Illustrated Physics
physics, drawn
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Who is measuring — part 2 of 2

Quantities that are not properties of the thing but of the thing and an observer: which events are simultaneous, how long something is, how fast it is going and whose second is being counted.
Three bodies of one mass, one field outside, three fields inside. The gravitational field against distance from the centre, both in units of the body's surface values, for 3 spherical bodies of the same mass and radius: a uniform ball; a dense core under a light mantle; a hollow shell. Outside the surface the three curves are one curve — checked at 1.7 radii by adding up the pull of every mass element in each body, which agrees with the pull of a point of the same mass to better than a part in five hundred. Inside they part: the uniform ball's field falls in a straight line, the layered body's rises to 1.24 times the surface value at the top of its core, and the hollow shell's is zero throughout its cavity. Their moment-of-inertia factors are 0.400 (uniform ball), 0.330 (dense core under a light mantle), 0.551 (hollow shell) — a number that no measurement of the field outside can supply. Electromagnetism

The field outside that cannot find the core

Gauss's law gives the field outside a body from what it encloses, and read backwards it is a limit. A uniform ball, a planet with an iron core and a hollow shell of the same mass have identical gravity everywhere outside. The field fixes a list of numbers — the mass, the flattening, higher moments — and leaves free everything else, including the moment of inertia; the Earth's core was weighed by its wobble, not by its pull.

 Four bodies sent past one mass at 30 masses, at four speeds. Paths traced from the exact geodesic of a non-rotating mass, every one aimed at the same impact parameter of 30 masses and differing only in speed. The slower the body, the harder it is turned: 0.4c by 32.9°, 0.6c by 16.6°, 0.8c by 11.1°, light by 8.5°. The weak-field rule (2GM/bv²)(1 + v²/c²) gives 27.7°, 14.4°, 9.8°, 7.6° — close for the fast bodies and increasingly short for the slow ones, which pass near enough to feel the field's strong part. The angles are the true ones: near a compact mass nothing has to be exaggerated. Astrophysics

The half of the bend a slow body never feels

Light passing the Sun is bent by twice Newton's angle, and the factor of two is usually read as a fact about light. It is the end point of a curve every body lies on. A body at speed v is bent by (2GM/bv²)(1 + v²/c²) — the 1 from the curvature of time, which a slow body feels in full, and the v²/c² from the curvature of space, which is the same absolute angle for a comet as for a photon and is simply swamped when the body is slow.

 A living cell and a dead one, told apart by a frequency. The real part of the dielectrophoretic factor for a living cell and a dead one, ten micrometres across, in a liquid of conductivity 0.01 S/m, against frequency. The cell is a conducting interior inside a membrane five nanometres thick. The living cell's intact membrane blocks slow fields, so at low frequency it behaves as an insulator and is pushed out of strong field; above 42 kHz the membrane is short-circuited by its own capacitance and the conducting interior is felt, so the cell is pulled in; above 140 MHz the permittivities take over and it is pushed again. The dead cell's membrane leaks, its interior has lost ions, and it changes sign only at 8.8 MHz. In 2 bands — below 42 kHz and from 8.9 MHz to 140 MHz — the same field pushes the two in opposite directions. Electromagnetism

The force whose sign a frequency chooses

A neutral particle in a non-uniform field is pulled towards strong field if it polarises more than the liquid around it and pushed away if it polarises less. With conduction in the picture, which of the two it does is decided by how fast the field alternates — and a living cell, a conductor wrapped in an insulator five nanometres thick, changes sign twice, where a dead one changes once. The same electrodes can then send the living cells one way and the dead ones the other.

 A closed cabin accelerating at 3 m/s², and everything in it leaning the same way. A closed box accelerating to the right at 3 m/s², with water in the bottom and air above. Everything that can hang or float lines up with the effective gravity g − a, tilted 17.0° from the vertical towards the back: the water's surface and the isobars below it are perpendicular to it, a floating block stands along it, a plumb bob hangs along it — and a helium balloon on a string leans the other way along the same line, forward, into the acceleration. The balloon is not doing anything unusual. Buoyancy always points opposite to gravity, and in the cabin the effective gravity has a horizontal part, so the air's pressure gradient does too, and it pushes the balloon along it. Fluids

The balloon that leans the wrong way

When a car pulls away, everything loose in it swings back — except a helium balloon on a string, which swings forward. Nothing strange is acting on it. Buoyancy points against gravity, and inside an accelerating cabin gravity has a sideways part. Read that way, a lift cannot change how deep a boat floats, free fall abolishes floating altogether, and a centrifuge is Archimedes' principle with the word "up" pointing at the axis.

 How full a surface is, against the pressure of the gas above it. The fraction of adsorption sites occupied on a surface that binds a molecule with 0.35 eV, against the gas pressure on a logarithmic axis, at 250, 300, 350 K. Each curve is θ = p/(p + p½) — Langmuir's isotherm — and each is the same S-shape moved along the axis: on a logarithmic pressure scale the coverage is a function of ln p alone, shifted by the binding energy over kT. The half-full pressure is 5.58 Pa at 250 K, 132 Pa at 300 K, 1341 Pa at 350 K. Warming the surface does not change the shape; it slides the curve to higher pressure by a factor that is a Boltzmann factor, e^(ε/kT), which is how a binding energy is read off a family of isotherms. Thermodynamics

The site that fills like an electron level

A patch of catalyst holding a gas molecule, a haem in a muscle cell holding oxygen, an energy level in a metal holding an electron: each is a place that can hold one particle or none, in contact with a reservoir it trades particles with. Each fills according to the same function of one variable — how far the reservoir's chemical potential lies above the energy of the site. Langmuir's isotherm and the Fermi function are not analogous. They are the same law, and haemoglobin works because its sites break it.

 Helium's excitations, and the line that decides how fast it can flow. The energy of an elementary excitation in superfluid helium-4 against its momentum, as a smooth fit through published neutron-scattering values: a phonon branch rising at the speed of sound, 238 m/s, a maximum near 13.9 K, and the roton minimum of 8.62 K at 1.92 Å⁻¹. A straight line from the origin has a slope that is a velocity. The steepest line that just touches the spectrum is Landau's critical velocity, 57 m/s, and it touches at 1.98 Å⁻¹, just past the roton minimum. A body moving slower than that cannot make any excitation at all and so cannot lose energy to the liquid; the dashed line is the speed of sound, far above it. Quantum

The speed below which nothing can be made

An object moving through an ordinary liquid always feels drag, because it can always pass some of its energy to the liquid. In a superfluid there may be nothing it can pass it to. Landau's argument turns the question into geometry: an excitation of momentum p and energy ε can be made only by a body moving faster than ε/p, so a liquid flows without friction below the smallest value of that ratio. For helium the smallest value is not the speed of sound but 57 m/s, set by the dip in its spectrum called the roton — and an ideal gas, with no dip and no sound, has no such speed at all.

 Equal masses, one at rest, struck head on at four energies. A particle striking an identical particle at rest and scattering elastically, with the two leaving at equal angles either side of the incoming line, at four incident kinetic energies measured in units of the particle's rest energy. At 0.001 mc² the two tracks open at 90.0°. At 0.5 mc² the two tracks open at 83.6°. At 2 mc² the two tracks open at 70.5°. At 10 mc² the two tracks open at 44.4°. Slowly, the angle between them is a right angle, as every billiards player knows. Fast, it closes, because the incoming particle's energy is part of its inertia and the pair is carried forward. A proton at 2 mc² — about 1.9 GeV — and an electron at 1 MeV are both well inside the narrowing. Relativity

The right angle a fast collision closes

When one billiard ball strikes an identical one at rest, the two always leave at right angles — a fact every snooker player uses without knowing its proof. The proof is Newton's, and it fails for fast particles. Two protons leaving a collision at 1.9 GeV open at 70 degrees, not 90, and the narrowing follows one law, tan θ₁ tan θ₂ = 2/(γ + 1), in which the right angle is the slow limit. The circle that forced the right angle has been squashed into an ellipse by the energy the incoming particle carries as inertia.

 One turn of a circling charge, as it arrives. The radiation field reaching a distant observer in the plane of a charge's circular orbit, over one full turn, for speeds of 0.2c, 0.6c, 0.9c, each scaled to its own peak and plotted against arrival time as a fraction of the orbital period. At 0.2c the flash arrives 20.9 per cent of a turn wide at half height, having been emitted over 25.4 per cent; at 0.6c the flash arrives 6.0 per cent of a turn wide at half height, having been emitted over 14.2 per cent; at 0.9c the flash arrives 0.7 per cent of a turn wide at half height, having been emitted over 6.3 per cent. The slowest charge sends something close to a sine wave, with a trough 0.44 of its peak; the fastest sends a spike whose peak, divided by its speed, is 100 times a slow charge's, and a trough of 0.0028 of that peak. The field integrates to zero over every turn, as a radiation field must. Astrophysics

The flash a circling charge sends once a turn

A slow electron going round a magnet broadcasts one radio frequency. The same electron at nearly the speed of light, on a circle of the same kind, sends X-rays. Nothing about the mechanism changes between the two. The charge chases its own light, and the chase compresses one power of γ worth of emission into three.

