No More Learning

So, far from the rainbow being rooted at a particular 'place' where fairies might deposit a crock of gold, there are as many rainbows as there are eyes looking at the storm. Different observers, looking at the same shower from different places, will piece together their own separate rainbows using light from different collections of raindrops. Strictly speaking, even your two eyes are seeing two different rainbows. And as we drive along a road looking at 'one' rainbow, we are actually seeing a series of rainbows in quick succession. I think that if Wordsworth had realized all this, he might have improved upon 'My heart leaps up when I behold/A rainbow in the sky' (although I have to say it would be hard to improve on the lines that follow).
A further complication is that the raindrops themselves are falling, or blowing about. So any particular raindrop might pass through the band that is delivering, say, red light to you then move into the yellow region. But you continue to see the red band, as if nothing had moved, because new raindrops come to take the places of the departed ones. Richard Whelan, in his lovely Book of Rainbows (1997), which is the source of many of my rainbow quotations, quotes Leonardo da Vinci on the subject:
Observe the rays of the sun in the composition of the rainbow, the colours of which are generated by the falling rain, when each drop in its descent takes every colour of the bow.
Treatise on Painting (1490s)
The illusion of the rainbow itself remains rock steady, although the drops that deliver it are falling and scurrying about in the wind. Coleridge wrote,
The steadfast rainbow in the fast-moving, fast-hurrying hail-mist What a congregation of images and feelings, of fantastic permanence amidst the rapid change of tempest - quietness the daughter of storm.
from Anima Poetae (published 1895)
His friend Wordsworth, too, was fascinated by the immobility of the rainbow in the face of turbulent movement of the rain itself:
Meanwhile, by what strange chance I cannot tell,
What combination of the wind and clouds,
A large unmutilated rainbow stood Immovable in heaven. The Prelude (1815)
Part of the romance of the rainbow comes from the illusion that it is always perched on the horizon far away, a huge curve unattainably receding as we approach. But Keats's 'rainbow of the salt sand-wave' was near. And you can sometimes see a rainbow as a complete circle only a few feet in diameter, racing along the near side of a hedge as you drive by. (Rainbows look semicircular only because the horizon gets in the way of the lower part of the circle. ) A rainbow looks so big partly because of an illusion of distance. The brain projects the image outwards on to the sky, aggrandizing it. You can achieve the same effect by staring at a bright lamp to 'stamp' its after-image on to your retina, then 'projecting' it into the distance by staring at the sky. This makes it look large.
There are other delightful complications. I said that light from the sun enters a raindrop through the upper quadrant of the surface facing the sun, and leaves through the lower quadrant. But of course there is nothing to stop sunlight entering the lower quadrant. Under the right conditions, it can then be reflected twice round the inside of the sphere, leaving the lower quadrant of the drop in such a way as to enter the observer's eye, also refracted, to produce a second rainbow, 8 degrees higher than the first, with the colours reversed. Of course, for any given observer, the two rainbows are delivered by different populations of raindrops. One doesn't often see a double rainbow, but Wordsworth must have done so on occasion, and his heart surely leaped up even higher when he did. Theoretically, there may also be other, yet fainter rainbows arranged concentrically, but they are very seldom seen. Could anyone seriously suggest that it spoils it to be told what is going on inside all those thousands of falling, sparkling, reflecting and refracting populations of raindrops? Ruskin said in Modem Painters III (1856):
For most men, an ignorant enjoyment is better than an informed one; it is better to conceive the sky as a blue dome than a dark cavity, and the
cloud as a golden throne than a sleety mist I much question whether anyone who knows optics, however religious he may be, can feel in equal degree the pleasure or reverence which an unlettered peasant may feel at the sight of a rainbow . . . We cannot fathom the mystery of a single flower, nor is it intended that we should; but that the pursuit of science should constantly be stayed by the love of beauty, and accuracy of knowledge by tenderness of emotion.
Somehow this all lends plausibility to the theory that poor Ruskin's wedding night was ruined by the horrifying discovery that women have pubic hair.
In 1802, fifteen years before Haydon's 'immortal dinner', the English physicist William Wollaston did a similar experiment to Newton's, but his sunbeam had to pass through a narrow slit before it hit his prism. The spectrum that emerged from the prism was built up as a series of narrow strips of different wavelength. The strips smeared into each other to make a spectrum but, scattered along the spectrum, he saw narrow, dark lines in particular places. These lines were later measured and systematically catalogued by the German physicist Joseph von Fraunhofer, after whom they are now called. The Fraunhofer lines have a characteristic disposition, a fingerprint - or barcode is an even apter analogy - which depends upon the chemical nature of the substance through which the rays have passed. Hydrogen, for example, produces its own characteristic barcode pattern of lines and spaces, sodium a different pattern, and so on. Wollaston saw only seven lines, Fraunhofer's superior instruments revealed 576, and modern spectroscopes about 10,000.
