as the speed of gravity, and the argument over whether it was anything of the kind is the clearest lesson there is in what an experiment's number is a number of.

 A loop, and the butterfly it makes. Left: magnetisation against applied field for a model ferromagnet, as a fraction of saturation, with the field in units of the coercive field — the rising branch and the falling one, crossing zero magnetisation at plus and minus one. Right: the strain the same material shows along the field, as a fraction of its saturation magnetostriction, on the same two branches. Because the strain goes as the square of the magnetisation it does not care which way the magnetisation points, so it is the same at full positive and full negative saturation, and it falls to nothing at the two points where the magnetisation passes through zero — the coercive fields. A loop traced once produces a butterfly traced once: the strain goes through two full stretches for every one cycle of the field. Electromagnetism

The hum at twice the mains

A transformer hums, and the note is not the frequency of the mains but twice it: a hundred hertz in Europe, a hundred and twenty in America. The reason is that iron changes shape when it is magnetised, by a few parts in a million, and the change does not care which way the magnetisation points. A core driven at fifty cycles a second therefore stretches a hundred times a second. The same evenness makes the strain trace a butterfly against the field, puts harmonics at every even multiple of the mains and none at the odd ones, and makes the hum climb steeply as the steel nears saturation.

 The resistance a pan offers the coil. The surface resistance — the square root of πfμρ — of five pan materials against frequency, on logarithmic axes, with the band where induction hobs work, 20 to 100 kHz, shaded. All five rise as the square root of the frequency. At 25 kHz carbon steel offers 9.9·10⁻⁴ Ω and ferritic stainless 0.0024 Ω, while austenitic stainless, which is not magnetic, offers 2.7·10⁻⁴ Ω, aluminium 5.1·10⁻⁵ Ω and copper 4.1·10⁻⁵ Ω. For the same coil current the heating goes as this resistance, so steel heats 19 times as hard as aluminium. Matching steel with aluminium by frequency alone would need 377 times the frequency — 9 MHz, where the hob's own electronics and coil would be the problem. Electromagnetism

The pan a better conductor will not heat

An induction hob heats a pan with currents the pan carries itself, driven by a field oscillating twenty-five thousand times a second, and it will heat a cast-iron skillet furiously while an aluminium saucepan, which conducts electricity six times better, barely warms. The better conductor is the worse load. What a pan presents to the coil is a surface resistance that goes as the square root of permeability times resistivity, and on that measure iron beats aluminium twenty times over. The same arithmetic explains why kitchen foil on the same hob can catch fire, and why a steel tip heated this way switches itself off at a fixed temperature.

 The cloud that stops shrinking. The rms size of a cloud of 10⁵ ideal atoms in a harmonic trap, in units of the Fermi radius, against temperature in units of the Fermi temperature, for fermions, for bosons and for a classical gas. The classical cloud shrinks as the square root of half the temperature ratio, all the way to nothing. The bosons follow it down to their condensation temperature, 0.52 of the Fermi temperature, and then collapse into the trap's ground state, whose rms size is 0.054 Fermi radii. The fermions part from the classical line near the Fermi temperature and level off at one over the square root of eight, 0.354 of the Fermi radius: at a quarter of the Fermi temperature they are 1.17 times the classical size, and cooling further barely changes them. Mixed together in one trap, as lithium-7 and lithium-6 were in 2001, the two clouds start the same size and end 6.5 times apart in width for ideal atoms of these numbers — further still in volume. The fermions are held up by nothing but the rule that no two of them may share a state. Quantum

The cloud that stops shrinking

Two kinds of lithium atom, cooled together in one magnetic trap to a few hundred billionths of a degree, start as clouds of the same size and end very differently. The lithium-7 atoms, which are bosons, shrink with the temperature and then collapse into a condensate. The lithium-6 atoms, which are fermions, stop shrinking at about a quarter of their Fermi temperature and refuse to get any smaller, however much colder they become. Nothing pushes them apart but the rule that no two identical fermions may share a state. The photographs taken in 2001 were the first time Fermi pressure — the pressure that holds up white dwarfs — was seen as a picture.