 The block has to move, and which way decides the momentum. A pulse of light crosses a free block of glass of index 1.5 and length L, with time in units of L/c. The pulse falls behind where it would have been in vacuum by 0.50 L while it is inside. The block's displacement, in units of EL/Mc², is obtained from momentum conservation alone: if the light inside carries Abraham's E/nc the block takes up the rest of E/c, moves forward, and ends 0.500 units along — Balazs's (n − 1). The sum of the pulse's lag and the block's shift, which is the centre of energy's departure from uniform motion, is then zero to within 0.0004 units at every moment. If instead the light carried Minkowski's nE/c, the block would have to recoil backwards and the centre of energy would end 1.25 units behind a straight line, which no isolated system can do. For a one-joule pulse through a kilogram of glass ten centimetres long the real shift is 5.6 × 10⁻¹⁹ m. Electromagnetism

The momentum light carries into glass

A pulse of light in glass has two momenta, nE/c and E/nc, and for a century the argument was about which one is right. Both are measured. A free block that the light crosses must move forward, which only Abraham's value explains; a Cherenkov cone exists at all, which only Minkowski's allows. They answer different questions, and the difference between them is momentum carried by the glass.

 How much slower a warm atom ticks. The fraction by which a free atom's clock runs slow on average because of its thermal motion, (3/2)kT/mc², against temperature on logarithmic axes, for five atoms used in clocks or tests of relativity: hydrogen 4.1 × 10⁻¹¹ at 300 K, aluminium ion 1.5 × 10⁻¹² at 300 K, strontium 4.8 × 10⁻¹³ at 300 K, caesium 3.1 × 10⁻¹³ at 300 K, mercury ion 2.1 × 10⁻¹³ at 300 K. Every line falls in proportion to the temperature and to one over the mass. A clock aiming at one part in 10¹⁸ must hold strontium below 0.63 mK and hydrogen below 7.3 µK — or know their temperature well enough to correct for it. Pound and Rebka's gravitational shift across 22.5 m, 2.46 × 10⁻¹⁵, is marked for scale. Relativity

The clock that runs slow because it is warm

Every atom in a gas is moving, and every moving clock runs slow. The first-order Doppler shifts of a hot gas cancel on average; the time dilation does not, because it has only one sign. A hydrogen maser at 40 °C runs slow by four parts in a hundred billion from this alone, a nucleus in a crystal runs slow even at absolute zero, and the first test of gravitational time dilation nearly drowned in a one-kelvin temperature difference.

 A charge going past, as the field it delivers. The electric field across the line of motion at a point a distance b from the path of a passing charge, against time in units of b/c, on a logarithmic field axis in units of q/4πε₀b², for Lorentz factors of 1.2, 3, 10, 30. The peak is γ times the Coulomb field at rest and the width at half height is 2.311 b/c at γ = 1.2, 0.542 b/c at γ = 3, 0.154 b/c at γ = 10, 0.0511 b/c at γ = 30: taller by γ and shorter by γ, so the area under each curve — the sideways impulse the passing charge delivers, 2q²/4πε₀bv — is the same for all of them to within the integration's precision. A fast charge's field arrives as a thin, intense flash. Relativity

The charge that passes as a flash of light

A charge at rest has a field that no change of frame can turn into light. A charge going past at nearly the speed of light delivers a field that is, for every practical purpose, a pulse of light anyway: thin, perpendicular to the motion, with its electric and magnetic parts equal and crossed. Enrico Fermi saw in 1924 that such a field could be counted as photons, and the Large Hadron Collider now collides lead nuclei's photons with each other.

 Two straight worldlines that meet twice. A spacetime diagram of a universe whose space is a circle 10 light-years round, drawn unrolled: the shaded strip is the whole of space, and the strips beside it are the same space again, so the dashed lines are the same stay-at-home twin A seen in the copies. Twin B leaves A at 0.6c and never changes speed or direction. After 16.67 years by A's clock B has gone once round and meets A again — the line reaches A's copy at 10 light-years. Neither twin has accelerated at any moment; both worldlines are straight. A has aged 16.67 years and B 13.33, less by the factor 1/γ = 0.800. The usual resolution of the twin paradox, that the travelling twin is the one who turned round, is not available: here nobody turned. Relativity

The twin who never turns round

The twin paradox is usually settled by pointing at the turn: the travelling twin is the one who fired the engines and came back, and so the one whose worldline is not straight. Put the twins in a universe whose space closes on itself, like the surface of a cylinder, and the traveller can come home by going straight on. Neither twin ever accelerates, both worldlines are straight, and the traveller still comes back younger. What decides it is not any motion but the shape of space, which picks out one state of motion as special — and hands every observer a way to measure it.

 The deepest water reads warmer than the water above it. A column of seawater 10.9 km deep whose potential temperature — the temperature each parcel would have if brought to the surface without gaining or losing heat — falls from 20 °C at the top to 1 °C in the deep, and the temperature a thermometer lowered into it would read. The two agree near the surface and part company with depth: the thermometer reads a minimum of 1.38 °C near 3.9 km and then rises to 2.35 °C at the bottom, although the water there is the same water, with the same potential temperature, 1.00 °C, as the water two kilometres higher. The warming is compression alone; no heat reaches the deep trench from anywhere. Fluids

The water that warms on the way down

Lower a thermometer into the Mariana Trench and it reads colder and colder for four kilometres and then starts to warm, reaching about two and a half degrees at the bottom, eleven kilometres down. No heat is coming up from the sea floor to do it. The water at the bottom is the same water as the water two kilometres higher, carried down and squeezed, and squeezing warms it. In fresh water near four degrees the same squeezing does nothing at all, and below four degrees it cools — so a parcel of cold lake water pushed deep enough keeps sinking on its own.

 Grains that hide their own shadows. The share of the grain surface an observer can see that is also lit, against the angle between the observer's line of sight and the light's direction, for random layers of grains filling 10, 30, 50 per cent of the space, with the light 20° from the vertical. Computed by following sight lines to the first grain they meet and asking whether that point can see the source. At zero phase angle the share is exactly one: every surface the observer sees is lit, because the observer is looking along the light's own path. Away from it shadows come into view, and the share falls to 0.51, 0.63, 0.70 at 40°. The fall is fastest in the loosest layer — half of it is complete by 4.9° — and slowest in the densest, 14.2°, because long shadows between widely spaced grains need only a small change of viewpoint to be seen. Optics

The full moon that is too bright

Half a moon shows half the lit disc, so it ought to be about half as bright as a full one — a little less, allowing for the angle. It is a tenth as bright. In the last few days before full the Moon brightens far faster than its growing area can explain, and the extra light is not reflected any more strongly. It comes from shadows disappearing. The lunar soil is a loose heap of grains, and when the Sun is directly behind the observer every grain hides its own shadow.

 Two pushes that nearly cancel. The forces between two equal charges moving side by side at the same speed, measured in the laboratory, in units of the Coulomb force the same two charges exert at rest, against their speed. Electric repulsion grows as γ, because a moving charge's field is stronger across its motion: 2.29 at β = 0.9, 7.1 at 0.99. The magnetic attraction of two parallel currents grows as γβ² and eats it almost entirely: the net push is γ(1 − β²) = 1/γ — 0.436 at 0.9 and 0.141 at 0.99. Measured in the pair's own frame the push is exactly the Coulomb force at every speed; the difference is not a force that exists in one frame and not another but a difference in how fast the two frames' clocks run while the charges drift apart. Relativity

The beam that stops pushing itself apart

A beam of electrons is a crowd of like charges, and a crowd of like charges flies apart. A slow beam does, within centimetres. A fast one hardly does at all: at a gigaelectronvolt the same current travels kilometres before its width doubles. The electric repulsion has not weakened — it has grown, by the factor γ. What has grown faster is a magnetic attraction between parallel currents, which cancels all but 1/γ² of the push. Seen from the beam itself there is no magnetism at all, only Coulomb repulsion acting while the beam's clocks run slow.

 London's attraction, and the distance where it gives out. The dispersion energy between two identical atoms times the sixth power of their separation, relative to London's constant, against the separation in units of c/ω₀ — the reduced wavelength of each atom's strongest transition — on logarithmic axes, from the Casimir–Polder integral with a one-resonance polarisability. Close in, the product is one: London's inverse sixth power. It has fallen to a half by 3.82 c/ω₀, and far out it falls as one over the distance, so the energy goes as the inverse seventh power, reaching 23.2 per cent of London's value at ten reduced wavelengths and 2.44 per cent at a hundred. For two helium atoms, whose strongest line is at 58 nm, c/ω₀ is about 9 nm; for two sodium atoms, 94 nm. Electromagnetism

The attraction that weakens when light is too slow

Two neutral atoms attract because each one's fluctuating electrons polarise the other, and the two fluctuations fall into step. London's calculation of the force, as the inverse sixth power of the distance, assumes the field from one atom reaches the other instantly. It does not. Beyond a distance set by the wavelength of the atoms' own strongest transition — nine nanometres for helium, about a hundred for sodium — the field returns too late to find the fluctuation that made it. The attraction then falls one power faster. Casimir and Polder worked this out in 1948, and it was the starting point for the Casimir force between plates.

 A pointer that ends up where no eigenvalue could put it. The distribution of a measuring pointer's position, in units of its own initial spread, after it has been coupled to a spin whose two values would move it by ±g. Strongly coupled, g = 3, the pointer splits into two separate spots at ±3: an ordinary measurement. Weakly coupled, g = 0.1, the two possible shifts overlap almost entirely and the pointer's centre moves by only 0.020, the average of the spin times g. Keeping only the 0.99 per cent of runs in which the spin is afterwards found pointing along x, the kept pointer is centred at 0.802 — 8.0 times g, far outside the range ±g that either value of the spin could produce, and approaching the weak value 10, which it would reach exactly for a still weaker coupling. Quantum

The value a gentle measurement returns

Couple a pointer to a spin so weakly that the pointer's shift is far smaller than its own blur, and a single run learns almost nothing about the spin. Now keep only the runs in which the spin is later found in a chosen, nearly opposite state. The kept pointers move as though the spin's value were ten, or a hundred, though it can only be plus or minus one. That weak value was predicted in 1988 and has been measured many times. It is not a hidden value of the spin, and it does not break the uncertainty principle: it is paid for exactly in discarded runs. What it does give is a way to watch a quantum system without disturbing it.