The barcode fingerprint of an element resides not just in the spacing of the lines but in their positioning against the rainbow background. The precise barcodes of hydrogen and all elements are now accurately explained by the quantum theory, but this is where I have to make my excuses and leave. Sometimes I imagine that I have some appreciation of the poetry of quantum theory, but I have yet to achieve an understanding deep enough to explain it to others. Actually, it may be that nobody really understands quantum theory, possibly because natural selection shaped our brains to survive in a world of large, slow things, where quantum effects are smothered. This point is well made by Richard Feynman, who is also supposed to have said, 'If you think you understand quantum theory - you don't understand quantum theory! ' I think I have been brought closest to understanding by Feynman's published lectures, and by David Deutsch's astonishing and disturbing book, The Fabric of Reality (1997). (I find it additionally disturbing because I cannot tell when I am reading generally accepted physics, versus the author's own daring speculations). Whatever a physicist's doubts about how to
interpret quantum theory, nobody doubts its phenomenal success in predicting detailed experimental results. And happily, for the purpose of this chapter, it is enough to know, as we have known since Fraunhofer's time, that each of the chemical elements reliably exhibits a unique barcode of characteristically spaced fine lines, branded across the spectrum.
There are two ways in which Fraunhofer lines may be seen, So far I've mentioned dark lines on a rainbow background. These are caused because an element in the path of light absorbs particular wavelengths, selectively removing them from the rainbow as seen. But an equivalent pattern of bright coloured lines against a dark background is produced if the same element is caused to glow, as when it forms part of the make- up of a star.
Fraunhofer's refinement of Newton's unweaving was already known before the French philosopher Auguste Comte rashly wrote, of the stars:
We shall never be able to study, by any method, their chemical composition or their mineralogical structure . . . Our positive knowledge of stars is necessarily limited to their geometric and mechanical phenomena. Cours de philosophie positive (1855)
Today, by meticulous analysis of Fraunhofer barcodes in starlight, we know in great detail what the stars are made of, although our prospects of visiting them are hardly any better than they were in Comte's time. A few years ago, my friend Charles Simonyi had a discussion with a former chairman of the U S Federal Reserve Bank. This gentleman was aware that scientists had been surprised when NASA discovered what the moon was really made of. Since the moon was so much closer than the stars, he reasoned, our guesses about the stars are likely to be even more wrong. Sounds plausible but, as Dr Simonyi was able to tell him, the truth is exactly the opposite. No matter how far away the stars may be, they emit their own light, and that makes all the difference. Moonlight is all reflected sunlight (a fact which D. H. Lawrence is said to have refused to believe: it offended his poetic sensibilities), so its spectrum doesn't help us to analyse the moon's chemical nature. Modern instruments spectacularly outperform Newton's prism, but today's science of spectroscopy is the direct descendant of his unweaving of the rainbow. The spectrum of a star's emitted light, especially its Fraunhofer lines, tells us in great detail which chemical substances are present in a star. It also tells us the temperature, the pressure and the size of the star. It is the basis of an exhaustive classification of the natural history of stars. It puts our sun in its proper place in the great catalogue of stars: a Class G2V Yellow Dwarf. To quote a popular magazine of astronomy, Sky and Telescope, from 1996:
To those who can read its meaning, the spectral code tells at a glance just what kind of object the star is - its color, size, and luminosity, its history and future, its peculiarities, and how it compares with the Sun and stars of all other types.
By unweaving starlight in spectroscopes we know that stars are nuclear furnaces, fusing helium out of the hydrogen that dominates their mass; then thrusting helium nuclei together in the further cascade of impurities which make up most of the rest of the elements, forging the medium-sized atoms of which we are eventually made. Newton's unweaving paved the way for the nineteenth-century discovery that the visible rainbow, the band that we actually see, is a narrow chink in the full spectrum of electromagnetic waves. Visible light spans the wavelengths from 0. 4 millionths of a metre (violet) to 0. 7 millionths of a metre (deep red). A little longer than red are infrared rays, which we perceive as invisible heat radiation and which some snakes and guided missiles use to home in on their targets. A little shorter than violet are ultraviolet rays, which burn our skin and give us cancer. Radio waves are much longer than red light. Their wavelengths are measured in centimetres, metres, even thousands of metres. Between them and infrared waves on the spectrum lie microwaves, which we use for radar and for high-speed cooking. Shorter than ultraviolet rays are X-rays, which we use for seeing bone through flesh. Shortest of all are gamma rays, with a wavelength measured in trillionths of a metre. There is nothing special about the narrow band of wavelengths that we call light, apart from the fact that we can see it. For insects, visible light is shifted bodily along the spectrum. Ultraviolet is for them a visible colour ('bee purple'), and they are blind to red (which they might call 'infra yellow'). Radiation all along the larger spectrum can be unwoven in the same kind of way as the rainbow, although the particular instrument we use for the unweaving - a radio tuner instead of a prism, for instance-is different in different parts of the spectrum.
