Field

Gravitation

Two bodies pulling on each other, and everything that goes wrong at three.

Two bodies at a mass ratio of 3 to 1. Both bodies orbit their common centre of mass, on similar ellipses whose sizes are in inverse proportion to the masses — here 3 to 1, so the heavier body's path is 3 times smaller.

Neither body is still, and the wobble is how planets are found

A planet does not orbit its star. Both orbit a point between them, and the star's share of that motion is small, measurable, and the reason thousands of planets are known.

Why a shell pulls a point inside it not at all. A double cone from a point inside a uniform shell. In the narrow-cone limit the far patch is 2.80 times further away and 2.80 times wider — the same number, checked to a part in a thousand before this figure is drawn. Its mass is greater by the square of that ratio and its pull weaker by the same square, so the two cancel in every direction.

A sphere pulls exactly like a point, and the proof is a pair of cones

Every orbit ever computed treats the Sun as a dot. That is not an approximation — for a spherical body it is exact, and the reason is a cancellation between two patches of a shell.

The tidal field is a difference. The pull of a distant body at each point of a sphere, minus its pull at the sphere's centre. What remains stretches along the line to the source and squeezes across it — two bulges, not one.

The tide is a difference, which is why there are two of them

The Moon pulls the ocean toward it. That explains one bulge. The second one, on the far side, is the whole of the physics — and it comes from subtracting.

$The five Lagrange points at mass fraction 0.12. The five points at which a small body can keep station with two larger ones. The three on the line of centres are roots of a quintic and are unstable; the two forming equilateral triangles are stable for a sufficiently lopsided mass ratio.$

Five places that keep station, in a problem with no solution

Three bodies under gravity cannot be solved. Restrict the problem slightly and five exact answers fall out anyway — three of them roots of a quintic, two of them perfect equilateral triangles.

The two-body problem, and the one-body problem it is. Left: two bodies with mass ratio 0.4 on ellipses of eccentricity 0.5 about their common barycentre, the heavier one on the smaller orbit. Right: the same system as one body of the reduced mass on a single ellipse of the same eccentricity about a fixed centre, at the separation of the two. The right-hand curve is the point-by-point difference of the two left-hand curves, so the substitution is drawn rather than asserted.

Two bodies replaced by one that does not exist

The two-body problem is solved by turning it into a one-body problem about a fixed centre. The substitution is not an approximation — it is exact, and the body it invents has a mass no object in the system has.

The tide across a moon, against the moon's own gravity. The tidal acceleration across a satellite and the satellite's own surface gravity, both in units of that surface gravity, against distance from the primary in planet radii. The tide falls as the inverse cube and the self-gravity does not fall at all, so they cross once — at 2.23 radii for the density ratio drawn. Inside the crossing the tide wins and a body held together only by its own weight comes apart.

The distance at which a moon stops holding together

The tide across a body falls as the inverse cube; the body's own gravity does not fall at all. There is therefore exactly one crossing, and Saturn's rings end within a few per cent of it.

Three bodies, integrated. Three equal masses integrated forward under mutual gravity: the figure-eight choreography — all three bodies on one closed curve. Every point is a step of the equations of motion, and the total energy is conserved to 2.5e-11 across the run.

Three bodies, and what "no solution" actually means

The three-body problem is routinely called unsolvable. Trajectories are computed for it every day, exact periodic solutions are known, and both statements are true — the word is doing more work than it looks.

$The Kirkwood gaps. Asteroid numbers against semi-major axis, with the resonant radii marked. Each gap sits where the orbital period is a simple fraction of Jupiter's, and each of those radii is computed from the harmonic law rather than placed by eye.$

Resonance clears a gap in one place and locks a moon in another

When two orbital periods are in a simple ratio, small tugs stop averaging away and start accumulating. Sometimes that empties a region entirely. Sometimes it holds three moons together for the age of the solar system.

$Zero-velocity curves, mass fraction 0.15. Level sets of the Jacobi constant in the frame that rotates with the two bodies. A particle with a given value of C is confined to the side of its own curve where the kinetic energy would be positive; as C falls the curves open, first at the inner point between the bodies, then behind the smaller one, and finally around the whole system.$

The curve that says where a body cannot go

The restricted three-body problem has no solution and one conserved quantity. That quantity is enough to draw a boundary the body can never cross — without integrating anything, without knowing where it started, and for all time.

$The surface a star stops at. The equipotential through L₁ — the Roche lobe — at mass fractions 0.50, 0.20, 0.05, in the frame that rotates with the pair. Each is a level set of exactly the same function the zero-velocity curves are level sets of, at exactly the critical value, so nothing here is a new construction: the Roche lobe is the last closed equipotential, and it is closed only because the two lobes touch at a single point. Material that reaches that point is no longer bound to the star it came from, and it leaves through an opening of zero area. The lobes are drawn in the orbital plane; in three dimensions each is a teardrop, and its volume-equivalent radius is what "the size of a Roche lobe" means. As the mass ratio becomes extreme the smaller star's lobe shrinks towards it, which is why a white dwarf accreting from a companion has a lobe smaller than the Sun.$

The surface a star stops at

Around each star of a close pair there is a last closed equipotential, and the two touch at a single point. A star that swells to reach it hands its outer layers to its companion through an opening of zero area — and the transfer, once started, makes itself worse.

Mercury's perihelion, term by term. The observed advance of Mercury's perihelion is 5600 arcseconds per century against the equinox. Almost all of it is the equinox: the coordinate frame itself turns, and removing it leaves 574. Subtracting the perturbations of the other planets — computed by Le Verrier in 1859 and refined many times since — leaves 42.98 arcseconds a century that nothing in Newtonian gravitation accounts for. The bars are logarithmic in nothing; they are the real proportions, which is why the residual is barely visible beside the frame term.