 A longer road against a faster car. For a proton with 0.1% more momentum than the design proton in a ring 628 m round, the change in its time per turn, in picoseconds, against the Lorentz factor: from its longer orbit, which adds about 56 ps a turn at every energy; from its higher speed, which subtracts 605 ps at γ = 2 but only 5.2 ps at γ = 20, because near the speed of light more momentum buys almost no more speed; and the net, computed exactly. The speed wins below γₜ = 6.1 and the path wins above it. In special relativity a body can always be given more momentum, but its speed is capped, and that is the whole cause. Relativity

The energy above which faster arrives later

In a racing circuit a faster car laps sooner. In a proton synchrotron it does too, at first — and then, past a definite energy, the faster proton laps later. Extra momentum sends a proton round a slightly longer orbit and makes it slightly faster, and relativity decides which wins: at low energy the speed does, but near the speed of light more momentum buys almost no more speed, and the longer road takes over. At the crossing, called transition, a spread of momenta stops producing a spread of arrival times, the bunch stops oscillating in time, and the accelerating wave has to jump from one slope to the other in a few turns. The first machine to try it did so in 1959.

 A mass that goes missing as light. For six captures of a slow neutron — ¹H to ²H, ¹²C to ¹³C, ⁵⁶Fe to ⁵⁷Fe, ²⁸Si to ²⁹Si, ³⁵Cl to ³⁶Cl and ³²S to ³³S — the mass that disappears, the atom plus the neutron less the atom formed, in thousandths of an atomic mass unit, against the energy released as gamma rays, in MeV, both computed from the tabulated atomic masses. All six lie on the line Δm = E/c², whose slope is one atomic mass unit per 931.494 MeV: ¹H → ²H loses 2.388 mu and releases 2.225 MeV; ¹²C → ¹³C loses 5.310 mu and releases 4.946 MeV; ⁵⁶Fe → ⁵⁷Fe loses 8.208 mu and releases 7.646 MeV; ²⁸Si → ²⁹Si loses 9.097 mu and releases 8.474 MeV; ³⁵Cl → ³⁶Cl loses 9.211 mu and releases 8.580 MeV; ³²S → ³³S loses 9.277 mu and releases 8.642 MeV. Drawn this way the line is a definition — the energies were computed from the masses. The experiment of 2005 measured the two quantities for silicon and sulphur independently, the masses as frequencies and the energies as angles, and asked whether they still fell on it. Relativity

The test of mass and energy that needs a ruler

The most direct test of E = mc² weighed two silicon atoms and measured a gamma ray. A silicon-28 nucleus that captures a slow neutron becomes silicon-29 and loses three ten-thousandths of its mass as gamma rays; weigh both atoms in a trap where they circle a magnetic field, measure the gamma rays by the angle at which a silicon crystal diffracts them, and the two sides agree to four parts in ten million. What the comparison needed is the interesting part: the recoil of the atom, a correction four hundred times larger than the precision, computed from the momentum relativity gives to light; angles of a few hundred picoradians; and a chain of constants tying a frequency and a ruler to the same number.

 The tube that is stiff because it is full. The bending moment a thin-walled tube 1 mm in radius can carry when inflated, in newton-millimetres, against its internal pressure in megapascals: the moment at which the side in compression goes slack and wrinkles, πPr³/2, and the moment at which the whole section folds, πPr³. Both are proportional to the pressure and contain nothing about the wall's own stiffness: a membrane that cannot resist compression at all carries bending only by being pre-stretched, and the pressure is the pre-stretch. At 0.74 MPa the tube wrinkles at 1.17 N·mm; with no pressure, at nothing. That is the whole of how a lettuce leaf, a petal or a young shoot keeps its shape. It is also how an inflatable boat, a bouncy castle or the boom of an inflatable antenna holds up a load, and how they fail: by wrinkling on the compressed side first. Fluids

The stem that stands by pressure

A lettuce leaf has no bones, and a young sunflower stem has hardly any wood, yet both hold their shape against gravity and wind. They do it with pressure. Each cell holds more dissolved solute than the water around it, water flows in until the cell wall pushes back, and the wall ends up stretched taut by a pressure of seven or eight atmospheres — three times a car tyre's. A tube of membrane under tension resists bending in exact proportion to its pressure, whatever the membrane is made of, so a soft plant is stiff exactly as long as its cells are full. Lose a few per cent of their water and the pressure is gone, and the plant wilts.