 Sound cones that tip over. Time against position for sound in a fluid that speeds up from 0.55 to 1.3 times the speed of sound, drawn as the cone of places a sound made at each point can reach: its edges move at v − c and v + c. Upstream, where the flow is slow, the cones straddle the vertical and sound can go either way. At x = 0.20, where the flow reaches the speed of sound, the upstream edge stands vertical. Beyond it both edges point downstream: sound made there can no longer reach anywhere upstream of where it was made. That is a horizon, drawn in the same way as the light cones of a black hole, and it arises from nothing but the ordinary addition of a sound's speed to the speed of the water that carries it. Relativity

The river that sound cannot swim up

Sound travels at a fixed speed through the air or water carrying it, so a flowing medium adds its own speed to the sound's: faster downstream, slower upstream. That is the plainest velocity addition there is. Where the flow speeds up past the speed of sound, upstream-going sound is carried backwards, and nothing made beyond that point can be heard before it. The point is a horizon. Sound cones tip over there exactly as light cones do at a black hole, and the rate at which the flow speeds up plays the part of the surface gravity. A kitchen sink under a running tap makes the reverse kind of horizon, a white hole for ripples.

 An orbit that flattens without being told to. The path of a classical electron relative to its nucleus, in the laboratory, before and after the nucleus has been accelerated gently — over 200 orbits — from rest to 0.6 of the speed of light along the horizontal, computed from Maxwell's field of a moving charge and the relativistic law of motion alone. Before, the orbit is a circle of radius 1. After, it is an ellipse 0.810 wide along the motion and 1.012 across it, a ratio of 0.8003 against 1/γ = 0.8000, and one turn takes 1.2504 times as long as before, against γ = 1.2500. Nothing in the calculation assumed a contraction or a slowing clock: the forces between the moving charges produced both. Relativity

The contraction the forces work out for themselves

Relativity usually introduces length contraction as a consequence of how moving observers disagree about simultaneity, not as something that happens to matter. There is a second way to reach the same number, and it is worth knowing because it is the way the idea was first found. Take an atom, accelerate its nucleus gently, and compute what the electron does using only Maxwell's field of a moving charge and the law of motion. Nobody tells the orbit to contract, and it does, by exactly 1/γ, while each turn takes exactly γ times as long. The forces holding matter together work out the contraction for themselves.

 The slice through a mass that a ruler has to climb. A plane through the centre of a uniform body whose compactness 2GM/Rc² is 0.34 — about a neutron star's — drawn as a curved surface on which distances along the surface are the distances rulers measure. The body's edge is a circle whose circumference is 2πR; a ruler laid from the centre to that edge along the surface measures 1.068 R, 6.8 per cent more. Outside the body the surface is Flamm's paraboloid; inside it is a cap of a sphere. The flat line beneath is what Euclid would give. The height of the surface means nothing; only lengths along it are measured. For the Earth the same excess is 1.5 mm in 6,371 km and the surface would be indistinguishable from the flat line. Astrophysics

The radius a mass adds that no circumference shows

Walk round the Earth's equator and divide by 2π, and the number is the Earth's radius. Dig to the centre and measure the same radius with a tape, and the tape comes out about two millimetres longer. Nothing is wrong with either measurement. A mass does not only slow the clocks near it; it stretches the rulers too, and the stretch is exactly as large as the slowing. Clocks cannot see it. Light can, and half of every bend and every delay that light suffers near the Sun is this.

 Two pieces of current that one law makes push each other unequally. Two short elements of current a unit distance apart: element 1 pointing along the line joining them, element 2 at 45° to it. Left, the forces by the law that follows from Biot and Savart (Grassmann's): element 1 pushes nothing on element 2, because 1 points straight at it, while element 2 pushes on element 1 with a force of 0.71 units at right angles to it; the pair would feel a net 0.71 units. Right, the forces by Ampère's own law of 1826: 0.71 units each, along the line joining the elements, equal and opposite. Both laws give the same force between any two complete circuits, so no experiment on closed circuits can say which is right. Electromagnetism

The force between pieces of a current

Ampère spent six years finding the force one short piece of current exerts on another, and the law he found is not the one used today. The modern law, which follows from the Biot–Savart field, disagrees with his for almost every pair of pieces — his obeys Newton's third law and the modern one does not. Both give exactly the same force between any two complete circuits, which is the only thing that has ever been measured. The force between two pieces of current is a quantity with two correct values, because a piece of current on its own does not exist.

 A gyroscope swinging into the meridian. The direction of a gyrocompass's axis, in degrees east of true north, against time in hours, released 20° east of north at latitude 50°. The Earth's rotation tilts the horizon under the spinning axis, a pendulous weight turns the tilt into a torque, and the torque precesses the axis towards the meridian. Undamped (dashed) it swings through north and back with a period of 84.4 minutes, the compass having been built to that period. With damping it settles: after 8 hours it points within 0.03° of north. Nothing in the instrument knows where north is. It finds the direction about which the Earth turns, because only when its axis lies in the meridian does the turning horizon stop tilting it. Mechanics

The compass that finds the axis the Earth turns about

A spinning wheel held so that its axis stays level will, on a turning Earth, swing its axis round to point at true north and stay there — not magnetic north, the geographic pole. Nothing in the instrument knows where north is; it finds the one direction about which the Earth's turning stops tilting it. Built to be used at sea, such a compass has to ignore the ship's lurches, and that forces its swing to have one particular period: 84.4 minutes, the period of a pendulum as long as the Earth's radius, of a satellite skimming the ground, and of a stone dropped through a tunnel to the far side of the planet.

 The crests of one wave, meeting an observer who never stops accelerating. A spacetime diagram, time up and distance across, both scaled by the acceleration: the worldline of an observer with constant proper acceleration (a hyperbola), its horizon (the dashed light line it approaches and never crosses), and the crests of a plane wave of a single frequency travelling in the same direction, as parallel lines at 45°. Within the drawing the observer meets crests at proper times −0.18, −0.05, 0.11, 0.29, 0.51, 0.80, 1.20, 1.90 in units of c/a: the gaps lengthen, each crest having to chase the observer further, and after the last of them, at 1.90, it meets no more — every later crest lies beyond its horizon. One wave of one frequency therefore arrives as a signal whose frequency falls as e^(−aτ/c) for ever. Nothing about the wave is random, and the observer's clock is perfectly regular. Relativity

The heat hidden in a Doppler shift

An observer who accelerates without stopping sees empty space as warm. The usual derivation takes quantum field theory and several pages. There is a shorter one, and it needs no quanta at all. Watch a single wave of a single frequency from a steadily accelerating rocket: it is redshifted, and because the rocket keeps speeding away, the redshift grows exponentially. Take the spectrum of that fading signal, and it is exactly a Planck spectrum, at a temperature set by the acceleration and nothing else — the same whatever frequency the wave started with. The thermal distribution was hidden in the geometry of the horizon all along.

 What one trajectory says, and what the crowd says. For the walk with α = 0.5: the time-averaged mean-square displacement of each of 12 single trajectories, each watched for 10000 time units — the average of the squared displacement over every window of a given lag along that one path — against the lag, on logarithmic axes (thin lines), and the mean-square displacement of an ensemble of 800 walkers at the same times (thick). The ensemble spreads as t^0.5. Every single trajectory's time average grows nearly in proportion to the lag — mean slope 0.82, where the ensemble's is 0.5 — as if it were ordinary diffusion, and the trajectories disagree with one another about the diffusion coefficient by more than a factor of ten. A time average along one path and an average over many paths, which for ordinary diffusion are the same thing, here give different laws. That is weak ergodicity breaking, and it is what a single-molecule tracking experiment has to be read against. Thermodynamics

The diffusion that slows the longer it is watched

A random walker whose steps come at irregular times still diffuses normally, provided the waits have a finite average. Let the waits have no average — mostly short, occasionally enormous, as they are for a molecule that keeps getting stuck — and three things change at once. The spread grows more slowly than time. A diffusion coefficient measured by following one particle depends on how long it was followed. And following one particle for a long time no longer tells what many particles do: averages along a path and averages over a crowd give different laws. Tracking single molecules inside living cells runs straight into all three.

 The band in which radiation feeds a mode instead of draining it. The speed of a mode's pattern as seen from far away, in units of the star's own spin rate, against the spin rate as a fraction of the fastest a star can turn. The shaded band, between zero and one, holds patterns that run forward across the sky and backward through the star; gravitational radiation drives any mode inside it and damps any mode outside. The r-modes with ℓ = m = 2, 3 and 4 sit at 0.667, 0.833 and 0.900 at every spin, inside the band however slowly the star turns. The dashed curves are schematic modes whose crests run backward on the star at a fixed 0.2, 0.5 and 0.9 of the Kepler rate: each is dragged into the band only once the star turns faster than its crest runs, which is why an ordinary oscillation needs a star near break-up and an r-mode does not. Astrophysics

The wobble that radiating makes larger

Radiation normally drains a vibration: a struck bell goes quiet because it sends its energy away as sound, and a ringing black hole settles in milliseconds because it sends its energy away as gravitational waves. A spinning star can have the opposite. A pattern that runs backward through the star's material, while the star carries it forward across the sky, has less angular momentum than the star would have without it, and every wave it radiates takes away angular momentum it did not have to give. The pattern grows. One family of such patterns, the r-modes, runs backward on every rotating star, so every spinning neutron star is unstable unless friction wins — and that may be why none has been found spinning faster than 716 turns a second.