Forty-three arcseconds, after everything else

Mercury's perihelion moves through 5,600 arcseconds a century. Nearly all of that is the coordinate system turning, and almost all of the rest is the other planets. What was left over was 43 — under one per cent of the raw number, and the most consequential residual in the history of the subject.

G: 14 determinations in two families. Published determinations of G, each with its quoted one-sigma interval, sorted into two families — torsion balance, in one form or another, against beam balance, pendulum, atom interferometry. The shaded band behind each family is that family's inverse-variance weighted mean: 6.67435 ± 0.00004 across 11 of them, against 6.67343 ± 0.00009 across 3. The difference is 0.00092 ± 0.00010 10⁻¹¹ m³ kg⁻¹ s⁻², which is 9.3 standard deviations, computed here from the quoted errors alone. The arithmetic is the same one the Hubble figure uses and here it should be distrusted, because the scatter inside each family already exceeds what the intervals allow: eleven torsion-balance determinations spread over 500 parts per million with quoted intervals of 12 to 130 cannot all be right, whatever the difference between the families comes to. That is why the recommended value's uncertainty is expanded far beyond any single experiment's rather than being the weighted combination drawn here — the disagreement is between laboratories using the same method, not between methods.

Nothing in the sky is weighed in kilograms

The Sun's gravitational parameter is known to eleven significant figures. The Sun's mass is known to five. The two statements are about the same object and the difference between them is a constant measured in basements, which is the worst-determined fundamental constant in physics.

A day five hours long

The tidal bulge leads, so the Earth's spin is being paid into the Moon's orbit. Run the measured payment backwards and two curves come out of one integration — a timeline that is refuted by the Moon's own age, and a day length that is refuted by nothing.

PSR B1913+16: 45 years of periastron arriving 88 seconds early. The cumulative shift of periastron passage for PSR B1913+16, Δt = ½(Ṗ_b/P_b)T², over 45 years from its discovery in 1975. The orbital period is 0.322997449 days and is measured to be shortening at 2.423e-12 seconds per second — a change in the twelfth decimal place, which over a career accumulates to 87.5 seconds. That is the whole reason the effect is measurable. Ṗ_b is taken here as a measured quantity and no radiated power is derived from it; the parabola is the general-relativistic prediction as published, and the points are that prediction scaled by the published ratio of observed to predicted decay, 0.997 ± 0.002 (Hulse & Taylor 1975; Weisberg & Huckins 2016), which is how the agreement is quoted. The error bars are drawn: at the last point the bar is 1.25 px tall against a dot 9 pixels across, so they are invisible, and their invisibility is the result. The campaign has run 45 years.

An orbit measured to be shrinking

A 7.75-hour orbital period that shortens by 68 nanoseconds each turn is beyond any single measurement, and unmissable after fifty thousand of them, because the shift accumulates as the square of the elapsed time. Forty-five years of pulse arrival times have made it 87.5 seconds, which is why the rate is a measured quantity rather than an inferred one.

$The Hill radius against the mass ratio, and where four planets keep their outermost moon. The Hill radius R_H = a(μ/3)^⅓ and the exact L₁ distance from the same quintic, both in units of the planet's own semi-major axis, against the mass ratio μ = m/(M+m) from 10⁻⁸ to 0.12. The two are the same line to the width of the stroke across the whole planetary range — the cube-root formula runs 0.33% short of the exact L₁ distance at the Earth's mass ratio and 10.0% short at the right-hand edge — so the departure between them is drawn on its own percentage scale at the right, which is the only place it can be seen. Below the curves are the numerically determined stability limits, 0.5 R_H for a prograde satellite and 0.7 R_H for a retrograde one, and the outermost known satellite of each of four planets, each at a Hill fraction computed from that planet's own mass and orbit: Moon 0.257, Sinope 0.451, Phoebe 0.198, Neso 0.424. Of the four, three are retrograde — Sinope, Phoebe, Neso — and they reach 0.451 of their planet's Hill radius against 0.257 for the one prograde satellite: 1.8 times as far out, in a diagram whose two stability limits stand in the ratio 0.7 to 0.5. No equilibrium argument predicts that, and it is what the drawing makes plain.$

The region a planet may keep a moon in

A satellite is not held by orbiting but by orbiting inside the radius at which the Sun's tidal field would take it away. That radius is the same distance the innermost Lagrange point sits at, asked a different question — and the boundary the sky actually respects is smaller, by a factor that depends on which way the moon is going round.

Forty-two minutes, from anywhere to anywhere. Left, the gravitational field inside the Earth: a straight line for a uniform sphere, because the enclosed mass grows as r³ and the field as r, and the PREM curve for the real one, which is nearly flat through the whole mantle at about 9.94 m/s² because the dense core is already all below. Right, what falls through it. A body dropped down a diametric tunnel through a uniform Earth executes simple harmonic motion with ω = √(g/R), reaching the far side in 42.2 minutes; a body dropped down a chord at 0.6 of the radius feels only the component along the tunnel, which is the same ω times a smaller distance, so it arrives in the same time from a shorter trip. The period does not contain the length of the tunnel, its direction, or where the body starts. And 2π/ω is also the period of a circular orbit grazing the surface, 84.3 minutes — the tunnel and the orbit are one ellipse, seen twice. The real Earth is not uniform and gets there in 38.2 minutes instead, which is the honest number and is 9% quicker.

The tunnel that takes the same time from anywhere

Inside a uniform sphere the field grows in proportion to the distance from the centre, which is Hooke's law. A body dropped down any straight tunnel arrives in the same time — and that time is the period of an orbit skimming the surface.