 The angle at which water lets the light out. The fraction of light reflected inside a windscreen of index 1.52 at its outer surface, unpolarised, against the angle of incidence, when the outer surface is dry (glass to air) and when it is wet (glass to water). Beyond 41.2° all the light is reflected from a dry surface; under water total reflection does not begin until 61.3°. Between the two angles, shaded, the surface is a perfect mirror where it is dry and a window where it is wet. A sensor working at 45° sits in that band: at a wet spot only 1.2% of its light is reflected and the rest leaves the glass into the water. The difference between a mirror and a window is the refractive index of what is touching the glass — a property of contact, not of what can be seen through it. Optics

The windscreen that feels the rain

Behind the rear-view mirror of most modern cars a small box decides when the wipers should run, and it does so without looking at the rain. It shines infrared light into the windscreen at forty-five degrees, steep enough to be trapped inside the glass by total internal reflection, and counts how much comes back out of the far end of the glass a few centimetres away. A raindrop on the outside changes the medium the glass is touching from air to water, and water's critical angle against glass is sixty-one degrees, not forty-one: at forty-five the light is no longer trapped, and nearly all of it leaves into the drop. The sensor measures the area the rain is touching, and the rain rate from how fast that area grows.

 Newcomen's dilemma. Two consequences of how cold a Newcomen engine's injection spray leaves its cylinder, against that temperature: the pressure difference the atmosphere then pushes the piston down with, one atmosphere less the vapour pressure of the water left in the cylinder; and the steam the next stroke wastes reheating the cylinder's iron skin, as a fraction of the most it wastes at 30 °C (8.2 cylinder-fulls). A cylinder cooled to 40 °C gives a push of 0.93 atmospheres and wastes 7.0 cylinder-fulls of steam a stroke; one left at 70 °C wastes half as much but pushes with only 0.69. Every choice was bad, because the one vessel had to be both hot, to receive the steam, and cold, to make the vacuum. Newcomen's engineers ran it in between. Thermodynamics

The cylinder that must not be cooled

The first steam engines that did useful work, Thomas Newcomen's pumps of 1712, made a vacuum by spraying cold water into a cylinder full of steam. It worked, and on every stroke it cooled the cylinder, so that the next charge of steam condensed on the cold iron until the walls were hot again — several cylinders' worth of steam spent heating metal that the next spray would cool. James Watt saw in 1765 that the vessel was being asked to be hot and cold at once, and moved the cold to a separate condenser. The improvement was a factor of three or four in coal. A century later the reason had a name: heat passing from hot to cold across a large difference, doing nothing on the way, is work thrown away.

 The pipe that out-conducts any solid. The temperature difference needed to carry 30 W along a rod 300 mm long and 6 mm across, on a logarithmic scale: for solid aluminium 1343 K, for copper 796 K, for diamond, the best conductor of heat at room temperature, 159 K; and for a water heat pipe of the same size 0.8 K, almost all of it across the thin wet wicks where the heat goes in and comes out. Solid metal could not do it at all: the hot end of the copper rod would have to be hundreds of degrees above the cold. The heat pipe carries the heat as latent heat in moving vapour, and the vapour needs almost no temperature difference to flow. As an effective conductivity that is 1000 times copper's — which is why every laptop and many satellites move their heat in pipes rather than through metal. Thermodynamics

The pipe that carries heat as vapour

A copper rod six millimetres across and thirty centimetres long, asked to carry thirty watts from a laptop's processor to its fan, would need its hot end eight hundred degrees above its cold end. The flattened copper tube that actually does the job manages it with less than a degree. It is a heat pipe: sealed, emptied of air, and holding a few drops of water and their vapour. The water boils at the hot end, the vapour rushes to the cold end and condenses, and a wick of sintered copper powder drags the liquid back by capillarity. The heat goes as latent heat, and vapour needs almost no temperature difference to flow — which makes the pipe a thousand times better than copper, as long as its wick can keep up.