 Rotation is a magnetic field, and a superconductor cancels it. Magnetic fields along the spin axis inside a spinning metal, in units of 2mω/e, as seen by its electrons in the frame turning with it. In that frame the Coriolis force on an electron is exactly the force a magnetic field of 2mω/e would exert, pointing against the spin for a negative charge (Larmor's theorem). A normal metal spun in no field has no real field inside, and its electrons feel the rotation's equivalent field in full. A superconductor will not let its carriers feel any field in their interior — that is the Meissner effect — so it generates a real field of exactly the same size pointing the other way, and the sum vanishes. The real field is the London moment. Electromagnetism

The field a spinning superconductor makes of itself

Spin a lump of superconductor with no magnet anywhere near it, and a magnetic field appears inside it, pointing along the axis of spin: about eleven trillionths of a tesla for every radian per second, the same in lead, niobium or a copper-oxide ceramic. The field is not left over from anything. In a turning frame the Coriolis force on a moving charge is indistinguishable from a magnetic force, a superconductor will not let its carriers feel any field inside it, and so it makes a real field to cancel the one rotation imitates. The size depends on nothing but the carriers' mass and charge, which makes the field a balance for weighing them — and the one time it was read to a part in a hundred thousand, it gave an answer theory has not matched.

 Every path a rolling ball can take on a turntable, seen from the room. The paths, seen from the room, of four solid balls rolling without slipping on a turntable of radius 15 cm turning at 33.3 revolutions a minute (grey disc), over 6.3 seconds. A ball set down at rest relative to the room stays exactly where it is, spinning on the spot while the table turns under it. Every other ball moves on a circle, turning the same way as the table at 2/7 of its rate — once every 3.5 turns of the table — and comes back to where it started, whatever the push. A ball set down moving with the table does not ride with it: it circles on a path three and a half times the radius it started at, and the circle's centre is on the other side of the axis. Mechanics

The ball a turntable will not throw off

Set a marble down on a spinning turntable and the expectation is that it will be flung off the edge. It is not. Placed at rest relative to the room, it stays exactly where it is, spinning on the spot while the table turns beneath it. Given a push, it moves in a circle, turning the same way as the table at two-sevenths of the table's rate, and comes back to where it started. Tilt the turntable and the marble does not roll downhill: it wanders across the slope in a chain of loops. A rolling ball on a rotating surface obeys exactly the equation of an electric charge in a magnetic field, and the two-sevenths is how much of every push goes into turning the ball rather than moving it.

 The drift is the area under the height. Height against time for the two balls: the throw (dashed curve) rising to 100 m in 4.52 s and falling back in as long again, and the drop (solid) falling from 100 m. For vertical motion the east–west velocity is always −2Ω cos λ times the height above the starting point, so the east–west drift is −2Ω cos λ times the area between the path and the starting height. The throw's area (lower shading) is (4/3)·h·t = 602 m s, above its start, so it drifts west; the drop's (upper shading) is h·t/3 = 151 m s, below its start, so it drifts east. The ratio of the two areas is four. Mechanics

The ball thrown up that lands to the west

Drop a ball from a tower a hundred metres high and, because the Earth turns, it lands a centimetre and a half east of the point directly below. Throw a ball straight up so that it just reaches the same height, and it lands six centimetres west of where it was thrown — four times as far, the other way. The asymmetry has a one-line explanation that turns a problem in rotating frames into a problem about areas: for anything moving straight up or down, the sideways drift is proportional to the area under its graph of height against time. A dropped ball spends its flight below where it started, a thrown one above, and the thrown one's area is four times as large.

 The orbit an observer would reconstruct. The star's velocity along the line of sight, measured from the Doppler shift of its spectrum, as a fraction of its true orbital speed, plotted against the time the light arrives, in orbital periods, if light left the star at c plus the star's velocity. With light at c (dotted) the curve is the sine wave of a circular orbit. At 0.6 times the critical distance (solid) the same circular orbit arrives as a lopsided curve — a slow rise and a steep fall — that an astronomer would fit with a highly eccentric orbit that is not there. At twice the critical distance (dashed) the curve doubles back on itself: at some moments the spectrum would show two or three velocities at once, as if the star were in several places. Willem de Sitter pointed out in 1913 that spectroscopic binaries show nothing of the kind. Relativity

The binary star that would be seen twice

If light thrown forward by a moving source travelled faster, the way a ball thrown from a moving train does, then light from a star swinging towards the Earth in a binary orbit would catch up with light it had sent out earlier. From far enough away the two would arrive together, and the star would be seen in two places at once. Willem de Sitter pointed out in 1913 that nothing of the kind is seen, and that this settles whether the speed of light depends on its source. The argument had a loophole that took half a century to notice — interstellar gas re-emits light at its own speed — and closing it needed X-ray stars.

 A muon's spin lapping its own momentum round a storage ring. Snapshots of a muon circling a storage ring at γ = 29.3, taken every four turns (not to scale in time: the muon is drawn at a different place on the ring for each snapshot so they do not overlap). The dashed arrow is the direction of motion, tangent to the ring; the solid arrow is the spin. On each turn the spin gains 12.3° on the momentum — 2πaγ — so after 29.3 turns it has gained a full lap. That lap takes 4.37 microseconds, and the muon, whose lifetime is stretched from 2.2 to 64.4 microseconds by its speed, lives for about fifteen of them. Relativity

The spin that runs ahead of its own motion

A charged particle circling in a magnetic field has two directions that turn: the direction it is moving, and the direction its spin points. If the particle's magnetism were exactly what Dirac's equation first gave — a g-factor of exactly two — the two would turn together at every speed, the spin locked to the motion as a compass needle is locked to a car. The muon's g is not quite two, and its spin creeps ahead by a fixed rate that is the same at a crawl and at 99.94 per cent of the speed of light. That constancy is a delicate cancellation between a magnetic field made stronger by motion and a rotation that exists only because the particle is being turned, and it is what made the most precise measurements of the muon possible — at one magic speed, where the electric fields that steer the particles stop affecting the spin at all.

 A scan into a layered sample, with a broad source and a narrower one. The envelope of the interference signal against depth in a sample with five reflecting boundaries (marked), at 60, 72, 150, 158 and 260 µm, scanned with a 50 nm source (solid) and a 10 nm source (dashed), both centred at 840 nm. The broad source, with a 6.2 µm resolution, separates every boundary, including the two that are only 8 µm apart. The narrow one, with 31 µm, merges the pairs into single blurred echoes. Every boundary in a real eye or skin sample is a small change of refractive index that reflects a tiny fraction of the light; the scan is a map of where those changes are. Optics

The depth a broad spectrum can see

Interference is usually spoiled by a broad spectrum: many colours drift out of step, and fringes wash out a few wavelengths from where two paths are equal. Turned round, that failure is a ruler. Light whose colours stay in step only when two paths match to within a few micrometres can report the depth of every reflecting layer inside something translucent — a retina, a skin, a coat of paint — to that precision, without cutting it open. Optical coherence tomography reads depth off the width of a spectrum, and it has become one of the most used imaging methods in medicine; its resolution is set by how many colours the light contains, and the finest instruments use sources whose spectra span hundreds of nanometres.

 Which atoms in a Fermi sea are allowed to take a photon's kick. A slice through the occupied momentum states of a gas of identical fermions at zero temperature — a filled disc whose radius is the Fermi momentum — with each state marked by whether it can absorb a recoil of 0.8 of the Fermi momentum to the right, the kick a scattered photon gives. A state can scatter only if its kicked momentum lands outside the sea, in an empty state. The kicked sea is the second circle; the atoms in the overlap of the two (grey) land on occupied states and cannot scatter, and only those in the crescent (blue) can. In this slice 50 per cent of the states are allowed; over the whole sphere the allowed share is S(q) = 3q/4 − q³/16 = 0.568. A kick larger than the sea's diameter, twice the Fermi momentum, is never blocked, which is why the effect needs a sea whose Fermi momentum is comparable with the photon's. Quantum

The light a full sea will not scatter

An atom that scatters a photon recoils, and the recoil has to put it into a new state of motion. In a cold, dense gas of identical fermions most of the states it could recoil into are already taken, and the exclusion principle forbids the scattering outright. Nothing about the atom has changed — not its electrons, not its transition, not its cross-section — yet the gas becomes dimmer than the same number of atoms scattered one at a time. The effect was predicted in the 1990s and seen in 2021, and it turns transparency into a measurement of how full a quantum gas is.