Energy error over 240 revolutions, at one step size. The relative error in total energy against revolution number, for three integrators run on the same Kepler orbit at e = 0.5 with the same step of 200 per revolution. The exact energy is a constant, so every curve here is the method rather than the problem. Euler climbs steadily: its energy at the end is 106.5% wrong, and the orbit it draws has spiralled outwards. Runge–Kutta 4 begins 4.7e+2 times more accurate than leapfrog and ends at 2.22e-4, having grown by a factor of 10 across the run: the error is SECULAR. Leapfrog oscillates inside a band and stays there — worst error 2.62e-3, and the second half of the run is no worse than the first, which is measured here rather than claimed. That is the property that decides whether a five-billion-year integration means anything, and it is not accuracy: a symplectic method is the exact solution of a Hamiltonian a step-size away from the intended one, so its energy cannot wander, while a more accurate non-symplectic method has no such constraint and eventually wanders further.

Wrong about where, and right about how much

Runge–Kutta is the more accurate method and loses energy steadily; leapfrog is cruder and its energy error never leaves a band. Over five billion years only one of those properties survives — and neither method knows where the planet is.

The system that gets hotter as it loses energy

The virial theorem makes a self-gravitating body's total energy equal to minus its kinetic energy. Radiating heat away therefore raises the temperature, there is no equilibrium to settle into, and every star and every cluster is running away from one.

A separation of 10⁻¹⁰ becomes 0.0285. The distance between two copies of Burrau's problem, started 10⁻¹⁰ apart in one coordinate of one body and then stepped in lockstep — one loop, one step size, both states advanced by it — for 60 time units. The vertical axis is logarithmic, so the straight stretch is exponential growth, and its slope is the Lyapunov exponent: 0.3413 per time unit, fitted over the 604 samples lying between ten times the starting offset and a tenth of the system's own size. That is an e-folding every 2.93 time units, so the separation multiplies by ten every 6.75 and by 7.8·10⁸ across the whole run. It has not saturated within the drawn interval: the growth rate over the last tenth of the run is still 0.6002 per time unit, 176% of the fitted exponent, and the separation has reached only 0.90% of the system's own size. The exponent is what sets a prediction horizon, and this run is drawn short of it on purpose: the straight line is the measurement, and the flat part that follows is arithmetic about how far apart two bounded systems can get.

A prediction with an expiry date

The inner solar system's Lyapunov time is about five million years, so a centimetre of error becomes an orbit in a hundred million. The ephemeris dies while the system survives — because the elements stay bounded when the phase does not, and only one of those is what stability means.

The contours a planetary encounter cannot cross. Contours of the Tisserand parameter with respect to Jupiter in the plane of semi-major axis and eccentricity, drawn for a coplanar orbit. An encounter with Jupiter moves a comet along one of these curves and never across one, because T is what the encounter conserves. The heavy contours are at T = 3 and T = 2, and they are the boundaries the comet families are defined by: T > 3 means no encounter is possible at all, since v∞²/v_J² = 3 − T and a negative squared speed is not a trajectory; 2 < T < 3 is the Jupiter family; below 2 the approach speed exceeds Jupiter's own orbital speed and the orbits are the nearly isotropic ones. The shaded boundary is the crossing condition — an orbit whose pericentre is outside Jupiter's, or whose apocentre is inside it, never meets the planet whatever its T. The five comets are placed at their JPL elements and labelled with the T the literature quotes; all five with inclination sit off the coplanar contours by exactly the cos i in the definition, which is why 1P/Halley's is negative — a retrograde orbit meets Jupiter at nearly twice Jupiter's speed.

The number that survives the encounter

A comet that passes Jupiter comes away with every orbital element changed. One combination of them is not changed, and it is enough to recognise the comet afterwards, to sort the comet families, and to say where a spacecraft can and cannot go.

An average that arrives, and a snapshot that never does. 2T/|U| against time for Burrau's problem — three masses released from rest, and never repeating, in two forms: the instantaneous ratio, and the ratio of the running time-averages. The instantaneous one runs between 0.03 and 1.97 — the system is a long way from equilibrium at almost every moment, because the bodies are alternately falling together and flying apart. The averaged one settles: after 50 time units it is 1.0142, against the exact 1 the virial theorem requires of any bound system. This system is not periodic and is not even permanently bound — Burrau's problem ejects its lightest body — so the average is drifting rather than converged, and that is the theorem's own condition made visible: it is a statement about bound systems and says nothing about anything that is leaving. What the figure cannot show is the error: a cluster observed once gives 2T/|U| with a scatter of this size, and what makes its mass believable is not the measurement but the relaxation.

An average that weighs what cannot be watched

A cluster's mass can be had from its speeds alone — no orbit followed, no period observed, no distance to any single star. The theorem that allows it is an average over time, which is exactly what a photograph is not.

$A thousandth of the field, and all of the precession. Left: the Earth's figure against a sphere of the same equatorial radius, with the flattening drawn 28× its true value. The real difference between the equatorial and polar radii is 21.4 km on 6378 — 1 part in 298 — which at this size would be 0.5 pixels and invisible, so the drawing is a schematic and the number is here instead. Right: the two components of the J₂ perturbation at the surface, each as a fraction of the monopole μ/r², both differentiated from the potential rather than quoted. The radial one strengthens the inward pull by 1.62×10⁻³ over the equator, where the extra mass is, and weakens it by 3.25×10⁻³ over the poles, vanishing at ±35.26° where P₂ does. The transverse one is zero at the equator and at both poles and peaks at ±45°, at 1.62×10⁻³ — and that is the component that does the work. It pulls an inclined orbit back towards the equatorial plane, which is a torque about the line of nodes, and a torque applied to something already turning moves it sideways rather than back. Averaged over an orbit the pair leave a, e and i untouched and turn the whole plane instead, which is why a term a thousandth of the field is the largest single perturbation on almost every satellite ever flown.$

The Earth's shape, read off a satellite's node

The Earth is a thousandth of a part from being a sphere, and that thousandth turns every satellite's orbital plane. Vanguard 1 measured it in 1959 — and one retrograde inclination turns the plane at exactly the rate the Sun moves, which is a perturbation used as a design constraint rather than corrected for.