 A pulse that comes out of the average. The cross-correlation of the two stations' records against lag, in seconds: for single sources at 0°, 45° and 90° from the line through the stations, each a copy of the noise's own ten-second wavelet shifted to that source's arrival difference — 20.0 s, 14.1 s and 0 s — and the average over all 720 sources round the ring, scaled up 9-fold to share the axes. The single-source correlations are wherever their geometry puts them. The average has peaks at ±20 s, the time a wave takes to cross 60 km at 3 km/s, one for travel from A to B and one from B to A, and little between them. That pulse is the signal a seismometer at B would have recorded had an earthquake happened at A: the Green's function between the stations, recovered from noise that never came from either. Waves

The echo hidden in random noise

A seismometer that is not recording an earthquake is not recording silence. It hears the Earth's hum: the pounding of ocean waves on every coast, arriving from all directions as surface waves with periods near ten seconds, indistinguishable from random noise. Two seismometers sixty kilometres apart hear different noise. Yet if their records are correlated and averaged over hours, a pulse appears at a lag of twenty seconds — the time a wave takes to travel from one to the other — exactly as if an earthquake had happened under one station and been recorded at the other. Noise from everywhere contains the echo between any two points, and since 2005 seismologists have mapped the Earth's crust with it.

 The parabola every quartz watch follows. The frequency error of a watch's quartz fork, in parts per million, against its temperature: a downward parabola, −0.034 ppm per degree squared, about a turnover at 25 °C, where the fork runs exactly at its nominal rate; with the right-hand scale in seconds a day, since one part per million is 0.086 s a day. On a wrist, at about 31 °C, the watch runs 1.2 ppm slow, 0.11 s a day; in a drawer at 10 °C, 7.7 ppm, 0.66 s a day; at 0 °C 1.8 s a day; at 60 °C 3.6. Every departure from the turnover, hotter or colder, makes it lose. The turnover is set by the angle at which the fork is cut from the crystal, and is chosen near the temperature of the place watches are worn — the parabola is a fact about quartz, and its vertex is a fact about people. Waves

The fork inside a watch

Every quartz watch keeps time with a tuning fork three millimetres long, cut from a crystal of quartz and ringing thirty-two thousand seven hundred and sixty-eight times a second. Each number in that sentence is a decision. The frequency is two to the fifteenth, so that fifteen halvings make one tick a second, and it sits just above the range of human hearing. The shape is a fork because two tines swinging against each other leave their base still and lose almost no energy into it. And the fork's rate drifts with temperature along a parabola whose vertex is set near twenty-five degrees, which is why a watch worn on a wrist keeps better time than one left in a cold drawer.

 The one number a burn depends on. The fraction of a deuterium–tritium fuel ball that burns before it flies apart, against its density times its radius. The fuel is held by nothing: a sound wave crosses it in a time R/c, the burn rate goes as the density, and so the fraction burned goes as the product ρR, flattening as the fuel runs out, f = ρR/(ρR + 7 g/cm²). A disassembly-time estimate at 30 keV gives 7.6 g/cm² for the same constant, close to the fitted value. The radius and the density do not appear separately. A third of the fuel burns at ρR = 3 g/cm², and that value does not depend on how large the ball is; what sets the size of an inertial-fusion capsule is what has to be done to reach it. Astrophysics

The fuel held together only by its inertia

On 5 December 2022 a laser put 2.05 megajoules into a gold can the size of a pencil rubber, and a speck of fuel inside it released 3.15. Nothing held that fuel together for the tenth of a nanosecond it burned. It needed to be crushed to a thousand times the density of solid, and it was pushed there by something light cannot do by itself: light's own pressure is hundreds of times too feeble, so a capsule is a rocket that fires inward.