 Two factors of γ between a magnet and an X-ray. An electron of 6 GeV (γ = 11742) crossing an undulator, a row of magnets alternating every λᵤ = 3 cm. Top: the laboratory, where the electron wiggles once per period. Middle: the electron's own frame, where the row is contracted by γ to 2.55 μm and rushes past at nearly the speed of light; to the electron it is a wave of that wavelength, and the electron radiates at it, in the infrared. Bottom: that light, emitted forward and seen back in the laboratory, is Doppler-shortened by a further factor of about 2γ, to λᵤ/2γ² = 1.088 Å; the wiggle's own slowing of the electron adds a factor (1 + K²/2), giving 1.632 Å for a deflection parameter K = 1 — hard X-rays from centimetre magnets. The drawing is schematic: the three periods differ by factors of about twelve thousand and a hundred million, and cannot be drawn to one scale. Relativity

The magnet period that comes out as an X-ray

A row of permanent magnets alternating every three centimetres, with a beam of six-gigaelectronvolt electrons sent down the middle, shines X-rays with a wavelength of an ångström and a half — two hundred million times shorter than the spacing of the magnets that made them. The factor is γ squared, and the two γ's come from two different frames. In the electron's frame the row of magnets is contracted by γ and rushes past it as a wave; the electron shakes in step and radiates; and that light, sent forward, comes back to the laboratory shortened by another factor of 2γ. Length contraction is half of every X-ray a modern synchrotron makes.

 Light whose crests wind round its axis. Cross-sections of three beams carrying orbital angular momentum, with phase exp(iℓφ) round the axis, for ℓ = 1, 2 and 3, at one instant: solid lines where the field is at a crest, dashed where it is at a trough. Along the beam the crests form ℓ interleaved helices, and at a fixed plane the pattern turns about the axis once every ℓ optical periods. Looked at from a frame turning about the axis at a rate Ω, every crest arrives ℓΩ/2π times a second more or less often: the field's frequency is shifted by ℓΩ. That is a Doppler shift with no approach and no recession — the angular counterpart of k·v, with the winding number ℓ standing in for the wavenumber and the rotation rate for the speed. Each photon of such a beam carries ℓħ of orbital angular momentum about the axis. Waves

The Doppler shift with nothing coming closer

Every Doppler shift so far has needed something to approach or recede. Light can be shifted in frequency by something that does neither: a surface spinning in place, or a polarising plate turning in a beam that passes straight through it. A beam whose wavefronts wind round its axis, ℓ times per wavelength, comes back from a surface spinning at Ω shifted by exactly ℓΩ, at every distance from the axis. A circularly polarised beam through a spinning half-wave plate comes out shifted by exactly 2Ω, because the plate takes two units of angular momentum from each photon and does work on it. The shift is tiny and perfectly measurable, and satellite navigation has to correct for it.

 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.

 The distance at which the air takes over. Evaporation of water at 20 °C into dry air, in kilograms per square metre per second, against the thickness of the layer the vapour must cross before it is carried away, both on logarithmic scales, with the kinetic and diffusive resistances added in series: 1/u + δ/D, where u = √(RT/2πM) is the speed at which the kinetic flux carries vapour off and D the diffusion coefficient. Dashed, the kinetic ceiling. At one atmosphere the two resistances are equal at δ = D/u = 0.17 μm, about two and a half mean free paths of the air; a layer much thinner than that leaves the surface at its ceiling, and a layer much thicker throttles it in proportion to its thickness. At a tenth of an atmosphere diffusion is ten times faster and the crossover moves out to 1.7 μm. Only in vacuum, or across gaps shorter than a mean free path, does the liquid itself set the rate. Thermodynamics

The puddle that could dry in a second

A liquid in equilibrium with its vapour loses molecules exactly as fast as the vapour delivers them, and kinetic theory says how fast that is. For water at room temperature it is two and a half kilograms per square metre every second — a puddle two and a half millimetres deep gone in a second. Puddles take hours because almost every molecule that leaves is knocked back by the air within a fraction of a micrometre. The ceiling binds only where the vapour can escape in a single free flight: in vacuum, where water freezes itself, in the smallest droplets, and on the filament of a lamp.

 Light added to its own reflection. Green light of 550 nm in an emulsion of refractive index 1.5, falling on a metal mirror at the left and adding to its reflection, which comes back inverted. Thin lines: the total electric field across the first 750 nm at three moments; heavy line: its envelope, 2|sin kz|; dashed: the envelope of the magnetic field, 2|cos kz|. The sum does not travel. Its electric field is zero at the mirror at every instant and again every 183 nm, half a wavelength in the emulsion, with maxima between; the magnetic field is largest exactly where the electric field vanishes. A light-sensitive layer anywhere in that space is exposed in sheets parallel to the mirror, and which field it responds to decides whether the first sheet lies at the mirror or a quarter-wavelength above it. Waves

The photograph that keeps the spectrum

Light falling on a mirror adds to its own reflection, and the sum does not travel: it stands, with sheets of darkness every half-wavelength. Otto Wiener photographed those sheets in 1890 and found the film clear where it touched the mirror, which settled which of light's two fields acts on matter. A year later Gabriel Lippmann recorded the sheets through the depth of an emulsion and developed them into stacked layers that, lit with white light, send back exactly the colours that wrote them. His photographs store the spectrum itself, so they can tell apart two yellows that every colour film and every eye records as one.

 How well a distance can be known, by how long it is. The smallest uncertainty in a distance l, on logarithmic axes, by three rules. Solid: the clock argument, 1.89 (ℓₚ² l)^(1/3), which grows as the cube root of the distance. Dotted: the Planck length, the floor usually quoted, which does not grow at all. Dashed: the guess that Planck-scale jitters add like a random walk, √(ℓₚ l). a metre: 1.2·10⁻²³ m by the clock argument, 4·10⁻¹⁸ m as a random walk; the Earth to the Sun: 6.4·10⁻²⁰ m by the clock argument, 1.6·10⁻¹² m as a random walk; the observable universe: 9.2·10⁻¹⁵ m by the clock argument, 8.4·10⁻⁵ m as a random walk. By the clock argument the size of the observable universe is uncertain by about the size of an atomic nucleus; as a random walk, by about a tenth of a millimetre. All three rules meet at the Planck length. Astrophysics

The clock that cannot be both light and good

The Planck length is usually quoted as the smallest distance that means anything, as though every longer distance could be known to that precision. Time a distance with light against a clock and the floor turns out to rise with the distance. A light clock wanders while the light is away; a heavy clock wanders less but is closer to being a black hole; and the best compromise leaves a metre uncertain by 750 thousand million Planck lengths and the size of the observable universe by the size of an atomic nucleus. The same compromise, counted up, says a region can hold only as many distinguishable places as its surface has Planck areas.

 Four operations on one half, four states of the pair. The sender holds one half of an entangled pair prepared in the state |Φ+⟩ = (|00⟩ + |11⟩)/√2, the receiver the other. To send two bits she applies one of four operations to her half alone — do nothing, flip it (X), shift its phase (Z), or both — and sends it. The table gives, computed from the state vectors, the probability that the receiver's joint measurement of both halves in the Bell basis returns each of the four Bell states: one on the diagonal, zero everywhere else. Four perfectly distinguishable outcomes from one transmitted qubit is two bits. Sent without the pair, a qubit can carry at most one. Quantum

The qubit that carries two bits

A single quantum two-state system, sent from one person to another, can carry at most one bit of message — a theorem, not an engineering limit. If the two already share half each of an entangled pair, the sender can do one of four things to her half alone, send just that half, and the receiver can tell which of the four she did. Two bits arrive on one qubit. Nothing is free: the shared pair had to be delivered, and counted honestly the rate is still a bit per qubit. What entanglement buys is the freedom to send half the message before the message exists, and it also buys privacy, since the qubit in transit carries nothing at all on its own.

 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.

 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.

 Light inside an accelerating rocket travels on circles. Rays of light leaving one point inside a rocket with constant acceleration, drawn in the rocket's own coordinates: height above the horizon up the page, in units of c²/a (one light-year for one gravity), and distance across. Each ray is a straight line in an inertial frame, transformed event by event. Launched across the rocket (0°) or at +30°, +60°, −30°, −60°, every ray is an exact semicircle centred on the horizon, with radius 1.000, 1.155, 2.000, 1.155, 2.000: the rays bend down towards the horizon and meet it at right angles. A ray sent straight up stays straight. These are the straight lines of the hyperbolic plane, although the spacetime inside the rocket is flat. Relativity

The rocket in which light travels on circles

Inside a rocket that accelerates for ever at a constant rate, a beam of light sent across the cabin sags towards the floor, as Einstein argued it must if acceleration and gravity are indistinguishable. Followed further than any cabin, the sag turns out to be exact geometry: every ray inside the rocket is a perfect semicircle centred on the horizon below, and the rays obey the rules of a non-Euclidean plane in which the angles of a triangle add to less than two right angles. The spacetime in the rocket is flat; the curvature belongs to the clocks.

 Where the spot is, and when, for three sweep speeds. A spacetime diagram of the spot a turning beam makes on a flat screen at distance D: position along the screen across, the time at which light arrives there up, both in units of D and D/c, for beams sweeping the screen's nearest point at ωD = 0.5c, 1.0c, 3.0c. Each curve is the arrival time t(x) = atan(x/D)/ω + √(D² + x²)/c. Every curve has a lowest point on the approaching side — at x = −1.25, −0.79, −0.32 D respectively — because far out the beam strikes the screen obliquely and its sweep along the screen outruns light whatever ω is. Light reaches that point first: the spot is born there, as a pair, one running back up the screen and one forward. The faster the sweep, the nearer the centre the birth. The faint dashed lines are light signals, slope one. Wherever a spot's track is flatter than they are, it is a sequence of events no signal could connect. Relativity

The spot that outruns light and carries nothing

Flick a laser pointer across the face of the Moon and the spot it makes crosses the Moon faster than light. Nothing is wrong with relativity: the spot is not a thing, and no part of it travels from one side to the other. Each lit point is lit by its own light, sent from the hand. What makes the spot worth studying is how strange such a non-thing is allowed to be. It can be born in the middle of the screen as a pair running apart; its speed can be made infinite, or reversed, merely by watching it from a moving frame; and the composition of velocities that caps everything real has nothing to say about it.