The wake, computed from the streamlines that make it. Left: 26 streamlines past a point mass, in the mass's own frame, each integrated from far upstream with the same speed and a different impact parameter, and mirrored about the axis. Nothing is drawn to converge — every track is the hyperbola its own impact parameter gives it, and they cross downstream because an attraction focuses. Right: the density that focusing produces at 3.2 focusing radii behind the mass, as (b/y)(db/dy) — the Jacobian of the map from starting radius to arrival radius — which peaks at 15.53 times the background at 0.03 radii off the axis. The overdensity is behind the mass, and that is the entire mechanism: the wake pulls backwards on the body that made it. What the figure cannot show is the steady state, because it has no time in it: a real wake is continuously replenished, and the drag is the sum over an infinite train of these encounters, which is where Chandrasekhar's logarithm comes from.

A drag with nothing to drag against

A massive body moving through a sea of light ones raises an overdensity behind itself and is pulled back by it. The force does not depend on the masses of the background bodies at all — and it is strongest at one particular speed.

The last curve across the cylinder, before and after it breaks. Surfaces of section for the standard map at K = 0.5, 0.9716, 1.4, each 22 trajectories iterated 41 times from a column of starting values. Nothing here is placed: every dot is an iterate. At K = 0.5 the islands are separate and the space between them is filled with curves that run all the way round in θ — a trajectory cannot get from one island to the next, and one started beside the hyperbolic fixed point wanders 2.91 in p — 0.46 of a cylinder — and stops. At K = 0.9716, which is Greene's threshold to four figures, the last of those curves is on the point of going and the same trajectory still only reaches 4.84, which is 0.77 of a cylinder. At K = 1.4 it covers 6.1 cylinders: the barrier is gone and there is nothing left to stop it. That transition is what a chaotic zone in the asteroid belt is, drawn without any asteroids.

Where the chaos comes from

A Lyapunov time says how long a prediction lasts. It does not say what destroyed it. The mechanism is two resonances whose libration widths overlap, and the transition can be watched happening on a surface of section as one number is turned up.

255 km sees degree 154; 35786 km sees degree 6. The same field spectrum, multiplied by the upward continuation factor (R/r)ˡ⁺¹ for orbits at 255 km, 450 km, 800 km, 35786 km. A harmonic of degree ℓ has ℓ bumps around the planet, so it falls off with height like a wave of that wavelength — fast, and faster the finer it is. The horizontal rule is a measurement floor; where each curve crosses it is the highest degree that orbit can feel at all, and the answer is 154 at 255 km, 101 at 450 km, 65 at 800 km, 6 at 35786 km, or 130 km, 198 km, 308 km, 3340 km of horizontal resolution on the ground. Nothing in that arithmetic is an instrument. It is why GOCE flew at 255 kilometres with drag compensation rather than at a comfortable altitude with a better gradiometer, why the Moon's mascons were not seen until something orbited low over them, and why a geostationary satellite's ephemeris needs a field with four terms in it.

The field a satellite is allowed to feel

Past the flattening, a planet's gravity is a sum of harmonics whose sizes follow a rule with no physics in it. How much of that sum a spacecraft can measure is decided by its altitude and by nothing else — which is why one mission flew at 255 kilometres and had to push itself along.

A feeding zone, and the spacing it forces

The radius that decides what a planet may keep also decides what it could reach while it was growing — and measuring the gaps between planets in that unit turns a distribution spanning three orders of magnitude in astronomical units into a band a factor of ten wide, with a floor that is partly a theorem and partly a fit.

7 decades of relaxation time, and a Hubble time between them. Crossing time and two-body relaxation time for 5 self-gravitating systems, against the number of bodies in each. The lower marks are the crossing time R/σ, which spans 3 decades; the upper ones are t_relax ≈ 0.1N/ln N times it, which spans 8. The horizontal rule is a Hubble time, and the same expression puts these systems on opposite sides of it. Two of them relax — an open cluster and a globular cluster — so their stars have exchanged energy, their heavy stars have sunk, and their present structure is not the one they were born with. The rest do not: a dwarf spheroidal, an elliptical galaxy, a cluster of galaxies, the elliptical missing it by a factor of 10⁶, which is why a galaxy is modelled as a smooth potential with no stars in it at all. The dependence is on N and hardly at all on anything else, because the Coulomb logarithm makes every decade of impact parameter contribute equally. A cluster that relaxes also evaporates: about a stellar mass in a hundred and forty leaves per relaxation time, so the globular cluster empties in 6.1·10¹¹ years.

How long a system takes to forget

A star crossing a galaxy is deflected by every other star, and the deflections add as a random walk. The time for that walk to change a star's energy by its own amount is a hundred million billion years for a galaxy and a billion for a globular cluster, and everything about how the two are modelled follows from which side of a Hubble time that falls on.

Io's measured heat needs k₂/Q = 0.016, and Enceladus's needs 0.011. Tidal surface heat flux against orbital eccentricity, from Ė = (21/2)(k₂/Q)GM_p²R⁵ne²/a⁶ evaluated at each satellite's own orbit, drawn at a common k₂/Q of 0.015. Every line has slope 2 because the dissipation is quadratic in e and nothing else on this axis varies. The filled marks are each body at its actual eccentricity; the two ringed ones are the bodies with a measured surface heat flux, and they are the only points here that are observations. Solving each of those for k₂/Q gives 0.016 for Io and 0.011 for Enceladus — within a factor of 1.5 of one another, for a warm silicate body and a 500-kilometre ball of ice, which ought to be a coincidence and is instead the sharpest problem in the subject: nothing about Enceladus's ice can plausibly dissipate at 0.011, and the number is what the heat requires all the same. The dashed line is the Earth's measured surface heat flux, 0.087 W/m², which Io exceeds by a factor of 28 — the most volcanically active body in the solar system is the fourth largest moon of the fifth planet, and the reason is entirely in the orbit.

