Theme

The shape decides — part 3 of 3

A number that looks as though it should depend on the forces involved and turns out to depend only on the arrangement — a falloff exponent, a capacitance, a moment of inertia, the angle a rainbow has to be.

The speed of sound in dry sand rises with the load on it. The speeds of compressional and shear waves in a dry random packing of quartz grains, porosity 0.36, against the pressure on it, from the Hertz–Mindlin effective-medium theory, for coordination numbers from 6 to 9 (the bands). The pressure axis is logarithmic. Both speeds rise as the sixth root of the pressure. At 1 kPa — the load about six centimetres down in dry sand — compressional waves travel at 316–362 m/s; at 100 kPa, about six metres down, 681–780 m/s; at 10 MPa, 1468–1680. The dashed lines are the speed of sound in air, 343 m/s, and in water, 1,480 m/s. Near the surface dry sand carries sound no faster than air; measured shallow speeds are lower still, by up to a factor of two, because real contacts are fewer and weaker than the theory assumes.

Fluids

The sound sand carries faster the deeper it goes

A solid carries sound at a speed set by what it is made of. A heap of quartz grains is made of quartz, and near its surface it carries sound more slowly than the air above it. The grains are not the solid; their contacts are, and a contact between two spheres grows stiffer the harder it is pressed. So the speed of sound in dry sand rises as the sixth root of the load on it — from about air's speed a few centimetres down to twice that at six metres — the paths of sound in a beach curve back up to the surface, and a water table is a mirror to one kind of wave and almost invisible to the other.

$The share of the reflection that stays a mirror. The fraction of the reflected power that goes into the mirror direction rather than being scattered, which falls exponentially with the square of the phase roughness g = 4πσ sin ψ/λ, against the grazing angle on a logarithmic scale, for surfaces whose height varies with a standard deviation σ of 0.05, 0.5 and 5 wavelengths. A surface rough by a twentieth of a wavelength is a good mirror at every angle: 67 per cent at normal incidence. One rough by half a wavelength keeps only 7·10⁻¹⁸ at normal incidence but 74 per cent at 5°. One rough by five wavelengths reflects nothing specularly until the angle is below about 0.9°, where g = 1, and is a mirror below a few tenths of a degree. The angle at which a surface turns from matt to glossy scales as the wavelength over the roughness; no surface is too rough to be a mirror for light that grazes it closely enough.$ Optics

The rough surface that is a mirror at a glance

A sheet of office paper is matt from above and shines when sighted along its surface. A choppy sea scatters a radar beam from overhead and returns it like a mirror near the horizon. An X-ray mirror polished to a third of a nanometre is still rough to X-rays except at angles below a degree. All three are one rule: two rays reflected from points at different heights differ in path by twice the height times the sine of the grazing angle, so roughness is measured in wavelengths times that sine — and every surface, however rough, is a mirror for light that skims it closely enough.

A beaker that empties at a steady rate. The height of liquid helium inside a beaker 1 cm across, held 1 cm above the level of the bath it stands in, against time, as the film carries liquid up the inner wall, over the rim and down into the bath. The film carries a fixed volume per centimetre of rim — 7.5·10⁻⁵ cm³/s at 1.4 K — whatever the difference of levels, so the level falls in a straight line, 180 μm a minute, and the beaker is level with the bath in 56 minutes. At 1.9 K, with less superfluid, it takes 95 minutes; at 2.1 K, 279. Dashed, a flow driven by the difference of levels, like a siphon, starting at the same speed: it slows exponentially as the difference shrinks and never quite finishes. The film's straight line is the signature of a flow set by a critical speed, not by the push.

Quantum

The film whose thinnest point sets the flow

Leave a beaker of superfluid helium standing in a bath and it empties itself, the liquid creeping up the inside wall as a film eighty atoms thick, over the rim and down the outside. The film itself is nothing special: ordinary liquid helium coats the wall just as thickly. What is special is that it flows without friction, and so its flow is set not by how hard it is pushed but by how fast it can go. The level falls in a straight line rather than slowing as it nears the bath's, and the whole flow is decided at one place, the rim, where the film is thinnest and has to run fastest.

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.

Thermodynamics

The frost that lifts by drinking

Frozen ground rises in winter, sometimes by tens of centimetres, and the usual explanation — water expands by nine per cent when it freezes — is wrong: soil soaked in benzene, which shrinks as it freezes, heaves too. The lift comes from layers of clear ice that grow by pulling liquid water up through the soil from below. Ice and water touching each other need not be at the same pressure, and when the water is free to flow, ice a degree below its melting point can push with 1.12 megapascals while it drinks — twelve times less than freezing water in a sealed pipe, and enough to lift a house at a tenth of a degree.

What a station hears from one thunderstorm region. The power spectrum of the vertical field from a single region of thunderstorms, received 20° and 90° of arc away, from a sum of the first seven resonant patterns, each with the measured peak frequency and a quality factor of 4 to 6, both taken as inputs. Measured spectra fall off with frequency rather more than this one, because real strokes and the real ionosphere are not as simple. The resonances are so broad that neighbouring peaks run into each other; a quality factor of five means a peak about a fifth as wide as its frequency, and the ringing dies in a few cycles. At 20° every tone is present, the higher ones merging. At 90° the first, third and fifth have vanished, because those patterns have a node a quarter of the world away, and the spectrum is made of the even tones alone. Real stations receive the sum of the world's storms, which move with the time of day, and the heights of the peaks drift with them.

Waves

The tone the whole Earth rings at

The ground conducts and so does the ionosphere, eighty kilometres up, and between them lies a waveguide the size of the planet. Two walls, unlike a pipe, carry waves of any length, so the guide takes radio waves forty thousand kilometres long — longer than the world is round — and, closed on itself, it rings. Lightning strikes fifty times a second and keeps it ringing at about 7.8, 14.3 and 20.8 hertz. Perfect walls would put the tones at 10.6, 18.4 and 25.9; the difference is the ionosphere, a ceiling that leaks.

Electromagnetism

The field a ring of wires lets through

A cage made of wires is supposed to work almost as well as a solid box, because the field that leaks through the gaps dies away exponentially within a gap's width. The exponential is real and it is the wrong part of the story. It describes the ripple the separate wires make; underneath it the average field goes straight through, at a level that falls only in proportion to the spacing and depends on the wires' thickness through a logarithm. A cage of twelve thin wires lets a quarter of the field in.

Six cells of a two-dimensional foam, by number of sides. Cells of a two-dimensional soap froth with three to eight sides, each drawn with its films meeting three at a time at 120°, as surface tension requires. A hexagon can do that with straight sides. A cell with fewer than six sides cannot: to make its corners 120° its sides must bulge outward, so its gas is at higher pressure than its neighbours' and leaks out. A cell with more than six must have sides curving inward, lower pressure, and gains gas. The rate of change of area, in units of πκγ/3 where κ is the films' permeability, is n − 6: −3 for a triangle, +2 for an octagon.