 Rays that leave the far side of a compact star. Light rays leaving the surface of a star of radius 2.9 Schwarzschild radii — a neutron star of 1.4 solar masses and about 12 km — and travelling to an observer far off to the right, traced along the exact paths of Schwarzschild's geometry, shown above and below the line of sight. The last ray to escape leaves the surface tangentially from a point 121° round from the point facing the observer, so the bright arc — everything the observer sees — covers 76 per cent of the surface rather than the half that straight rays would show. The dashed circle is the horizon a star of the same mass would have if it were compressed inside it. Astrophysics

The star whose far side can be seen

Look at a ball and half of it faces you; the other half is hidden behind it. That half is a fact about straight lines, and near a neutron star the lines are not straight. Light leaving the surface is bent round the star on its way out, so a distant observer sees three-quarters of a typical neutron star at once — and a star squeezed to 1.76 times its own Schwarzschild radius would show every point of its surface, the point directly behind it included.

 Jefimenko's two sources of a magnetic field. The magnetic field one metre from a long wire whose current is switched on, against time in light-metres, split into the two terms of Jefimenko's equation: the current at the retarded time divided by the square of the distance (solid blue), which is Biot and Savart's law with each piece of the wire seen as it was when its light left; and the rate of change of the current at the retarded time divided by c times the distance (solid green). Their sum (red) is the field. Nothing arrives before one metre of light-time. At 1.5 light-metres the two terms are 0.68 and 0.78; at 4, 0.97 and 0.07; the second term dies away as the switch-on recedes along the wire, and the first grows to the steady field. Neither term contains a changing electric field. Electromagnetism

The field a changing field does not make

Faraday's law says a changing magnetic field comes with a curling electric field, and Maxwell's correction to Ampère's law says the reverse, and the two are almost always read as a chain of causes: each field makes the other, and that is how light carries itself across empty space. Solved for what the fields actually are, Maxwell's equations say something different. Every field at every place is an integral over the charges and currents on the observer's past light cone, and over nothing else. The changing fields are not sources; they are two descriptions of the same retarded currents, and the laws that relate them hold because both are computed from one history.

 How fast each point of a fast wheel moves. The speed through the ground of each point on the rim of a rolling wheel, in units of the speed of light, against the point's angle round the rim measured from the bottom, for axles moving at 0.5c, 0.8c, 0.95c. The dashed curves are the everyday answer, 2v sin(α/2), which puts the top at twice the axle's speed and would carry it past light. Composed relativistically, the bottom is still at rest and the top moves at 2v/(1 + v²/c²): 0.800c, 0.976c, 0.999c, always below c. Every point of the rim stays slower than light, and the fast part of the wheel is flattened into a broad plateau over the top. Relativity

The wheel whose top cannot go twice as fast

The top of a rolling wheel moves at twice the speed of its axle, and the bottom is momentarily at rest — two facts every cyclist's spokes show, blurred at the top and sharp at the bottom. Roll the wheel at a large fraction of the speed of light and the second fact survives exactly while the first cannot: the top moves at 2v/(1 + v²/c²), never as fast as light. Caught at one instant of the ground's time the spokes are bent, and over one turn the wheel advances not the circumference measured from its axle but γ times it — the rim's own length, laid down on the ground by a contact point that does not move.

 Where skin and the thing it touches meet. Temperature across the contact between skin at 33 °C (left) and a block at 20 °C (right), against distance from the contact in millimetres, at 0.1, 1 and 10 s after touching, for steel (blue) and pine wood (red). Each pair of curves is two error functions meeting at the contact, and the meeting temperature does not change with time: 21.0 °C against steel and 30.3 °C against wood. The nerve endings a fraction of a millimetre under the skin report something close to that interface temperature, so the steel feels like an object at 21 °C and the wood like one at 30 — although both are at 20. The profiles spread as the square root of time, much further into the steel than into the wood. Thermodynamics

The metal that feels colder than the wood

A steel railing and a wooden bench in the same shade are at the same temperature, and the railing feels much colder. The usual explanation, that metal conducts heat better, is half the answer, and it gets water wrong. When two bodies touch, the surface between them jumps at once to a temperature that then stays fixed, a weighted average of the two in which each body's weight is the square root of its conductivity times its heat capacity per volume. Skin at 33 °C touching steel at 20 °C meets it at 21; touching wood, at 30. The nerves report the meeting temperature, not the object's.

 The share of its energy a particle can hand to one electron. The largest fraction of its kinetic energy a muon, a pion, a proton or an alpha particle can give a free electron in one collision, against its Lorentz factor γ, on logarithmic axes. A slow proton can give at most 0.22 per cent, 4m/M, which is why a proton slows down through tens of thousands of gentle collisions rather than a few hard ones. The share rises as γ grows and reaches a half at γ = 916 for a proton and 101 for a muon — near M/2m, where the electron's energy in the centre-of-momentum frame has grown comparable to the projectile's, so that the two meet as equals and a head-on reversal can hand the electron most of the energy. Relativity

The kick a fast particle can give an electron

A slow proton crossing matter can give any one electron at most a fifth of a per cent of its energy, because an electron struck head-on by something two thousand times heavier rebounds at no more than twice the heavier one's speed. That rule of thumb fails at relativistic speeds, and fails upward: the electron's speed is capped below light, but its energy is not, and the largest kick grows as the square of the projectile's Lorentz factor until, above a teraelectronvolt, one collision can take more than half of everything a proton carries.

 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.

 One lever, two frames, two different torques. A right-angled lever pivoted at its corner, with arms of length L, held still by a force F at the end of each arm, perpendicular to it. Left, in the lever's own frame: torque FL anticlockwise from the horizontal arm's force, FL clockwise from the vertical arm's, and they cancel. Right, the same lever seen moving to the right at 0.8 of the speed of light: the horizontal arm, along the motion, is contracted to L/γ = 0.60L, and the force on it, which is across the motion, is reduced to F/γ = 0.60F; the vertical arm and its force, along the motion, are unchanged. The torques are now 0.36FL and FL, and the lever is twisted clockwise by 0.64FL — the square of its speed as a fraction of light's. It does not turn. Relativity

The lever that is twisted and does not turn

A right-angled lever held still by two equal forces has no net torque on it. Watch the same lever go by at high speed and one arm is shorter, one force is weaker, and the torques no longer cancel — yet the lever goes by without turning. Nothing is wrong with either frame's arithmetic. The forces are doing work on the moving lever, the energy they put in is flowing through its arms, and a flow of energy carries momentum that points across the lever's motion: a body that moves straight with a momentum that does not.

 What an amplifier does to a signal's uncertainty. A signal drawn in the plane of its two quadratures — the in-phase and out-of-phase parts of a wave — as a disc one standard deviation across: a coherent input (black), with the vacuum's own uncertainty; and three outputs at a gain of 4: what a noiseless amplifier would give, the input disc scaled up by √G (dashed), which quantum mechanics forbids; what the least noisy phase-insensitive amplifier gives (blue), the same centre with a disc 1.323 times wider again; and what a phase-sensitive amplifier gives (red), the in-phase quadrature stretched by √G and the other squeezed by 1/√G, with no noise added. Referred back to the input, the phase-insensitive amplifier has added 0.375 of a quantum of noise; the signal's distance from the origin, measured in its own spread, has fallen by 0.756. Quantum

The noise every amplifier must add

An amplifier that magnifies a signal without caring about its phase must also add noise, and not because of hot transistors or bad design. However perfect it is, it adds at least half a quantum of noise referred to its input — exactly as much as the vacuum fluctuations the signal already carried — so a faint coherent signal always leaves with half its signal-to-noise ratio. The reason is the same rule that makes position and momentum uncertain, applied to the two halves of a wave, and an amplifier that broke it would be a machine for copying quantum states.

 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.

 Two kinds of flicker in one heat bath. The variance of the number of photons in one mode of black-body radiation, against hν/kT, both on logarithmic axes, split into its two parts: n̄, the variance a shower of independent particles would have, and n̄², the variance of the intensity of randomly phased waves; their sum is what thermodynamics demands of Planck's law. Where the photons are rare, at hν much more than kT, the particle term wins; where they are crowded, the wave term wins; they are equal at hν/kT = ln 2 = 0.693, where each mode holds one photon on average. At hν = 5kT the wave term is 0.68 per cent of the particle term; at hν = kT/10 the particle term is 10.5 per cent of the wave term. Quantum

The flicker that is half wave and half particle

In 1909, sixteen years before quantum mechanics, Einstein asked how much the energy in a small corner of a hot oven should fluctuate, and answered with nothing but thermodynamics and Planck's law. The answer has two terms. One is exactly what a spray of independent particles would give; the other is exactly what randomly overlapping waves would give. Neither theory of light could produce the sum, and the sum is what the oven does. The two terms are equal where each mode of the radiation holds one photon on average — a dividing line that runs through every hot thing, from the microwave sky to the Sun.