A moon heated by not being allowed to relax

Tidal dissipation goes as the square of an eccentricity that tides themselves destroy, so a moon radiating tidal heat is spending something it cannot have saved. Io's would be gone in a hundred and forty thousand years, and the resonance that keeps putting it back is the reason there are volcanoes.

$GW150914: 33 Hz to 250 Hz in 0.22 seconds. The strain of GW150914 — two black holes — through the last 0.22 seconds before merger, computed from the quadrupole sweep at the chirp mass its fit returned, 28.716 solar masses, and drawn at the luminosity distance it returned, 440 megaparsecs. Two things rise together and neither is free to rise on its own: the frequency goes from 33 Hz to 250 Hz, and the envelope — the outer curve — grows by a factor of 3.9, because the amplitude goes as f^2/3 and nothing else in it changes over so short a span. The vertical axis is in units of 10⁻²¹, so the peak here is a fractional length change of about 2.9·10⁻²¹: over the four kilometres of an interferometer arm that is 1.2·10⁻¹⁷ metres, a thousandth of the width of a proton. The chirp mass is not fitted to the amplitude at all — it comes from the spacing of these zero crossings, which is why it is the best-determined number in the whole event and why the distance, which does come from the amplitude, is the worst.$

A distance with no ladder under it

The frequency sweep of an inspiral fixes the chirp mass with no distance in it, and the amplitude then gives the luminosity distance directly, because one expression fixes both. That is a distance measured with nothing calibrated beneath it — and its error budget is one angle.

A detector the size of the galaxy

At a nanohertz no instrument can be built, so the clocks already in the sky are used instead. The signal is in no single pulsar's data — it is in the correlation between pairs as a function of the angle between them, and that curve has no free parameters at all.

A step that must not be adapted

A symplectic integrator's bounded energy error is a property of a fixed step. It is conserving a Hamiltonian a step-size away from the intended one, and changing the step changes which Hamiltonian — so refining the step at a close encounter, which is the first thing anybody does, destroys the only property the method was chosen for.

A ring weighed by the wave crossing it

Saturn's rings are a few tens of metres thick and spread over an area larger than the Earth, made of pieces nobody can resolve, and nothing has ever landed on them. Their mass per unit area is nevertheless known to a few per cent — from the rate at which the crests of a wave crowd together as it travels outwards.

One measured number, and every pair of masses that produces it. The plane of the two component masses of an inspiralling binary, with three curves of constant chirp mass across it. The middle one is GW150914's value of 28.7 solar masses, and the chirp mass recovered from the coordinates of the drawn curve varies along its whole length by 7.4e-14 per cent — which is the point: every binary on that line radiates the same frequency sweep at leading order, so the early inspiral cannot tell them apart. Two of them are marked. An equal pair of 33.0 and 33.0 solar masses and a lopsided pair of 63.6 and 18.4 sit on the same contour, and their total masses differ by a factor of 1.24. What separates them is the mass ratio, which enters the phasing only at the first post-Newtonian order, suppressed by the square of the orbital speed in units of the speed of light — small through the hundreds of cycles that carry most of the signal, and appreciable only in the last few, where that speed approaches a third of c. So the chirp mass is a measurement and the individual masses are an inference from the end of the signal, which is exactly the part a detector's high-frequency noise eats first.

One number where two masses were

The hundreds of orbits an inspiralling binary completes inside a detector's band depend on its two masses only through one combination of them. Every pair on that contour radiates an identical sweep, so the early signal — which carries nearly all the signal-to-noise — cannot say which pair it was.

A cluster that boils itself away

A star cluster has no thermostat. Encounters between its members push a few of them above escape speed, the cluster loses them, and losing them makes it contract — which makes it hotter, which makes more of them escape. A self-gravitating system heats up as it loses energy, and the process ends by destroying the system.

A pair that heats what is trying to cool

A star cluster has a negative heat capacity, so it cannot reach equilibrium — its core contracts and gets hotter without limit. What stops it is a binary, and which way a binary exchanges energy with the stars around it is settled by one comparison of two energies.

The whole kick, delivered in about two encounter times. The transverse force a body feels while a mass sweeps past it on a straight line, and the velocity that force has delivered so far, both against time in units of the impact parameter divided by the relative speed. The force is the component of the inverse-square attraction perpendicular to the path, which is the impact parameter over the cube of the distance, and it is drawn at its peak value of one at closest approach. The rising curve is its running integral, scaled by twice the gravitational constant times the mass over the impact parameter and the speed. Two things are visible and both are the point. The integral of the force over all time is exactly two in these units, so the kick is exactly 2GM/bv with no free constant anywhere — an answer to a three-body-shaped question obtained without solving anything. And it arrives quickly: 71 per cent of it within a single encounter time of closest approach and 98.6 per cent within the 6 drawn, which is what licenses calling the whole thing an impulse. On the scale of anything slower, the velocity changes discontinuously.

An answer obtained along a path that was not taken

Integrate the force of a passing mass along the straight line the body would have followed if the encounter had not happened, and out comes an exact deflection with no free constant in it. The approximation is circular, it is wrong in a known direction by a known amount, and it is the reason stellar dynamics has closed forms at all.

$Dynamical friction is strongest at 0.97 times the dispersion, and weaker either side. The dynamical friction on a body moving through a Maxwellian sea of stars, against its own speed in units of the square root of two times the velocity dispersion. The dashed curve is the fraction of the field moving slower than the body, which is the only part of the field that contributes: a star overtaking from behind pulls the body forward exactly as often as one being overtaken pulls it back, so the fast tail cancels out entirely. That fraction rises from nothing to one. The drag is that fraction divided by the square of the speed, and the quotient of a saturating numerator and a growing denominator has a single maximum, here at 0.97. The consequences run in both directions. A body moving much faster than the stars around it is barely slowed at all, which is why a galaxy passing through a cluster at a thousand kilometres a second does not sink; and a body already at rest with respect to the field feels nothing either, because there is no wake to be behind it. Sinking is therefore fastest in the middle of the process rather than at the start of it.$

A drag that is strongest in the middle

Dynamical friction is not like air resistance. Only the stars moving slower than the body contribute at all, so the drag rises from nothing, peaks when the body has slowed to about the speed of everything around it, and falls away again — which is why a fast satellite is never captured and a slow one sinks in a hurry.