 A lake a little under half full of gas. Carbon dioxide dissolved in the water of Lake Nyos in Cameroon against depth, in a representative profile of the kind measured in the years after 1986, beside what water at that depth could hold under Henry's law, which rises with the pressure. Everywhere the water holds less than it could: 0.35 mol/L at 200 m, where 0.75 mol/L would be saturated, so the deep water is not on the point of doing anything. It can sit there for decades, fed by a vent in the bed below. But it is only stable where it is. Move a parcel of it up, keeping its gas, and the pressure falls while the gas stays. It meets the saturation line at 88 m, a little over a hundred metres above where it started. Fluids

The lake that holds its gas until it does not

On the night of 21 August 1986, Lake Nyos in Cameroon released about a cubic kilometre of carbon dioxide in a few hours, and some 1,700 people died in their sleep in the valleys below. The lake was not boiling and it was not erupting. Its deep water had been holding the gas safely for decades, in a layering that was stable as long as nothing moved. Lift that water far enough and it cannot stop rising. The same instability, in a pipe, now drains the danger away.

 A spin set by the length of a cord. The body's spin against the cord let out, from conservation of energy and of angular momentum alone, for three values of c, one plus the body's moment of inertia over the weights' mR². Every curve passes through zero at a cord length of exactly √c radii, and a direct integration of the equations of motion, which assumes neither conservation law, lands on the same curve to a part in a thousand. Past that length the spin reverses. The starting spin does not appear in the zero's position: only the shape of the machine does. A weight on a cord cut to length therefore removes all the spin whether it was spinning at 20 or 100 revolutions a minute, provided the cord is released at that length. Mechanics

The weights that stop a spinning satellite

A rocket stage is often spun up to keep it pointing straight during its burn, and the spin then has to be removed. A small cord and a weight wrapped round its rim do the whole job, with no fuel, no sensors and no moving parts besides the cord. The cord's length has no dependence on how fast the stage is spinning, so the same two weights stop it at any speed. And the cord unwinds at exactly the rate the stage was first spinning, while its spin falls away to nothing.

 Lamp noise that a decay does not notice. 400 simulated measurements of an absorption of 1 × 10⁻⁷ per metre, with a source whose brightness jumps by 5 per cent between shots and a detector with 0.1 per cent noise. Read directly, as transmission through a metre of gas, each measurement scatters by 7 × 10⁻² per metre and the true value is five orders of magnitude below that. Read as a fitted decay from a cavity with 99.99 per cent mirrors, it scatters by 5 × 10⁻⁸, about a million times less. The slope of a logarithm has no information about how bright the pulse started, so a source's noise simply is not in the answer. Most of the method's sensitivity comes from this and only some from the long path. Optics

The absorption measured with a stopwatch

The usual way to measure how much light a gas absorbs is to compare a beam before and after, and a very weak absorption vanishes in the flicker of the lamp. Trap a pulse between two excellent mirrors, and it bounces for ten kilometres inside a tube a metre long, leaking out a little at each bounce. How fast that leak dies measures the gas, and how bright the pulse began does not matter at all. A brightness measurement has become a measurement of time.

 Where the heat would land. The average field strength squared on a horizontal plane half-way up the oven from 3 of the in-band modes taken together, 2,3,2; 3,2,2; 2,4,1, darker meaning stronger. The bright patches are spaced by about half a wavelength of the mode along each wall, some 7 to 15 cm for these indices, and between them are nodes where the heating falls to almost nothing. A plate of cheese on a stopped turntable shows this as melted spots, and a measurement of their spacing against the frequency gives the speed of light to within several per cent, a popular school experiment. Since many modes can be involved and the load disturbs them, the method is not as clean as it looks, and here the load's own effect is not drawn. Waves

The oven that cooks in spots

A microwave oven is a metal box, and a metal box has only so many ways of ringing at a given frequency. At 2.45 GHz a kitchen oven allows a handful, and the field inside is the sum of those few standing patterns, with hot patches and nodes several centimetres apart. Food on a stopped plate shows them as a pattern of scorch and frost. A turntable can smear this only into rings, and frozen food has a further trap, because ice absorbs thousands of times less than water.

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