Fluids

The bubble that grows by counting its sides

A froth of soap bubbles squeezed between two sheets of glass coarsens over a few days: small cells vanish and large ones swell. The obvious guess is that size decides which cells win, as it does for two bubbles joined by a tube, where the small one always empties into the large one. In a froth it is wrong. John von Neumann showed in 1952 that a cell's area changes at a rate fixed entirely by how many sides it has — shrinking if fewer than six, growing if more — and not at all by how big it is. The proof is a single sum of angles.

Throws that grow into orbits. The longest throws possible from one point on the Earth, at launch speeds of 3, 5, 6.5, 7.5 km/s, ignoring air, each at its best angle, drawn to scale round the Earth. 3 km/s: launched at 42.8° above the horizontal, landing 1.0 thousand km away; 5 km/s: launched at 37.8° above the horizontal, landing 3.2 thousand km away; 6.5 km/s: launched at 29.7° above the horizontal, landing 6.8 thousand km away; 7.5 km/s: launched at 17.6° above the horizontal, landing 12.2 thousand km away. The faster the throw, the flatter the best launch and the further round the Earth it lands; at the circular-orbit speed, 7.91 km/s, the best launch is horizontal and the throw never comes down.

Mechanics

The parabola that is the top of an ellipse

Every textbook throw is a parabola, the best angle is 45°, and the range goes as the square of the speed. All three are statements about a flat Earth with gravity pointing the same way everywhere. On the real one a throw is a piece of an orbit — an ellipse with the Earth's centre at one focus — and the parabola is what the top of that ellipse looks like when the Earth is large. Throw faster and the best angle falls, the range runs ahead of the formula, and at eight kilometres a second the best throw is horizontal and never lands.

In the rod's frame: a long rod threads through, front first. The same events seen from the rod's own frame, computed by transforming each point's motion from the hole's frame. Here the rod is its full length and the hole is the contracted one, 0.60 of it, sweeping left at 0.8c — a long rod over a short hole. But the moment each point starts to fall is not one moment in this frame: the front end starts at t′ = −1.07, the rear end at −0.27, and each point then falls at γu = 0.50c. While the start of the fall runs back along it the rod is bent, level behind and sloping in front; once every point is falling it is straight again and tilted, front down, by 21.8°. It threads through the hole front first as the hole slides under it, each part dropping below the plate just before the plate's far edge reaches it. It passes through in both frames; only the order of events along it differs.

Relativity

The rod that is level for only one observer

A metre rod slides at high speed over a metre-wide hole in a thin plate. In the plate's frame the rod is contracted and drops through. In the rod's frame the hole is contracted, the rod is far too long for it, and it drops through anyway — because the instruction 'every point starts to fall now' names a different now for the rod. Its front end starts first, the start runs back along it, and the rod tips into the hole like a spear. Whether a moving thing is level is a question about which events are simultaneous, and so it has an answer only for an observer.

A cluster grown by random walkers. 3000 particles, each released far away to wander at random on a square grid until it first touches the cluster and sticks there, starting from one seed at the centre. Colour marks the order of arrival: the first third (violet), the second (blue), the last (red). The cluster is 220 grid steps across, branched and open, and almost every late arrival is at the outer tips: walkers wander into the outer branches long before they can find their way into the gaps between them. The gaps never fill.

Thermodynamics

The cluster that grows where the walkers arrive

Let particles wander in one at a time from far away, each sticking where it first touches a growing clump. The rule has nothing in it about shape, and the clump that results is a lacy, branched thing whose mass grows more slowly than its area, so it gets emptier the bigger it gets. The reason is that a random walker reaches the outermost tips long before it can find its way into a gap between branches. The same arithmetic — the probability that a walker arrives is a solution of Laplace's equation — shapes electrodeposits, lightning-like discharges in plastic, fingers of water pushed into oil, and colonies of bacteria short of food.

Astrophysics

The gas a hole catches from far away

A particle drifting past a black hole is captured only if its aim is almost perfect; miss by a little and it swings round and leaves. Gas is different. Streams passing on opposite sides collide, lose their sideways motion as heat, and fall in, so a hole in warm gas draws from the whole sphere inside which its gravity beats the gas's thermal motion. Bondi worked out the flow in 1952: one steady solution passes smoothly from rest to free fall, it crosses the speed of sound at a single radius, and the rate it fixes grows as the square of the hole's mass — fast enough, left alone, to run away in a finite time.

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.

A drop in a tapered tube. A section through a glass tube tapering from 1.2 mm to 0.2 mm in radius over 60 mm, holding a 2 μL plug of water (contact angle 20°), not to scale across. Both menisci curve into the empty tube, so the water just inside each is below atmospheric pressure — by 269 Pa at the narrow end, radius 0.50 mm, and by 252 Pa at the wide end, radius 0.54 mm. The pressure is lower at the narrow end, so the water flows towards it: a net push of 17 Pa, with no gravity, no pump and no motion of the tube.

Fluids

The drop that runs to the narrow end

Put a drop of water into a glass tube that narrows towards one end and it moves, on its own, towards the narrow end — horizontally, with nothing pushing it. Francis Hauksbee reported it to the Royal Society in 1712, and the explanation is two curved surfaces pulling with different strengths: each meniscus lowers the pressure of the water behind it by an amount that grows as the tube narrows, so the end in the narrower part sucks harder. A drop of mercury, which does not wet glass, goes the other way. Which way a drop goes depends on the cosine of one angle, and, for a short drop, on its length.

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.

$Rays inside a drop never reach the critical angle. Rays of light entering a drop of water (index 1.333) from the left at four heights — 0.3, 0.6, 0.85, 0.97 of the radius — followed through six internal reflections, each chord drawn with a width proportional to the light it carries. Every chord inside a sphere meets the surface at the same angle at both ends, so each ray strikes the inside of the drop again and again at its refraction angle: 13.0°, 26.8°, 39.6°, 46.7°, all below the critical angle of 48.6°. None is ever totally reflected; at each contact most of the light leaves, and what is left inside dwindles — the light that, leaving after one and two reflections, makes the primary and secondary rainbows.$ Optics

The drop that cannot hold the light it lets in

Light inside water meeting the surface at more than 48.6° is totally reflected, and every raindrop is made of water. Yet no ray of sunlight that enters a raindrop is ever totally reflected inside it. A sphere's geometry forbids it: a ray refracted on the way in meets the inside of the surface at its refraction angle, and keeps meeting it at that same angle every time it bounces, and that angle is always smaller than the critical one. The light leaks out a little at every bounce, which is why there are rainbows at all. Light born inside the drop is another matter, and a sphere can keep it for ever.