An edge where two torques balance, 21 kilometres from the shepherd. Two torques on the edge of a ring, against distance from a shepherding moon, both axes logarithmic and both scaled by the same combination of surface density, radius and orbital rate so that only their shapes are being compared. The flat line is the viscous torque, which comes from collisions between ring particles and does not care how far away anything is; it is drawn for a kinematic viscosity of 12 square centimetres a second, within the range ring seismology gives. The falling line is the moon's, summed over the first-order resonances that crowd together as the gap narrows, which makes it an inverse cube. A flat curve and an inverse cube cross once, and the crossing is where an edge can sit: closer in the moon wins and pushes the material back, further out viscosity wins and the ring spreads. For Daphnis and the Keeler gap the balance lands 20.8 kilometres out against a measured half-width of 21, which is agreement to well inside the uncertainty on the viscosity — and it is the only handle anybody has on that viscosity, since the quantity being inferred is the collision rate among particles a metre across, a billion kilometres away.

An edge is a balance, not a boundary

A ring of particles spreads, because collisions move angular momentum outward. Something has to push back, and the something is a small moon whose torque falls as the inverse cube of the gap. A flat curve and an inverse cube cross once, and the crossing is the sharp edge — which is why an edge exists at all rather than a gradient.

How much a world gives

A body pulled on from one side deforms, and how much it deforms is a single dimensionless number. That number is three halves for a uniform fluid, three hundredths for the Sun, and two thousandths for a moon made of ice — so measuring it is a measurement of what is inside.

Whether the heavy material sank

A moment of inertia is 0.4 of MR² for a uniform sphere and less for everything that has differentiated, and it is measured by watching a body wobble. Mercury's 0.346 says most of the planet is iron core; the Moon's 0.393 says almost none of it is.

$Where each gravity harmonic gets its signal: J₂ from the bulk, J₁₀ from the outer 12 per cent. Why a spacecraft that never enters a planet can say something about its depth. Each zonal harmonic of the external field is an integral over the interior density weighted by r to the power of the degree plus two, and the curves here are those integrals accumulated outward: the fraction of each coefficient that has been contributed by the time the integration reaches a given fractional radius, for an interior of polytropic index 1. The weighting climbs steeply with degree, so the curves separate. Half of J₂ comes from inside 73 per cent of the radius, and half of J₁₀ from inside 88 per cent — the higher coefficients barely know the deep interior exists. That ordering is the whole basis of gravity science as a probe. A single coefficient is one number and constrains almost nothing; a series of them, each weighted differently, is a coarse depth profile, and it is how Jupiter's core turned out to be smeared over half the planet rather than sitting as a distinct sphere at the middle. Two limits are worth stating with it. The information falls off fast: by degree ten the kernel is concentrated in a shell so thin that measuring the coefficient says little about anything below it. And every curve here assumes north–south symmetry, under which the odd harmonics vanish identically — so a measured J₃ or J₅ is not a deeper probe of the same thing but a measurement of something else entirely, which at a giant planet is how fast and how deep the winds run.$

A core weighed by something that never went in

The external gravity field of a planet is a series, and each term of it is an integral over the interior density weighted by a different power of radius. Measure enough terms and the series becomes a coarse depth profile — which is how Jupiter's core turned out to be smeared over half the planet rather than sitting at the middle.

Dissipation against viscosity for Io: a peak at 10^13.5 Pa s, and two solutions at the observed rate. The imaginary part of the Love number — the part that turns tidal work into heat — against the viscosity of the body's interior, for a Maxwell rheology at Io's size, density and forcing period. Both axes are logarithmic and the curve is not monotonic, which is the whole content of the figure. At high viscosity the body is elastic: it stores the energy the tide puts in and gives it back, and dissipates nothing. At low viscosity it is fluid: it deforms all the way and does so in phase with the forcing, and dissipates nothing again. Everything happens in between, at viscosities for which the Maxwell time — viscosity divided by rigidity — is comparable to the orbital period, and the peak here is 0.735 at 10^13.5 pascal seconds. Two consequences follow, and they pull in opposite directions. The peak is an upper limit: a homogeneous body of this size cannot dissipate more than that however its viscosity is chosen, so a measured heat flow above it would refute the model rather than constrain it. And below the peak the observed value is met twice — at 10^11.5 and at 10^15.5 pascal seconds — so a heat flow alone does not say which side of the peak the interior is on. Breaking that degeneracy needs a second observable, and the usual one is the phase of the response rather than its size. The picture treats the body as one homogeneous Maxwell solid, which is certainly wrong for a moon with a molten layer; a partial melt concentrates the dissipation and shifts the peak.

One heat flow, and two viscosities

Io radiates a hundred thousand gigawatts of tidal heat, and that number is supposed to say something about the rock inside it. It does, and not what one would expect — because dissipation vanishes at both extremes of viscosity, the measured heat is produced by two different interiors and cannot choose between them.

The second number a black hole has

A black hole in equilibrium is described by its mass and its spin, and nothing else. The mass decides how strongly it pulls. The spin decides how much light a kilogram of infalling matter can emit before it disappears — and between the two extremes that figure changes by a factor of seven.

Every pair arrives circular

Gravitational radiation drains a binary's energy and its angular momentum at rates that do not keep step, and the mismatch destroys eccentricity far faster than it shrinks the orbit. A pair that starts at 0.99 and spirals in from a fifth of an astronomical unit is round to better than a part in a hundred million by the time a detector can hear it.