 The travelling twin's surfaces of now. Surfaces of equal radar time for a twin who leaves at 0.6c and turns round after 4 years of their own time, every half-year of the twin's time from 0.5 to 7.5, drawn in the home frame; each surface is every event the twin would time, by echo, at that moment. On the outbound leg, far from the turnaround's influence, the surfaces are the tilted lines of the outbound rest frame; on the way back, those of the return frame. In between they bend, with a corner where they cross the light rays from the turnaround, and they sweep up the home worldline smoothly: the home clock read at radar times 3.5, 4 and 4.5 is 4.00, 5.00 and 6.00. No two surfaces cross, so no event is given two times, and none is skipped. Relativity

The now a travelling twin can measure

The standard account of the twin paradox has the traveller's sense of “now on Earth” lurch forward by years at the moment of turning round. That lurch belongs to a recipe — borrow the simultaneity of whatever inertial frame the traveller happens to be in — and the recipe is not something the traveller can measure. Timing the home clock by echo, as a radar does, gives a now that the traveller can measure, that never jumps and never crosses itself, and that during the turnaround coincides, surprisingly, with the stay-at-home's own.

 An electron that runs into light and loses its energy to it. The energy of an electron of 511 MeV (γ = 1000) as it passes head-on through a 10-cycle pulse of 0.8 µm light, as a fraction of its starting energy, against the number of laser cycles it has crossed, for normalised field strengths a₀ = 30 and 100: with radiation reaction (solid) and without (dashed). Without it, the electron is shaken sideways while in the light and leaves with exactly the energy it brought, as a plane wave requires. With it, each half-cycle near the pulse's peak radiates away a slice: the electron leaves with 76 per cent of its energy at a₀ = 30 and 22 per cent at a₀ = 100, the rest gone as gamma rays. Relativity

The light that takes back an electron's energy

An electron at rest in the most intense laser light ever made feels its own radiation as a force a millionth of the light's push — the textbook reason radiation reaction never matters. Send the electron into the light at nearly the speed of light and the arithmetic turns over. In its own frame the light is stronger by twice its Lorentz factor, the power it radiates grows as the square of that, and a pulse a few tens of femtoseconds long can strip it of most of its energy as gamma rays. That is where the classical theory of a radiating charge, argued over for a century, finally has to answer to experiment — and where it starts to fail for quantum reasons.

 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.

 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.

 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.

 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.

 A peak at half the mass, made by a sine. The momentum across the beam of the electron from 200,000 simulated W decays, as a probability density per GeV, for a W of mass 80.37 GeV. For a W exactly at rest across the beam, of exactly its mass (dashed), the electron carries M/2 = 40.19 GeV in the W's frame and shows a fraction sin θ of it across the beam, so the distribution climbs to a sharp peak at M/2 and stops: the Jacobian peak, piled up because sin θ hardly changes near θ = 90°. The W's natural width of 2.1 GeV rounds the peak (solid, peak at 39.9 GeV); its motion across the beam, a few GeV on average, smears it further and pushes a tail past M/2 (lighter). The position of the peak measures the mass, and is shifted by anything that moves the W. Relativity

The mass weighed without one of its pieces

A W boson decays into an electron and a neutrino, and the neutrino leaves every detector without a trace. Its mass cannot be found the usual way, by adding up the energy and momentum of what it decayed into, because half of what it decayed into is missing. What survives is the part of the motion across the beam, where the neutrino's momentum can be inferred from the imbalance it leaves. There the electron's momentum piles up at half the W's mass, and a quantity built from both particles ends at a sharp edge at the full mass. The world's best measurements of that edge disagree by seventy-five parts in eighty thousand.

 Two descriptions of gold that agree everywhere but at zero. How strongly gold answers a slowly varying field, (ε(iξ) − 1)ξ²/ωₚ² in the two forms of its permittivity at imaginary frequency ξ, against ξ on a logarithmic axis: the plasma model (dashed), which ignores the electrons' collisions and gives exactly 1, and the Drude model (solid), which includes them at the measured rate ħγ = 35 meV and falls to zero below about γ = 5.3·10¹³ per second. The Lifshitz force samples this curve only at the Matsubara frequencies 2πlkT/ħ (dots, 300 K): the first, 2.47·10¹⁴ per second, lies above γ, and there the two descriptions differ by 18 per cent, at the next by 10, and less beyond. At l = 0, ξ = 0, they part completely: 1 against 0. Everything the two models disagree about is in that one point. Electromagnetism

The static field a metal may or may not reflect

The Casimir force between two gold plates at room temperature has been computed two ways for twenty-five years, and the two answers differ by forty per cent at three micrometres. Both use the same measured optical properties of gold. They part company over a single number: whether gold reflects a magnetic field that does not change in time. Common sense and every electrical engineer say it does not, since a static field passes straight through a copper sheet. The most precise force measurements say it does. The disagreement is not about the Casimir effect at all; it is about what a metal's electrons do with a fluctuation slower than their collisions.

 Loops that swell as the electric field approaches cB. A charge starting from rest in crossed uniform fields — the electric field up the page, the magnetic field out of it — for E/cB = 0.3, 0.6, 0.85, integrated exactly; lengths in units of mc/qB. Each traces a chain of loops drifting to the right at E/B. Newton's law gives loops of height 2mE/qB² — 0.6, 1.2, 1.7 — whatever the speed. The exact loops are 0.66, 1.88, 6.13 high, larger by γ² of the drift speed, 1.10, 1.56, 3.60: in the frame moving at the drift the electric field vanishes and the magnetic field is weakened to B/γ, and the charge circles at the drift speed on a larger orbit than a weaker field would explain alone. As E approaches cB the drift approaches c and the loop grows without limit. Relativity

The orbit that opens when E reaches cB

A charge in crossed electric and magnetic fields drifts sideways at E/B, looping as it goes, and the textbook leaves it there. The textbook result has a speed in it that can be made larger than light, and something has to give. What gives is the loop. As the electric field approaches c times the magnetic one, the loops swell without limit, and at E = cB the charge stops looping and is carried off for ever. Above that ratio no frame can make the electric field vanish; one can make the magnetic field vanish instead, and in that frame the charge simply runs away. The transition from a bound orbit to a run-away is decided by a single quantity every observer agrees on, E² − c²B².

 Four regimes along one line of mixed states. The weight p of the singlet in Werner's mixture of a singlet and complete noise, from 0 (pure noise) to 1 (a perfect singlet), divided by what is known about it. Below p = 1/3 the state is separable: it can be made by handing out unentangled pairs. Above 1/3 it is entangled, by the partial-transpose test. Yet up to at least p = 1/2 — Werner's explicit model of 1989 — and, by a later argument through Grothendieck's constant, up to about 0.66, a local hidden-variable model reproduces the outcomes of every pair of projective measurements on it, so no Bell experiment of that kind can reveal the entanglement. Above 1/√2 ≈ 0.707 the CHSH inequality is violated. Between about 0.66 and 0.71 (and, by more recent searches, between about 0.68 and 0.70) it is not known whether any Bell inequality is broken. Quantum

The entangled pair a list of answers can imitate

Entanglement and the violation of a Bell inequality are usually spoken of as the same thing, and they are not. Mix a perfect singlet with random noise and the pair stays entangled until the noise is two-thirds of the mixture. It stops violating the CHSH inequality much sooner, when the noise passes three-tenths. In between lies a family of genuinely entangled states whose every measurement can be reproduced by particles carrying instructions fixed in advance — Reinhard Werner wrote the instructions down in 1989. The entanglement in those states is real and can be spent, on teleportation for one thing. It simply cannot be seen by asking two distant analysers what they find.

 The same fringes from cooler and hotter molecules. The rate at which molecules arrive across a few periods of the interference pattern behind the last grating, relative to its mean, for molecules at 1000, 2500, 3000 K, each with the visibility the emission model gives: 46 per cent, 14 per cent, 4 per cent. The cooler molecules draw fringes nearly as strong as cold ones; at 3000 K the pattern is a faint ripple on a flat background. The average number arriving is the same in every case: the heated molecules are not lost, and none of them has been deflected out of the beam. They arrive in the same places on average and no longer interfere. Quantum

The molecule that interferes until it glows

A molecule of seventy carbon atoms, sent through a matter-wave interferometer, travels both arms at once and lands in fringes, as an electron or a neutron does. Heat it, and the fringes fade. Nothing has touched it from outside: a hot molecule glows, and each photon it gives off is a messenger that may carry away the information of which arm it was in. Whether it does depends on one comparison — the photon's wavelength against the separation of the arms. Long photons leave the fringes alone; short ones erase them. The loss of interference that is usually described as the onset of the classical world is here a measurement made by the molecule's own light, and its threshold can be computed.

 A surface whose thickness depends on how much of it is looked at. The rms roughness of a water surface at 20 °C, in nanometres, against the size of the patch over which it is measured, from the thermal ripples that fit inside the patch — with gravity (solid) and without it (dashed) — for ripples down to a molecular wavelength of 0.6 nm. Over 10 nm the surface is 0.16 nm rough; over a micrometre, 0.26; over a millimetre, 0.36; and beyond a few millimetres gravity flattens the longest ripples and the roughness stops at 0.390 nm. In free fall it would keep growing as the square root of the logarithm: 0.43 nm over a metre. An X-ray reflectivity measurement sees the ripples smaller than its own coherence length, typically some micrometres, and reports a thickness of about a third of a nanometre — a number that belongs to the instrument as much as to the water. Fluids

The surface whose thickness depends on the view

The surface of a glass of water looks like a perfect plane, and over most distances it nearly is. But it is at room temperature, and every ripple it could carry — from a few molecules long to a few millimetres — is shaken by heat with its own share of thermal energy. The ripples are tiny, a fraction of a nanometre high, and they add up in an odd way: every factor of ten in wavelength contributes the same amount of roughness. So the thickness of a water surface has no single value. It depends logarithmically on how large a patch is looked at, until gravity stops it at a few millimetres, and the X-ray measurements that report a third of a nanometre are reporting a property of their own resolution as much as of the water.