The phase a beam gains through its focus. How far the phase of a focused beam, measured on its axis, runs ahead of a plane wave of the same frequency, in cycles, against distance from the focus in units of the Rayleigh range π w₀²/λ, for a beam focused to a point (solid) and one focused only in one direction, to a line (dashed). The point-focused beam lags a quarter of a cycle far before the focus and leads by a quarter far after, gaining half a cycle in all, most of it within a Rayleigh range of the focus: 0.25 of a cycle by z = zR, 0.40 by 3 zR. The line focus gains half as much, a quarter cycle. This is the Gouy phase, measured by Louis Georges Gouy in 1890.

Optics

The half cycle a focus adds

A beam of light brought to a focus and allowed to spread again comes out half a wavelength ahead of where a plain wave of the same colour would be, although no part of it travelled faster than light. Louis Georges Gouy found the shift in 1890 by interfering a focused beam with an unfocused one. It is the price of confinement: a beam narrow enough to focus is a spread of directions, the parts travelling at an angle make slower progress along the axis, and the spread is greatest at the focus. The same half cycle decides the frequencies at which every laser cavity can resonate.

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.

$The width a self-focusing beam is forced to. The root-mean-square width of a collimated Gaussian beam in a Kerr medium, relative to its starting width, against distance in Rayleigh ranges, at powers of 0, 0.5, 1, 1.5 and 3 times the Gaussian threshold, the wavelength squared over 2π n0 n2. This curve is exact, not a model: the mean square width of any beam obeyed by the two-dimensional cubic wave equation is a parabola in distance, its coefficient set by one minus the power over the threshold, whatever happens to its shape. At low power the beam spreads by diffraction. At exactly the threshold its width never changes. Above it the parabola reaches zero at a finite distance — 1.41 Rayleigh ranges at 1.5 times, 0.71 at three times — which a width cannot do, so the beam must have collapsed to a point at or before it. The equation stops being true there; the glass usually breaks first.$ Optics

The beam that focuses itself

In glass the refractive index rises very slightly with the intensity of the light, so a beam that is brightest in the middle writes a converging lens into the glass it is crossing. Diffraction spreads it at the same time. Both effects grow in the same proportion as the beam is narrowed, so neither can win by a change of size — only by a change of power. Above a critical power, 4.3 megawatts in fused silica, the beam is forced to collapse within a finite distance, and every high-power laser is built around not letting that happen where it is not wanted.

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.

Insulating a thin wire makes it lose more heat. The heat lost per metre from a wire 2 mm across held 40 K above the air, against the outer radius of the PVC insulation round it (k = 0.19 W/m K), with the surface losing 10 W/m²K to still air by convection and radiation, on a logarithmic radius axis; dashed, the bare wire. The first layers of insulation increase the loss, from 2.51 to a maximum of 12.11 W/m at an outer radius of 19 mm — the critical radius k/h — because they add surface faster than they add resistance. Beyond the critical radius the loss falls again, but so slowly — the resistance of the insulation grows only as the logarithm of its radius — that it does not get back down to the bare wire's until the PVC is 178 km thick. Any sheath a cable could carry makes it lose more heat, not less.

Thermodynamics

The insulation that makes a wire lose more heat

Wrap a hot water pipe in glass wool and it loses less heat. Wrap a thin electrical wire in PVC and it loses more — four times more, at the best thickness — and runs cooler for it. The insulation adds a resistance to heat flowing through it, but it also adds surface for the heat to leave from, and around a thin enough cylinder the surface wins. The crossover is a radius, k/h, set by the insulation and the air; below it, more insulation means more heat lost, and a small enough ball cannot be insulated by anything wrapped round it.

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.

Astrophysics

The velocity that always lies on a circle

A planet on an elliptical orbit speeds up and slows down, its velocity swinging round as it goes. Draw all its velocities from a single point and their tips fall exactly on a circle — not an ellipse, a circle — offset from the point by the orbit's eccentricity. Hamilton noticed this in 1846; it holds for every orbit under an inverse-square force and for no other force; and it turns the ellipse into something that can be proved with a ruler and compass, as Feynman did in a lecture that was lost for thirty years.

Two ways to spin, against angular momentum. The spin Ω²/πGρ of the Maclaurin spheroids (blue) and the Jacobi ellipsoids (red) against their angular momentum, in units of √(GM³R) with R the radius of a sphere of the same volume. The two families meet at the bifurcation, angular momentum 0.304. Below it only spheroids exist. Above it a body of given angular momentum could be either, and the two differ: the ellipsoid spins more slowly, its spin falling as its angular momentum grows, because it gets longer and its moment of inertia climbs faster than its angular momentum. Every Maclaurin spheroid past the bifurcation is a shape a slightly viscous body will leave.

Astrophysics

The spinning fluid that becomes a cigar

A ball of fluid held together by its own gravity flattens when it spins, as the Earth bulges at the equator. Spin it faster and it flattens further, into a lens — but only up to a point, and long before that point something unexpected happens. In 1834 Jacobi found that a fast-spinning fluid can also take a shape that is not symmetric about its axis at all: an ellipsoid with three different axes, stretched along its equator, tumbling end over end. Past a definite spin the stretched shape has less energy than the flattened one, and a body that can shed energy will choose 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.

A current limited by the wire's circumference. The largest supercurrent a wire can carry before the field of its own current destroys superconductivity at its surface, Ic = 2πaHc, against the wire's diameter, for lead, mercury and tin at 1.5 K, on logarithmic axes; dashed, a niobium–titanium wire carrying 3,000 A/mm² in a field of 5 tesla, which grows with the cross-section rather than the circumference. A lead wire 1 mm across carries 192 A — 244 A/mm² — and one 1 cm across only ten times as much, at a tenth of the density. Below 81 micrometres lead carries more than niobium–titanium; above it niobium–titanium wins by a factor that grows with the wire, and it does so in a field of 5 tesla, where lead cannot superconduct at all.

Electromagnetism

The current a superconductor stops with its own field

A superconducting wire has no resistance, so it seems it should carry any current at all. It carries a definite amount and no more, and the amount is set not by the metal's ability to conduct but by the field the current itself makes: when that field at the wire's surface reaches the critical field, superconductivity fails there. The rule makes the largest current proportional to the wire's radius rather than its area, makes a thick wire worse per square millimetre than a thin one, and explains why the first superconducting magnet, wound in 1913, did not work.

The suction that holds two wet plates together. The force needed to pull apart two discs 10 cm across, starting 10 micrometres apart with water between them, at constant opening speeds of 1, 10 and 100 micrometres a second, against time; the dashed line is the largest suction the water can transmit, ½πR²pₐₜₘ = 398 N, reached when the pressure at the centre falls to zero and the water cavitates. At 1 µm/s the force starts at 29.5 N and falls as the cube of the widening gap, to 10.7 N after four seconds, when the gap is 14 micrometres. At 100 µm/s the viscous law would demand 2.9 kN; the water cannot pull that hard, and the force sits on the cavitation limit until the gap has opened enough for the viscous suction to fall below it.