A circular orbit has one lock, and an eccentric one has several. The strength of each spin–orbit resonance against orbital eccentricity, as the Hansen coefficient H(p, e) that multiplies the restoring torque on a permanently non-spherical body. At zero eccentricity every curve but the synchronous one is exactly zero — the figure checks that rather than showing it — so a body on a circular orbit can lock only by turning once per orbit. Away from zero the others switch on: at Mercury's eccentricity of 0.2056 the 3:2 resonance has 73 per cent of the synchronous one's strength and more than twice the 2:1's. A planet spinning down through this family therefore meets the 3:2 before the 1:1 and has a real chance of being caught there, which is what happened — Mercury turns three times for every two orbits, a fact discovered by radar in 1965 after a century of assuming it was locked. The free libration of that locked state follows from the same coefficient and the measured 2.03e-4 for (B − A)/C: 12.1 years, against a measured period near twelve. What the figure cannot show is the capture probability itself, which depends on how the tide dissipates and ranges from a few per cent for a simple constant-lag tide to more than half once friction between a liquid core and the mantle is included.

A rotation locked to the orbit, but not one to one

Mercury turns exactly three times for every two circuits of the Sun. That was not what anybody expected, and it is not an accident — on a circular orbit a tidally despun body has exactly one place to lock, and on an eccentric one it has several — with the strength of each set by a coefficient that vanishes when the eccentricity does.

A vanishing field that changes the answer completely. The growth rate of the magnetorotational instability against wavenumber, both in units the orbital frequency sets: the vertical axis is the growth rate divided by Ω, the horizontal is the wavenumber multiplied by the Alfvén speed and divided by Ω. The maximum is exactly three quarters of the orbital frequency and it does not depend on the field strength at all — it occurs at kv_A = √15Ω/4, so a weaker field simply moves the fastest-growing wavelength to a longer one. The curve vanishes above kv_A = √3Ω, which is the only thing the field decides: modes shorter than that are stabilised by magnetic tension. An unmagnetised Keplerian disc is Rayleigh-stable and would never accrete; a disc with a field a millionth of the strength needed to matter dynamically grows a mode that doubles in about a fifth of an orbit. The limit is discontinuous, which is the reason this was found late and by algebra rather than early and by observation.

The weakest field changes the answer

A Keplerian disc is stable by every hydrodynamic test there is. Add a magnetic field of any strength whatever — a millionth of what would matter dynamically — and it becomes violently unstable, at a growth rate of three quarters of an orbit per radian that does not depend on the field at all.

The period a star is pulled towards

A magnetised neutron star does not let a disc reach it. The disc stops where the field's stress wins, and if that radius lies inside the corotation radius the star is spun up while outside it the star is spun down — so there is one period at which nothing changes, and an accreting star walks to it.

A moment of inertia that is a shape plus an assumption. The Darwin–Radau relation: the polar moment of inertia a body would have, given the ratio of its rotation parameter to its flattening, if it were a hydrostatic fluid. The curve passes through exactly 0.4 at q/f = 0.8, which is the uniform sphere and the one point that needs no interior model, and falls as the body becomes more centrally condensed. Four of the five worlds drawn sit on it within a few per cent of their independently measured moments, which is what makes the relation usable at all. The world that does not appear on the plot is the Moon, whose q/f is 0.025 — far outside the window in which the relation has a real solution, because its shape is a fossil frozen in when it was much closer to its primary and has nothing to do with its present rotation. That failure is the useful one. A relation that returns a wrong answer quietly is dangerous; this one returns no answer at all.

The part of a shape the spin cannot explain

A rotating planet bulges by a predictable amount. Subtract that amount from the shape actually observed and something is usually left over — a few parts in a hundred thousand for the Earth, and ninety-seven per cent of the whole bulge for the Moon. The residue is not an error. It is the only remote measurement of what a planet's interior is doing that does not average over the whole body.

One amplitude, and every point on this curve fits it. The set of distances and inclinations that produce the same measured amplitude in one detector. A binary seen face-on radiates most strongly along its spin axis, so it can be twice as far away as an edge-on binary and still arrive with the same strain — the curve is (1 + cos²ι)/2 and the factor between its ends is exactly two. Nothing in a single detector's data distinguishes the two ends. What makes this worse rather than merely awkward is that the prior pulls the other way: an isotropically oriented population has half its members beyond 60 degrees, so most binaries really are closer to edge-on, and a posterior that combines a flat likelihood along this curve with that prior returns a distance biased low with an error bar that understates the range. The whole business of standard-siren cosmology is the business of cutting across this curve.

A distance tangled with an angle

A gravitational wave carries its own distance, with no ladder underneath it and nothing to calibrate. What it also carries, inseparably, is the orientation of the orbit that made it — and one detector cannot tell a nearby binary seen edge-on from one twice as far away seen face-on.

Four defensible choices, and a factor of 2.9 between them. The Coulomb logarithm against the ratio of the two impact parameters it is cut off at. The curve is a logarithm, so it is flat — a factor of ten in the ratio buys 2.3 — and that is usually offered as the reason not to worry. The four marked conventions are all in current use and all defensible, and they give ln Λ from 3.4 to 9.9. Since the drag force is proportional to ln Λ and not to its logarithm, that is a factor of 2.9 in every sinking time computed from it. The flatness protects the answer from a wrong guess about the ratio; it does not protect it from there being no correct guess, which is the actual situation.

A drag computed with a logarithm nobody can pin down

Chandrasekhar's drag formula is exact, derived from first principles, and contains a logarithm of a ratio of two lengths that the derivation does not supply. Every sinking time in astronomy is proportional to that logarithm, and the four conventions in current use differ by a factor of three.