 Where the two theories part: the magnetic permeability. The voltage across the spinning wall as a fraction of a metal's, against the material's relative permeability μ, for a permittivity ε = 6. Lorentz's electron theory (flat) polarises the material only through the force on its charges, so μ does not enter: (ε − 1)/ε = 0.833 at every μ. Relativity gives (εμ − 1)/εμ, which agrees exactly at μ = 1 — so no ordinary insulator, such as the ebonite H. A. Wilson spun in 1904, can tell them apart — and climbs towards a metal's value as μ grows. At μ = 3 (dot) the relativistic voltage is 13.3 per cent larger. That is why Wilson and Wilson needed an insulator that was also magnetic, and made one from steel spheres set in wax. Electromagnetism

The voltage a moving magnet adds to an insulator

Spin a hollow cylinder of insulator in a magnetic field along its axis and a voltage appears between its inner and outer surfaces, because every piece of it is moving through the field. How large that voltage is turns out to depend on whether the insulator is magnetic, and the dependence was predicted by one theory and missed by the other. Maxwell's equations hold in a moving material only if the material's response is written in its own frame and carried into the laboratory by relativity — and then a moving magnet is also an electric dipole.

 A cloud thrown from one event into empty space. A spacetime diagram, time up, one space dimension across, light at 45° (the edges of the shaded cone). Particles leave one event at the bottom with 13 different speeds, equally spaced in rapidity from −2.10 to 2.10 — from 0.970c one way to the same the other — and coast in straight lines (thin). The curves are the hyperbolas on which every particle's own clock reads 1, 2, 3: the cloud's own instants. Measured along any one of them, the particles are evenly spaced — the cloud is uniform — and the spacing grows in proportion to the clock: it is expanding. Nothing here is curved and nothing is created; it is special relativity in flat spacetime, and every particle, the central one included, sees the same thing. 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 readings of the moving clocks along one instant: a wave. The cosine of each moving clock's phase, read along a single laboratory instant, against position in light-periods of the clock, for clocks moving at 0.3c, 0.6c, 0.85c. The readings make a wave whose wavelength, measured from the drawing, is 3.18, 1.33, 0.62 light-periods: c²/(γvν₀), shrinking as the clocks move faster. For a clock that ticks at its rest energy over Planck's constant, ν₀ = mc²/h, that is h/γmv — de Broglie's wavelength, h over the momentum. Nothing about waves was assumed: only clocks, synchronised where they rest, read from a frame in which they move. Relativity

The wave a row of moving clocks leaves on an instant

Line up identical clocks, synchronise them where they stand, and send the whole row past a laboratory at a steady speed. On any one laboratory instant the clocks do not agree: the ones further ahead read less, by an amount that grows steadily along the row. The readings form a wave laid out in space, its crests are the moving row's instants, and they sweep along faster than light. Give each clock the frequency of its rest energy and the wavelength is exactly h/p. De Broglie's matter wave began, in 1923, as an argument about the relativity of simultaneity.

 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.

 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 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.

 Every toss already decided. The outcome of a coin toss as a map of how it was launched: the upward speed in metres per second across, the spin in radians per second up, with the region where the coin shows the face it started with shaded and the region where it shows the other face left clear. A coin spinning about a diameter and caught at the height it left is in the air for 2v/g and turns 2vω/g radians, so the boundaries are the hyperbolae vω = nπg/2, one for every half-turn. Near the origin the bands are wide: a slow toss with little spin is easy to control, and a conjuror's "honest" toss lives there. Nothing in the map is random. Every point is a definite outcome, and the bands are smooth curves — there is no fractal boundary, no region where a tiny change has an unpredictable effect. What makes a toss a fair bet is only how narrow the bands become further out. Mechanics

The toss that is random without chaos

A coin toss is the textbook random event and the textbook deterministic one at the same time. Its flight is a few lines of Newtonian mechanics with no chaos anywhere: two tosses that start almost alike stay almost alike, drifting apart only in proportion to time. Its outcome is fixed the moment it leaves the thumb, by a map of launch speed and spin carved into bands of heads and tails. It is a fair bet because the bands, at a real toss, are only a few per cent wide and no hand repeats itself that well — and it is not quite fair, because a coin wobbles as it flips, and the wobble keeps its starting face up a little more than half the time: 50.8 per cent, predicted in 2007 and counted in 2023 over 350,757 tosses.

 Three throws in a spinning room. Balls thrown at 5 m/s from the floor of a station 10 m in radius, spun at 0.99 rad/s (9.5 turns a minute) so that its floor presses with one g, as seen by someone standing in it: at 45° spinward, at 45° antispinward and straight up; with the Earth's parabolas for the two 45° throws dashed. Distances along the floor and heights in metres. On the Earth both 45° throws land 2.55 m away. In the station the spinward throw lands 1.52 m away and the antispinward one 3.06 m away, and the ball thrown straight up comes down 1.30 m ahead of the thrower, spinward. Nothing acts on any of the balls in flight. Each flies straight across the station while the floor turns beneath it, and what the thrower sees as gravity bending the path is the room rotating. Mechanics

The throw a spinning station bends

A space station spun fast enough presses its floor up against its crew with the force of the Earth's gravity, and from the inside it can feel like home. Throw a ball, and the illusion fails. Nothing acts on the ball once it leaves the hand: it flies in a perfectly straight line across the station while the floor turns beneath it, and what the thrower sees as a parabola is a chord of a circle seen from a turning room. In a station ten metres across, a ball thrown up a metre comes down a metre ahead of the hand, a ball thrown with the spin falls short and one thrown against it carries long, and a dropped spanner lands a metre behind the point beneath it. How big a station must be to feel like the Earth is a question projectiles answer.

 Two metals mixing at unequal speeds. The fraction of the fast-diffusing species A against position across a welded couple, A on the left and B on the right, at three times in the ratio 1 : 4 : 16, when A diffuses 3 times as fast as B, from Darken's equations, in units in which B's diffusivity and the middle time are both one; each profile's marker — an inert wire laid at the original weld — as a dot on it. The profiles spread as the square root of time, and they are lopsided: A pours into B's side faster than B into A's, so the mixed zone extends further into B. The markers do not stay at the weld. They move into A's side — by 0.39, 0.80 and 1.63 units at the three times — because the lattice planes of A's side are being emptied faster than they are filled. That drift, first seen in copper and brass in 1947, is the Kirkendall effect. Thermodynamics

The markers that move because atoms are unequal

In 1947 Ernest Kirkendall and Alice Smigelskas wound fine molybdenum wires around a bar of brass, plated it thickly with copper, and heated it for fifty-six days. The wires, which do not dissolve in either metal, ended closer together: the brass inside them had shrunk. Zinc had diffused out of the brass faster than copper diffused in, and the lattice planes of the brass had been taken away along with the zinc. If atoms in a metal moved by swapping places with each other, the two flows would have had to be equal. They were not, and the only way the books balance is if atoms move by jumping into vacancies — empty lattice sites — that flow the other way. The wires were the first direct evidence that diffusion in metals runs on holes.

 The peak no pion spectrum can move. The photon spectrum from a population of neutral pions, summed from their boxes, for pion spectra falling as three different powers of the energy. Whatever the pion spectrum, each curve peaks at the same 67.5 MeV and is symmetric on the logarithmic axis, since every box contains that point and a box's height falls as it widens; checked here at the point and its mirror, the ratio is 1.000. This is the shape, known as the pion bump, that Floyd Stecker worked out in 1971. Gamma-ray telescopes found it in 2013 in two supernova remnants, which was taken as direct evidence that such remnants accelerate protons, because the electrons that produce most other gamma rays have no reason to make a peak here. Relativity

The flat spectrum a fast pion must paint

A neutral pion falls apart into two photons, each with half its rest energy, in a hundred-million-billionth of a second. Seen in flight, those photons could have any energy between two edges, and every energy in that range is equally likely, whatever the pion's speed. Add up a whole population of pions and something unexpected appears: a peak at exactly the 67.5 MeV that no individual decay shows. Astronomers took it as evidence of where cosmic rays are made.

 The price of a pair depends on who pays it. The lowest energy of a photon that can make an electron–positron pair when struck on a stationary partner, against the partner's mass: 2mc²(1 + m/M), from requiring that the total four-momentum have the invariant mass of what is left at rest in the centre of momentum. For a lead nucleus it is 2mc² to better than one part in a hundred thousand, the figure every textbook quotes. For a proton it is 0.054 per cent above. For a free electron it is exactly twice, 4mc², or 2.04 MeV, even though the partner is the very same mass as the pair's members. The rest energy created is unchanged; what rises is what has to be carried off by the partner and the pair together. Relativity

The partner that sets the price of a pair

Every textbook says it takes 1.02 MeV to make an electron and a positron from light, twice the electron's rest energy. Done in empty space, it cannot be done at any energy at all. Next to a lead nucleus it costs 1.02 MeV. Next to a lone electron, a particle exactly as heavy as the ones being made, it costs 2.04. Nothing about the pair has changed. What changes the price is who has to carry the momentum away.

 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.

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