Fluids

The wet plates that hold on when pulled

Lift a wet glass plate straight up off another and it resists with a force far beyond its weight; slide it sideways and it comes away at a touch. The grip is not surface tension. It is the water that must rush into the widening gap, and the suction it takes to draw it in grows as the inverse cube of the gap — until the water tears open and the atmosphere sets the limit. The same cube makes a flat base float on a wet table where a ball would settle, and gives a micro-machined accelerometer exactly the damping it needs from a few micrometres of air.

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

Where the thread's line meets the floor. A spool resting on the floor on its rims of radius R, its thread wound round a hub of radius r = 0.5R and leaving the hub's underside tangentially, pulled up and to the right at 20°, 60° and 78° above the horizontal; the dashed lines continue each thread's line back down to the floor. The spool turns about the contact point, and the sense of the turn is set by where the thread's line meets the floor. At 20° it meets the floor behind the contact point, on the far side from the hand, and the spool rolls towards the hand. At 60°, where cos θ = r/R, it passes exactly through the contact point; the pull has no turning effect there, and the spool stays still while the hand pulls. At 78° it meets the floor in front of the contact point, between the spool and the hand, and the spool rolls away from the hand, paying the thread out.

Mechanics

The spool that rolls towards the hand pulling it

Pull gently on the thread of a cotton reel lying on its side on a table, with the thread coming off the underside of the hub, and the reel rolls towards the hand, winding the thread up as it comes. Raise the thread and at one particular angle the reel will not move at all however hard it is pulled; raise it further and the reel rolls away, paying the thread out. Which way it goes is decided by a single line — where the thread's direction, extended, meets the table — and the same line decides which way a bicycle goes when its lower pedal is pulled backwards.

Sturm's conoid: a line, a circle, a line. The cross-section of a parallel beam after a lens whose focal length is 100 mm in its vertical meridian and 125 mm in its horizontal one, traced ray by ray through a round aperture, at seven distances behind the lens: 60.0, 100.0, 105.6, 111.1, 118.1, 125.0, 135.0 mm. There is no point focus anywhere. At 100 mm the vertical meridian has focused and the beam is a horizontal line; at 125 mm the horizontal meridian has, and it is a vertical line. Between them the beam is an ellipse that turns from wide to tall, and at 111.1 mm — the harmonic mean of the two focal lengths — it is a circle, the circle of least confusion, of diameter 22.2 per cent of the aperture's.

Optics

The focus that is two lines

A lens curved more steeply in one direction than the other has no focus. It brings light to a short line at one distance, to a line at right angles at another, and in between to an ellipse that turns from wide to tall and is round at exactly one place. Most eyes are built this way to some degree, so do mirrors used at an angle, and the best any ordinary lens can do for them is to put that round patch on the retina. A cylinder, curved in one direction only, can do what no sphere can: move one line onto the other.

Optics

The spikes a bright star wears

Photographs of bright stars show them with spikes — four in most telescope pictures, eight in the James Webb Space Telescope's, none at all in some amateur images. The spikes are not in the sky and not in the camera. They are the shadows of whatever holds the telescope's secondary mirror, transformed by diffraction into streaks at right angles to themselves, and they can be counted, predicted and removed by reading a telescope's pupil the way diffraction reads it: as a pattern whose Fourier transform is the star's image.

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.

The fold beyond which no heap is steady. The centre's steady temperature rise, in units of RTₐ²/E, against the Frank-Kamenetskii parameter δ, for a slab, a long cylinder and a sphere, found by integrating the steady heat equation outward from the centre: each shape has two steady states for every δ below a critical value — a cool, stable one and a hot, unstable one — and none above it. The fold is at δ = 0.878, 2.000, 3.322 for the slab, cylinder and sphere: a sphere tolerates nearly four times a slab's δ at the same half-width, because its surface is larger in proportion to its volume and heat from its centre has more ways out. A real heap, which is neither, has a critical δ between, and fixing it for a given shape is the first step in calculating the size at which a store becomes unsafe.

Thermodynamics

The heap that sets itself alight

A haystack, a coal stockpile, a bin of oily rags or a silo of damp grain can catch fire with no spark at all. A slow reaction inside makes a little heat; the heap holds it in; the warmer middle reacts faster and makes more. Whether that ends in a warm heap or a burning one is decided by a single number built from the heap's size, the air's temperature and the reaction's speed — and past one value of it there is no steady temperature at all. The critical size shrinks steeply as the weather warms, and the heap gives almost no warning before it goes.

A row of magnets with its field on one side. Two wavelengths of a Halbach row: blocks of permanent magnet, 4 to a wavelength, each magnetised a 90° turn from the last (block arrows), with the magnetic field drawn as arrows above and below, their lengths proportional to its strength. Just above the row the field is 5 times stronger than the same distance below it. The magnetisation turning one way along the row puts the field on that side; turned the other way, it would put it underneath. With finer blocks the weak side empties further, and a continuously turning magnetisation leaves it with no field at all.

Electromagnetism

The magnets that put their whole field on one side

Lay bar magnets in a row, each turned a quarter turn from the last, and the row's field appears almost entirely on one side, with almost nothing on the other — although every magnet in it, alone, is perfectly symmetric. Turn the magnetisation smoothly instead of in steps and the weak side has no field at all, exactly. Nothing is shielding it. The two halves of the pattern each make a symmetric field, and their fields line up on one side and cancel on the other, because a magnetisation that turns as it goes can only make the field that decays in one direction.

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.

$The force to pull a foot out of packed sand. The suction that resists pulling a foot (a sole of 250 cm², 10 cm long) straight up out of sand, as water is drawn through the sand into the space the foot leaves — Darcy's law with a Kozeny–Carman permeability — against the pulling speed, on logarithmic axes, for compacted sand (fraction 0.6) of three grain sizes and for loose sand (0.41) of 0.1 mm; the dotted line is a 70 kg person's weight. The force is proportional to the speed and inversely to the square of the grain size. Pulled at a centimetre a second from compacted 0.1 mm sand, a foot resists with 2.5 kN, 4 times the person's weight; the speed at which the suction equals that weight is 2.71 mm/s. In the loose sand before it compacted, the same pull would need 15 per cent of the force; with clay filling the pores of the compacted sand, as in natural quicksand, a thousand times more, and the speed a body's weight can pull at falls to microns a second.$ Fluids

The sand that lets a body in and will not let it out

Quicksand cannot swallow anyone: liquefied, it is nearly twice as dense as water, and a person in it floats with their chest clear. What makes it dangerous is the opposite asymmetry. Going in is easy, because a step breaks the gel holding the grains apart and the sand turns liquid. Coming out is hard, because the sand settles and packs around whatever sank, and a trapped foot can only rise as fast as water can seep through the packed grains to fill the space it leaves. Pulling harder barely helps; letting water in does.