A step size below which a smaller step is worse. The error left in a long integration against the step size, for methods of three different orders, with both contributions drawn. The falling lines are truncation error, whose slope on these axes is exactly the order of the method. The rising line is round-off, identical for all three because it is a property of the arithmetic and not of the algorithm: every operation loses a few bits, the losses are independent, and they accumulate as the square root of the number of steps — which is why its slope is −1/2 and why it rises as the step shrinks. Each method's total has a minimum, at a step of 1.0e-6, 5.0e-6, 9.7e-4 for orders 1, 2, 4. Below that minimum every halving of the step costs time and makes the answer worse. That is the practical reason a solar-system integration is not run at an arbitrarily fine step, and it is a reason with nothing to do with computer time.

An error that grows like a random walk

A long integration accumulates two errors with opposite habits. One falls when the step is made smaller and grows in proportion to the time; the other grows when the step is made smaller and accumulates as a square root. Which of the two dominates decides whether a billion-year integration means anything.

$One measurement, one line, and every point on it is an interior. The Love number against the quality factor, both logarithmic. An orbital measurement — a moon observed to be receding, a spin observed to be slowing — determines only the ratio of the two, so it picks out a diagonal band rather than a point, and every interior along that band reproduces the observation exactly. A body that deforms twice as easily and dissipates half as efficiently is indistinguishable from one that does the opposite. What breaks it is a measurement of the deformation on its own: a spacecraft tracking the body's gravity field through a tidal cycle measures k₂ directly, which is a vertical line here, and the intersection gives Q = 5.36·10⁴. The uncertainty on that answer is the two fractional errors added in quadrature, 20 per cent, and it is dominated by whichever of the two was worse — which for every body in the solar system is the orbital rate rather than the Love number.$

A heat flow that depends on a number nobody can compute

Every tidal rate in astronomy — a moon receding, a spin slowing, an orbit circularising, a satellite melting — is proportional to one combination of two quantities that no orbital measurement can separate. One of them describes how much a body deforms and the other how badly it leaks, and only a spacecraft can tell them apart.

$The spin a mismeasured radius reads as. The spin inferred from the disc's inner radius, against the fractional error in that radius, for four true spins. Both spectral methods reduce to one measurement — where the disc stops — and one conversion, the ISCO relation, so this figure is the error propagation both of them share. The behaviour is not uniform and it is the reverse of what the difficulty of the measurement suggests. A ten per cent error reads a hole of true spin 0.3 as anywhere from 0.16 to 0.44, while the same ten per cent moves a hole of true spin 0.99 only between 0.98 and 1.00. The reason is that the ISCO falls from six gravitational radii to one over the whole range of spin and does most of that falling in the last few per cent, so near the extremal limit a small change in radius is a large change in spin and the inversion is stiff. The published spins clustering near 0.9 and above are therefore the ones least sensitive to the systematics, and a published spin of 0.3 carries an error bar the method cannot really support. An overestimated radius always reads slow, so anything that stops the disc outside the last stable orbit biases every measurement the same way.$

A spin that is one length in disguise

Both ways of measuring a black hole's spin from its light measure the same thing — where the accretion disc stops — and convert it through the same relation. That conversion is stiff at high spin and slack at low, so the published spins near one are the trustworthy ones and the published spins near a third are barely measurements.

The part of a kick that heats nothing

Most of the impulse a passing mass delivers to a star cluster is delivered equally to every star in it, so the cluster moves and nothing inside it changes. What heats it is the difference across it — one power of the impact parameter smaller, squared in the energy — and that one distinction decides which encounters matter and which cannot.

The ceiling a measured response has to be read against. The fluid Love number of a layered body — the value it would have if its outer shell offered no resistance whatever — against the radius of its core, for cores 1×, 1.6×, 2.4×, 3.6× the density of the material outside. Every curve starts at 3/2, because a core of no size is a uniform body, and falls as the core grows: central condensation stiffens a fluid body without giving it any strength, since the tidal forcing is strongest out where there is then very little mass to move. A body 0.6 of the way core at 3.6× density has a fluid ceiling of 0.787. A measurement above the relevant curve is impossible for any interior of that layering; a measurement below it says only that something is resisting, and does not say what.

An ocean is detected and its depth is not

A tidal response thirty-six times too large for any solid body proves a moon has a liquid layer under its crust. It does not say how deep the liquid is, how thick the crust above it is, or what the core beneath it is made of — because the same one number is produced by a whole surface of interiors.

What Io dissipates depends on how fast the tide is applied. The dissipative part of the Love number, −Im k₂, against the period of the forcing, for Io at an interior viscosity of 1e+16 Pa s. Two rheologies are drawn: a Maxwell solid, a spring and a dashpot in series, and an Andrade solid, which adds the anelastic creep every real material shows in the laboratory and a Maxwell body does not, with an exponent of 0.3. They agree for tides slower than the Maxwell time of 1.9 days, where the body has time to flow and the transient is irrelevant. They part completely for faster ones: at the shortest period drawn the Andrade body dissipates 20 times what the Maxwell body does. A quality factor quoted without a period is half a number, and which half is missing depends on a rheology measured in a laboratory rather than derived.

A quality factor quoted without a period is half a number

The tidal response of a solid body is not a constant. It is a function of how fast the tide is applied, and two rheologies that agree perfectly about a slow tide disagree by orders of magnitude about a quick one — so the same moon has one Love number at its orbital period and a different one at the period of its own libration.

The ladders in this field

26 anchors · one idea each

The two-body problem Shell theorem Tides Lagrange points The three-body problem Resonance Relativistic orbits Gravitational constant Hill sphere Numerical integration Virial theorem Chaos Tisserand parameter Oblateness Dynamical friction Two-body relaxation Tidal heating Gravitational waves Planetary rings Binary heating Impulse approximation Love numbers Moment of inertia Black hole spin Magnetorotational instability Accretion

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