The structure-slice generator
872 galaxies in a wedge 1000 comoving megaparsecs deep, generated as a Thomas process — Poisson centres at 0.00012 per square megaparsec, 13 galaxies each on average, scattered about their centre with a Gaussian of 22 Mpc. That is not a simulation of how structure formed and does not pretend to be; it is the simplest clustered process whose correlation function is known exactly, which is what lets the next figure check a measurement against something rather than against itself. What it does reproduce is the impression: at this scale the distribution is obviously not uniform, there are groups and there are gaps, and the eye finds patterns in it readily — including several that are not there, because the eye finds patterns in a Poisson field too. The question the next two figures ask is the only one that settles it: at what separation does the clustering stop, and is there a scale above which a box of this universe looks like any other box?
8 essays call
structure-slice. The drawing above is what it returns with no arguments at all; every
call below passes it something, because a placement that passes nothing draws whichever member
of the family the generator happens to default to rather than the one its essay argues about.
Where it is called
Every figure listed here is the same construction drawn at different numbers, so a correction to one is a correction to all of them.
Homogeneous above a hundred megaparsecs
Every cosmological calculation in this field assumes the universe is the same everywhere. Looked at on any scale a person can picture, it plainly is not — it is stars in galaxies in groups in clusters in filaments around voids. The assumption is not a claim about appearance; it is a claim about a statistic, and the statistic has a scale attached.
A map that is not of positions
One axis of every redshift survey is not a distance but a velocity, and the difference is not noise. Inside a cluster it smears the galaxies into a finger pointing at the observer; on the scale of a supercluster it compresses the structure — and the amount of that compression is a test of gravity.
A map stretched by the thing it measures
A redshift survey plots galaxies at distances derived from their redshifts, and a galaxy's redshift contains its own motion as well as the expansion. So the map is systematically distorted — squashed on large scales, drawn out into radial spikes on small ones — and both distortions are caused by the gravity the survey exists to measure.
An emptiness that expands faster
A cosmic void is not a hole in the universe but a region with a fifth of the average density, and gravity makes it behave like a small open universe: it expands faster than its surroundings, every galaxy in it streams outward, and in a redshift survey it is stretched along the line of sight — the opposite of what the same gravity does around a cluster. The stretch measures how fast structure grows, and the average void's roundness measures the geometry of the universe.
Velocities that see past the edge of the map
A redshift survey infers the motions of galaxies from the distortions of its own map. A peculiar-velocity survey measures them directly, one galaxy at a time, by subtracting a distance from a redshift — and every one of those measurements is dominated by its own error beyond a few tens of megaparsecs. What makes the survey worth doing is that a velocity answers for structure far larger than the volume it is measured in.
A void is not short of dwarf haloes
The centre of a large void holds a fifth of the average density of matter and almost no galaxies, and it is natural to read the two facts as one. They are not. The theory of how haloes form says a void turns its matter into dwarf-sized haloes at least as readily as anywhere else — it is short of big haloes, not small ones — so a void empty of dwarf galaxies is a statement about which haloes were allowed to light up.
A void dated by the dwarfs that lit in time
Reionisation did not heat the universe all at once, and the centres of the large voids were among the last places it reached. A dwarf halo there could make stars only if it had grown heavy enough before its own gas was heated — so the number that did is a clock for one void, and a clock that runs faster the emptier the void.
A clump that waits for the radiation to thin
Dark matter feels no pressure from light, so nothing should have stopped it clumping in the radiation era. Almost nothing did stop it, and yet a clump inside the horizon at that time barely grows. The radiation does not push on it. It only makes the universe expand too fast for the clump's own gravity to keep up — and the length of that wait is the bend in the spectrum of every structure in the sky.