$A race between the flame and the end gas. The Livengood–Wu integral of the end gas — the fraction of its ignition delay used up — against time from the spark, for 95-octane fuel at compression ratios 9, 11 and 13; the dotted line marks when nine-tenths of the charge has burned. If the integral reaches one before then, the end gas ignites by itself while a sizeable part of the charge is still unburned, and knocks. At a ratio of 9 the flame wins easily: the integral ends at 0.90. At 11 it reaches one when 92 per cent of the charge has burned, just short of knock; at 13, when only 78 per cent has, and the rest detonates. The integral climbs fastest at the end, where the end gas is hottest and most compressed, which is why knock is heard late in the burn.$ Thermodynamics

The squeeze a petrol engine is not allowed

Every textbook gives a petrol engine's ideal efficiency as one minus the compression ratio raised to a small negative power, and every reader can see that the efficiency keeps climbing as the ratio rises. Real petrol engines stop near ten or eleven. Nothing in the thermodynamics stops them. The fuel does: the charge being compressed is already fuel and air, and the burning gas behind the flame squeezes the rest until it ignites on its own, in a hammer-blow that wrecks pistons. An octane number buys nothing but time against that, and a diesel escapes it by compressing air and adding the fuel only when it wants ignition.

The field round a thin wire. The electric field against distance from the axis, on a logarithmic axis, for a wire inside a coaxial cylinder of radius 10 cm at 60 kV, for wire radii of 0.2, 1 and 5 mm; the dashed line is 30 kV/cm, the field at which air breaks down across a gap of a few centimetres, and each curve starts at its wire's surface. The field falls as 1/ρ, so it is concentrated at a thin wire: 483 kV/cm at the surface of the 0.2 mm wire, 130 at the 1 mm wire and 40.1 at the 5 mm one. The field exceeds 30 kV/cm only within 3.2 mm of the axis for the thinnest wire, 4.3 mm for the middle one and 6.7 mm for the thickest; across the remaining nine centimetres the air is far below breakdown, so ionisation can start at the wire and has nowhere to go.

Electromagnetism

The glow a thin wire wears before it sparks

Raise the voltage on a thin wire inside a metal tube and, long before anything sparks across, the wire starts to glow faintly violet and to hiss. The air right next to it is ionising, and the air a millimetre further out is not. The field round a wire falls away so fast that an avalanche of ionisation can start at the surface and find nowhere to go. That partial breakdown, corona, costs power lines energy in the rain, sets the size of the wires they are made from, cleans the smoke from chimneys and counts particles in detectors — and the field it needs is not a property of air but of the wire's radius.

Eight blocks leaning past the edge of a table. 8 identical blocks of length 1 stacked on a table edge (the vertical line), each set as far out as balance allows: the dot on each interface marks the centre of mass of all the blocks above it, which sits exactly on the edge of the block beneath. The top block overhangs the second by 1/2, the second the third by 1/4, the third the fourth by 1/6, and the k-th by 1/(2k); together the stack reaches 1.359 block lengths beyond the table — the top block lies wholly beyond it, since 1.359 is more than one. Every interface is balanced on its edge, so the stack stands, but with no margin at all.

Mechanics

The stack that leans past its own table

Stack identical books on the edge of a table, each pushed out as far as it will go without falling, and four of them are enough for the top book to lie entirely beyond the table's edge. Keep going and the overhang grows without limit — the stack can reach as far out as anyone likes — but only as half the harmonic series, so that two book-lengths need 31 books, three need 227 and five need more than twelve thousand. The arithmetic is the same that settles whether a ladder leaning on a wall slips or a wardrobe topples, and the slow growth is the price of having nothing but the stack's own weight to hold it back.

Fluids

The grounding line with nowhere to stop

Where an ice sheet flowing into the sea lifts off its bed and begins to float, buoyancy fixes how thick it is: just thick enough to touch the rock, about 1.1 times the depth of the water. The ice crossing that line goes as the 19/4 power of the thickness, so twice the depth sends out twenty-seven times the ice. On a bed that deepens inland, a grounding line that retreats a little moves into deeper water, exports more, and retreats further. No steady state can sit there, and an ice sheet whose edge reaches such a slope crosses the whole of it.

The boiling point in a column of water, and the depth heating reaches it first. The temperature at which water boils against depth in a geyser's conduit 2240 m above sea level, where the air's pressure is 77.6 kPa (solid): 92.7 °C at the surface, 103.6 °C at 4 m, 115.5 °C at 10 m and 131.8 °C at 22 m — rising steeply near the top and more gently below, because each extra metre adds the same pressure to water whose boiling point responds less as it gets hotter. Dashed: the water as it heats from beneath, cooled to 80 °C at the top by the pool and below that warming by only 0.8 °C per metre, mixed by convection; 6 °C and 3 °C short of the curve at 4 m, and then touching it. It touches at 4 m, not at the bottom: there the water is still 13.7 °C below boiling.

Thermodynamics

The column that boils from the middle

Water at the bottom of a geyser's tube is hotter than water anywhere else in it, and it is not the water that boils first. The weight of the column raises the boiling point with depth faster than the heat from below raises the temperature, so the column reaches its boiling curve partway down, under a cooler surface layer. A little boiling there lifts the water above. Everything beneath is then at a lower pressure than the one it was heated under, so it is superheated and flashes, and the eruption feeds itself: past about fourteen centimetres of water thrown out, each slug of steam makes more room than it was given.

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.

The bending a falling column must carry, along its height. The bending moment at each height of a uniform column toppling about its base, in units of its weight times its length, at tilts of 10°, 30°, 60° from upright. Every curve peaks at a third of the height, at mgL·sinθ/27: 0.0064, 0.0185, 0.0321. The base and the top carry none. The same column held still at the same tilt would carry its greatest moment at the base, mgL·sinθ/2 — 0.250 at 30°, 13.5 times as much. Falling relieves the bending by a factor of 13.5 and moves it a third of the way up.

Mechanics

The chimney that breaks a third of the way up

A tall brick chimney felled by demolition rarely reaches the ground in one piece. It snaps partway up, early in its fall, and the top falls behind the rest. Nothing has hit it. The cause is a free-body diagram: as the column rotates about its base, the material near the top must be dragged round faster than its own weight would take it, and the material lower down holds back. The bending this needs is largest a third of the way up, at a thirteenth and a half of what the same column would carry standing still at the same tilt — and brick, which carries no tension, cracks there after only a few degrees of lean.

The same energy in less and less whip. The speed of the moving part of a whip 2 m long and weighing 250 g, against how far the loop the arm threw into it still has to go to the tip, on a logarithmic scale, if the 15 J the arm gave it stays in the part still moving. Three whips: uniform, tapering linearly, and tapering faster, each ending in a 0.2 g cracker. At the handle every part moves at 11 m/s. Half a metre from the tip the uniform whip is at 22 m/s and the faster taper at 72; the uniform whip passes the speed of sound (dashed) only within its last millimetre, the tapers 1.6 cm and 1.5 cm from it. All three end at the same ceiling, √(2E/m) = 387 m/s, set by the cracker alone: the taper decides how gradually the speed builds, not how fast the end goes.

Mechanics

The crack at the end of a whip

An arm moves a whip's handle at ten metres a second, and a fifth of a second later its tip passes the speed of sound. Nothing in between is a lever or a spring. The arm throws a loop into the whip, the part behind the loop comes to rest, and the energy stays with the part still moving, which grows lighter as the loop runs out towards the tip. Energy shared by less and less mass means speed, and what caps it is the tip's own mass, the tuft of string at the end. The crack is a sonic boom, made by something the size of a shoelace's end.

A bright core in a set of rings. The intensity across the beam 29 cm beyond an axicon — a glass cone 10 mm across that tilts every ray by 0.5° towards the axis — lit by a 633 nm laser, computed from the Fresnel integral and scaled to its peak (solid). It is the pattern of a cone of plane waves meeting on the axis: a bright core 56 μm across at its first dark ring, at 2.405/kα from the axis, ringed by rings of slowly falling brightness. Dashed: a Gaussian laser beam focused to a spot of the same size, with no rings. The rings are not a flaw of the axicon; they are where the beam keeps the power that the core is short of.

Optics

The beam that does not spread and the price it pays

Pass a laser beam through a shallow cone of glass and it emerges as a thin bright line of light, a core a few tens of micrometres wide that keeps its width for half a metre, where a beam focused to the same width by a lens would have doubled in a few millimetres. It seems to defeat diffraction. It does not. The core is not made of the light that was in it a moment before; every point along it is fed by a fresh ring of the aperture, and the core holds about one per cent of the beam's power. The rest is in the rings, and the rings are what pays for the line.

A light panel that blocks one band as a heavy one would. Sound transmission loss at normal incidence against frequency, on a logarithmic frequency axis. Dashed: a limp panel of 2 kg/m², following the mass law, 13.4 dB at 300 Hz. Dotted: the same panel made 3 kg/m² by adding 1 kg/m² of plain mass, 16.8 dB. Solid: the 2 kg/m² panel with the same added mass hung on springs tuned to 300 Hz (damping 0.02). It blocks 35 dB at 300 Hz — the loss the mass law would give a wall 26 kg/m² heavy — and just above, at 367 Hz, falls to 5.2 dB, far below even the bare panel's 15.1: there the panel lets sound through more easily than if the resonators were not there.

Waves

The wall made heavy only at one note

A wall stops sound by being hard to shake, and how hard a plain wall is to shake is its weight: that is the mass law, and it makes quiet walls heavy. Hang small masses on springs inside a light panel, tuned to one frequency, and near that frequency the panel becomes many times harder to shake than it weighs, because the hidden masses swing against it. A two-kilogram panel then blocks a tone as a wall thirteen times heavier would. The price comes just above the tuning, where the panel's dynamic mass passes through zero and it lets sound through more easily than if the masses were not there.

$A lens that cannot focus a wave longer than itself. How much a point mass brightens a wave passing behind it — the factor on the wave's power, on a logarithmic scale — against the dimensionless frequency w = 8πGMf/c³, for a source exactly behind the lens and 0.1, 0.3, 1.0 Einstein radii off it, from the exact diffraction integral. Geometric optics puts the magnification at 10.0, 3.4 and 1.34 for the three offsets and at infinity on the axis, whatever the frequency. The wave disagrees: at w = 0.01 every curve is within 1.6 per cent of 1 — a wave a hundred times longer than the lens passes as if it were not there — and on the axis the power factor is πw/(1 − e^(−πw)): 3.28 at w = 1, 31.4 at w = 10, finite at every frequency. The off-axis curves rise to their geometric values only above w ≈ 1 and then oscillate about them, as the two images begin to interfere.$ Astrophysics

The lens a long wave walks round

Geometric optics says that a star passing exactly in front of a source magnifies it infinitely. No real wave agrees, because a wave cannot be focused to a point, and for the gravitational waves the detectors hear the disagreement is the whole story. A star, or a black hole of a few tens of suns, is smaller than one of those waves in the only measure that matters — the delay between paths round it — and the wave flows past it almost untouched. What decides whether a mass lenses a wave is not the mass's size, which is millions of kilometres, but its Schwarzschild radius set against the wavelength.

$Flux leaving a plate in stripes and spreading into a uniform field. A cross-section through a superconducting plate in the intermediate state near its top surface (below the line), with a normal fraction of 0.40: normal laminae (shaded) each carry the critical field straight up, the superconducting laminae between them carry none. Lengths are in units of the period of the pattern. Above the surface the field lines (solid) are computed from the stray field of the stripes: they fan out from each normal lamina and close up over the superconducting ones, and within about a third of a period the field is uniform at 0.40 of the critical field — the applied field, which is all a distant observer measures. The fanning field stores energy, and it stores more the wider the stripes are, because a wider pattern's non-uniformity reaches further out. That is half of what sets the period.$ Electromagnetism

The stripes a superconductor makes of a field

A superconductor expels a magnetic field, but only if the field it pushes aside stays below the critical field everywhere at its surface — and for anything but a long rod held along the field, the field it pushes aside piles up at its edges. A flat plate laid across a field cannot expel any of it. It splits instead into interleaved bands of normal metal carrying exactly the critical field and superconducting metal carrying none, in the proportion flux demands, and the bands have a definite width. Walls between the two cost energy and favour few, broad bands; the field fanning out of the surface favours many narrow ones. The compromise is the geometric mean of the plate's thickness and a microscopic length.

How long a lens must hold back its central light. The time by which a lens must delay light passing through its centre relative to light passing its edge, so that every part of a short pulse reaches the focus together, against the lens's radius, for focal lengths of 0.1 mm, 1.0 mm, 10.0 mm (solid), in femtoseconds on logarithmic axes: the extra path from the edge, √(R² + f²) − f, over c. The dashed line is what a flat structure 1 μm thick can supply if its building blocks span a group index of 1: 3.3 fs. A 1 mm focal-length lens reaches it at a radius of 45 μm; a 10 mm one at 141 μm. A glass lens of 10 mm focal length and 5 mm radius holds its centre back by 3937 fs, which it does by being 2.27 mm thicker in the middle. A flat lens has no room for that.

Optics

The delay a flat lens has no room for

A glass lens is thick in the middle for a reason that is easy to miss. To focus light of every colour at one point, a lens must do more than bend each colour by the right amount: it must make every part of a light wave arrive at the focus at the same moment, and the light passing the edge has further to go. The glass in the middle is what holds the central light back to wait for it. A lens made flat — a kinoform, a metasurface a micrometre thick — has nowhere to keep that delay. The geometry of the focus sets how much delay is needed, the thickness sets how much is available, and between them they cap how large an achromatic flat lens can be: tens of micrometres, not centimetres.

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.

Relativity

The universe one explosion makes in empty space

Throw particles out of a single event at every speed below light's and let them coast. Drawn on a spacetime diagram, nothing curves and nothing expands — it is special relativity in an empty box. Yet the particles, slicing their history by their own clocks, find themselves in a universe that is the same everywhere, expanding, obeying an exact Hubble law with no speed limit, and filling a space of constant negative curvature. Edward Milne built a cosmology on this in 1933, and it shows that 'space expanding' and 'galaxies moving' are two slicings of one set of worldlines.

The force a rider feels on the way up a loop. The force of the seat on a rider, in multiples of the rider's weight, against how far the track has turned on the way from the bottom (0) to the top of the loop (1), for the 20 m circle and clothoid of the previous figure, each entered at the speed that leaves 0.5 g at the top. On the circle the force jumps the moment the car enters the loop, from 1 g on the straight to 6.5 g, and falls steadily to the top. On the clothoid it starts at 1 g, because the curvature starts at zero, and rises smoothly to 4.3 g partway round before falling. The clothoid's car also enters more slowly — 22.7 m/s against 23.2 — because its tighter top needs less speed to hold the car on.

Mechanics

The loop that is not a circle

A roller coaster's vertical loop looks circular from a distance and is not. A circular loop, entered fast enough for the car to stay on the track at the top, presses its riders into their seats at six times their weight at the bottom — six, whatever the circle's size — and slams that force on in an instant at the entry. The fix, found for railways a century earlier, is a curve whose curvature grows steadily with distance, the Euler spiral: the same curve that describes how light spreads round the edge of a shadow. Tight at the top, gentle at the bottom, it lets the force build instead of arriving all at once.

$How fine a grid has to be to polarise. The fraction of the power transmitted by a grid of thin parallel wires, against the ratio of the wire spacing d to the wavelength, on logarithmic axes — for the field along the wires with three wire radii (solid), and for the field across the wires with the thickest (dashed), from the quasi-static theory of strip gratings, valid while the spacing is under about half a wavelength. Across the wires nearly everything passes at every spacing. Along them the leak is about four times the square of (d/λ)·ln(d/2πa): 0.1% of the power at a spacing of a hundredth of a wavelength, 10% at a tenth, 64% at four-tenths, for wires of radius 3% of their spacing. Thicker wires block better because the inductance of the grid falls. The diamond marks Hertz's grid of 1888, 4% leaking along the wires; a visible-light polariser needs the same ratio at a wavelength of half a micrometre, which means wires about 140 nanometres apart.$ 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.

An attraction found by counting. How often two large discs are found at each gap between their surfaces, relative to how often they are found far apart, in a direct simulation of two discs among 270 small particles that pass through each other freely and do not enter the discs (dots), and the prediction from counting the small particles' available area (line); small particles a quarter of the large radius. Nothing in the simulation attracts anything: every move that does not put a small particle inside a large one is accepted. Yet the discs are found touching 2.7 times as often as apart (2.6 predicted), because touching returns the overlap of their exclusion zones to the small particles, and the probability of a separation is proportional to the number of arrangements the small particles have at it. Beyond a gap of twice the small radius the zones no longer overlap and the effect vanishes. Written as a potential, −kT times the logarithm of that ratio, it is an attraction about 1.0 kT deep.

Thermodynamics

The attraction that is the small ones' room

Put large particles into a crowd of small ones that cannot get inside them, and the large ones begin to stick together — though nothing in the mixture attracts anything. Each large particle keeps the small ones' centres out of a thin shell around it. When two large particles touch, their shells overlap, and the overlap is handed back to the small particles as room to move in. More room is more arrangements, more arrangements is more entropy, and the large particles are pushed together by the pressure of the small ones on their outer sides. Fumio Oosawa and Sho Asakura worked it out in 1954. The force is now used to purify DNA, sort colloids onto patterned surfaces and explain why the inside of a cell behaves as though its proteins were stickier than they are.

The chirp a staircase returns. The pitch of the echo of a clap from the staircase, heard by a listener 10 m from its foot, against time since the clap: the strongest frequency in successive 24 ms slices of the synthesised echo (dots), and the rate at which the reflections arrive, together with twice that rate (lines). The fundamental falls from about 767 Hz to 476 Hz over a sixth of a second, with its second harmonic an octave above — a descending chirp, which to many listeners sounds like a bird. It is Bragg reflection: the stair is a grating, the first-order echo is the frequency whose half-wavelength equals the extra path from one step to the next, and as the line of sight climbs, that extra path grows and the reflected pitch falls.

Waves

The chirp a staircase sings back

A hand clap at the foot of the great stair of El Castillo at Chichén Itzá is answered by a chirp — a falling whistle that some have compared to the call of the quetzal bird. Nothing in the stone is tuned. Each of the ninety-one steps returns its own copy of the clap, the copies arrive as a train of clicks, and the ear hears a regular train of clicks as a pitch. The pitch falls because the steps are not evenly spaced as the listener sees them: low steps are seen almost level, a tread apart, and high ones almost along the slope, a whole step's diagonal apart. It is Bragg reflection from a grating whose period, seen from one spot, changes along its length.

Where the charge goes on a conducting egg. The surface charge on three conducting spheroids of the same length, a sphere and spheroids 3 and 10 times as long as they are wide, drawn as a band whose thickness is proportional to the charge per unit area at each point. On the sphere it is uniform. On an ellipsoid the density is exactly proportional to the fourth root of the surface's Gaussian curvature, and so it is 3 and 10 times as dense at the tips as at the waist — not the 9 and 100 times by which the tips' curvature exceeds the waist's, and not the ratio of their mean curvatures either. The charge does crowd to the sharp ends, but by how much is set by the whole shape, not by any property of the surface at the point.

Electromagnetism

The charge that follows no local rule

Charge on a conductor crowds where the surface curves sharply, and every high-voltage engineer rounds the edges for that reason. But curves sharply by what measure? On a conducting egg the density is exactly the fourth root of the surface's Gaussian curvature, so a tip a hundred times more curved than the waist carries only ten times the charge. On two spheres joined by a wire it is the square root, and on a flat disc the density goes without limit at the rim, where no curvature is defined. No local rule can be right, because where charge sits is decided by the whole shape at once.

$A loop, and the butterfly it makes. Left: magnetisation against applied field for a model ferromagnet, as a fraction of saturation, with the field in units of the coercive field — the rising branch and the falling one, crossing zero magnetisation at plus and minus one. Right: the strain the same material shows along the field, as a fraction of its saturation magnetostriction, on the same two branches. Because the strain goes as the square of the magnetisation it does not care which way the magnetisation points, so it is the same at full positive and full negative saturation, and it falls to nothing at the two points where the magnetisation passes through zero — the coercive fields. A loop traced once produces a butterfly traced once: the strain goes through two full stretches for every one cycle of the field.$ 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 film that thins too slowly. The thickness of the air film under a silicone-oil drop of radius 0.38 mm pressed onto its pool, against time, on logarithmic axes, by Reynolds's law: dh/dt ∝ −h³, so the film thins quickly at first and then ever more slowly, its thickness falling only as the inverse square root of time once it is thin. The shaded band is one bounce, 4.1 ms, in which the film falls from 10 µm to 1240 nm; the dashed line is the 100 nm at which van der Waals forces pull the surfaces together, reached after 0.65 s. The air does not have to be held up; it has only to be slow to leave, and the cube of the thickness makes it slower and slower the thinner it gets. A vibrating bath that lifts the drop off every few milliseconds refills the film each time.

Fluids

The drop that will not merge

A drop of oil let fall onto a pool of the same oil ought to vanish into it at once: merging releases surface energy, and nothing holds the two apart. Instead it bounces. A film of air is trapped between drop and pool, and air, though it offers no strength at all, is slow to leave a gap a few micrometres thick: the film takes the better part of a second to drain to the hundred nanometres at which the surfaces can touch, while a bounce lasts four milliseconds. Shake the pool and the drop can bounce for ever, in rhythms that double as the shaking grows — and, near the pool's own instability, it starts to walk across the surface on the waves of its own making.

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.

The focus that moves out of the eye. Parallel rays from a distant object entering a simplified eye 24 mm long, in millimetres along its axis: in air the eye's 61 dioptres bring them to a focus 21.9 mm behind its principal plane, on the retina; under water its 18 dioptres would bring them to a focus 73 mm behind, about three times the length of the eye. On the retina itself the underwater rays have converged only a third of the way, and every point of the scene is spread into a disc the size of the pupil's shadow. The eye is not out of focus by a little, as a short-sighted eye is; it is missing most of a lens.

Optics

The eye that loses its lens in water

Eyes opened under water see only a blur, and the reason is not water in the eye or salt or murk. The human eye does two-thirds of its focusing not with its lens but with the curved front of its cornea, whose power comes from the jump in refractive index between air and tissue. Water is almost as dense optically as the cornea, and the jump all but disappears: about forty-three of the eye's sixty dioptres vanish, and the focus moves to three times the eye's own length behind the retina. A mask gives the cornea back its air; a small pupil and a hard squint buy back a little; animals that hunt in both worlds have flattened their corneas and given the work to the lens.

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.

A drift that twist turns into a circle. An ion's guiding centre at 10 keV in a torus the size of ITER, seen in the plane across the bore, with a vertical drift of 609 m/s from the field's curvature and gradient. With no twist it drifts straight up and reaches the wall in about 2.8 ms, ions one way and electrons the other. With the field lines twisted so that they circle the bore once for every three trips round the torus, the same drift is carried round by the motion along the line, up on the outside and back down on the inside, and the integrated path closes into a circle offset by only 1.3 cm. The offset is the drift speed over the rate of circulation. The twist does not stop the drift; it makes the drift average to nothing, which is all a bottle needs.

Astrophysics

The twist a bottle of plasma has to have

A straight magnetic bottle leaks out of its ends, so the obvious repair is to bend it round into a ring. A ring of field with no twist in it loses its plasma in about three millionths of a second. Adding a twist repairs that by making a drift average to nothing, and adding too much makes the whole column kink like an overwound rubber band. A tokamak is built in the narrow band between those two failures.

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

Electromagnetism

Two dipoles that agree everywhere but inside

A pair of opposite charges and a small loop of current make the same field at any distance worth measuring. Between the charges that field points one way, and through the loop it points the other. Shrink both to a point and the disagreement does not vanish: it becomes a term concentrated at the origin, and hydrogen's 21-centimetre line depends on it. The level order of the hydrogen atom says which kind of dipole a proton is.

A lifetime that oscillates with a distance. The rate at which an excited atom emits a photon, relative to its rate in empty space, against its distance from a perfect mirror in wavelengths, for its dipole pointing across the mirror and along it. On the mirror itself the rate doubles for the first and vanishes for the second. As the distance grows both swing about 1 with a period of half a wavelength and a shrinking size: at half a wavelength the along-mirror rate is 0.96, and at a wavelength 0.99. Nothing in the atom has changed; its excited electron and its transition are the same in every position. An emission rate is a property of an atom and of the room it is in.

Quantum

The lifetime that depends on where the mirror is

A half-life is treated as the most private fact about an atom or a nucleus, and for a nucleus that is nearly true. An excited atom beside a mirror decays faster or slower depending on how many half-wavelengths away the mirror stands, and between two mirrors closer than half a wavelength it does not emit at all. The atom has not changed. A decay is a transition to a state with a photon in it, and the room decides whether that state exists.

Fluids

The sandcastle a spoonful of water holds

A dry heap of sand stands at thirty degrees and no steeper. Add a spoonful of water to a bucketful, and the same grains will stand in a vertical wall and carry a person's weight. Add ten times as much water and the wall is no stronger, because a bridge of water between two grains pulls with almost the same force whatever its size. Its strength belongs to the grain and the surface tension, and the amount of water hardly enters.

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.

$A facet too wide and a facet too narrow. The blur of an insect's compound eye of radius 1 mm against the width of one facet, in green light. A wide facet looks at a wide patch of sky compared with its neighbours, so the eye's sampling is coarse, and that blur rises with the width. A narrow facet is a small aperture, so diffraction spreads what it collects, and that blur falls with the width. Added in quadrature they make a minimum at D = √(λR), here 22 µm, and that is close to the facets of real insects with an eye of that size. No choice of facet width can get below about 1.8°: that figure is forced by the size of the head. Horace Barlow worked this out in 1952 and compared it with bee eyes.$ Optics

The eye a fly cannot afford

A compound eye is built from thousands of tiny straws, each looking in one direction. Wide straws look coarsely at the world, and narrow ones blur what they collect by diffraction, so there is a best width, and it depends only on the size of the head. To see as sharply as a person, an eye of this kind would need to be about twelve metres in radius. A single-lens eye gets the same result with a pupil of under two millimetres.

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.

Waves

The waves that always arrive square to the beach

A storm a thousand kilometres off sends out swell in whatever direction it pleases, and that swell arrives on the beach running almost straight in. It does so whichever way the coast faces. Waves slow down in shallow water, so the part of a crest nearest the shore lags and the whole line swings round, as light does in glass. It also explains why waves shrink before they grow, and why they gather on a headland and leave the bay alone.

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