The colours that we actually experience, the subjective sensations of redness and blueness, are arbitrary labels that our brains tie to light of different wavelengths. There is nothing intrinsically 'long' about redness. Knowing how red and blue look doesn't help us remember which wavelength is longer. I regularly have to look it up, whereas I never forget that soprano sounds have a shorter wavelength than bass. The brain needs convenient internal labels for the different parts of the physical rainbow. Nobody knows if my sensation of redness matches yours, but we can easily agree that the light that I call red is the same as the light that you call red and that, if a physicist measures it, it will be found to have a long wavelength. My subjective judgement is that violet looks redder than blue does, even though it lies further away on the spectrum
from red. Probably you agree. The apparent reddish tinge in violet is a fact about nervous systems, not a fact about the physics of spectrums.
Hugh Lofting's immortal Doctor Dolittle flew to the moon and was startled to see a dazzling range of new colours, as different from our familiar colours as red is from blue. Even in fiction we can be sure that this would never happen. The hues that would greet any traveller to another world would be a function of the brains that they bring with them from the home planet. *
* Colour is a rich source of philosophical speculation, which is often scientifically under-informed. A laudable attempt to rectify this is C. T. Hardin's 1988 book, Color for Philosophers: Unweaving the Rainbow. I am embarrassed to say that I discovered this book, and in particular its excellent subtitle, only after mine had gone off to the publishers. Doctor Dolittle, by the way, may be hard to find, as he is now often banned by pompously correct librarians. They worry about the racism in The Story- of Doctor Dolittle but this was all but universal in the 1920's. In any case it is offset by the Doctor's splendid fight against the slave trade in Doctor Dolittle's Post Office, and, more profoundly, by the stand that all the Doctor Dolittle books make against the vice of speciesism which is as unquestioned today as racism was in earlier times.
We know now in some detail how the eye informs the brain about the wavelengths of light. It is a three-colour code, as used in colour television. The human retina has four kinds of light-sensitive cell: three kinds of 'cones' plus the 'rods'. All four are similar and have surely diverged from
a common ancestor. One of the things it is easy to forget about any sort
of cell is how intricately complicated even a single cell is, much of the complexity being built up of fine-folded internal membranes. Each tiny rod or cone contains a deep stack of membranes, packed like a tall column of books. Threaded back and forth through each book is a long, thin molecule, a protein called rhodopsin. Like many proteins, rhodopsin behaves as an enzyme, catalysing a particular chemical reaction by providing a correctly shaped place for particular molecules to slot in.
It is the three-dimensional form of an enzyme molecule which gives it its catalytic property, serving as a carefully shaped, albeit slightly flexible, template for other molecules to fit in and meet one another - otherwise they'd have to rely on bumping into each other by chance (which is why enzymes so dramatically speed up chemical reactions). The elegance of this system is one of the key things that makes life possible, but it does raise a problem. Enzyme molecules are often capable of coiling into more than one shape, and usually only one of them is desirable. Much of the work of natural selection over the millions of years has been to find 'decisive' or 'single-minded' molecules whose 'preference' for their
favoured shape is much stronger than their tendency to coil into any other shape. Molecules with two alternative shapes can be a tragic menace. 'Mad cow disease', sheep scrapie and their human counterparts Kuru and Creutzfeldt-Jakob disease, are caused by proteins called prions which have two alternative shapes. They normally fold into one of the two shapes, and in this configuration they do a useful job. But occasionally they adopt the alternative shape. And then a terrible thing happens. The presence of one protein with the alternative shape induces others to come over to the rogue persuasion. An epidemic of misshapen proteins sweeps through the body like a cascade of falling dominoes. A single misshapen protein can infect a new body and trigger a new domino run. The consequence is death from spongy holes in the brain, because the protein in its alternative shape cannot do its normal job.
Prions have caused some confusion because they spread like self- replicating viruses, yet they are proteins, and proteins aren't supposed to be self-replicating. Textbooks of biology would have it that self-replication is the unique privilege of polynucleotides (DNA and RNA). However, prions are self-replicating only in the peculiar sense of one misshapen rogue molecule 'persuading' its already existing neighbours to flip into the same shape.
In other cases, enzymes with two alternative shapes turn their switchability to good account. Switchability is, after all, the essential property of transistors, diodes and the other high-speed electronic gates that make the logical operations of computers - IF, NOT, and, OR and the like - possible. There are 'allosteric' proteins that flip from state to state in a transistor-like way, not through infectious 'persuasion' by a neighbour, as in prions, but only if some biologically useful condition is met, AND NOT under certain other conditions. Rhodopsin is one of these 'transistor' proteins which make good use of their property of having two alternative shapes, like a photocell, it flips from one state to the other when it is hit by light. It automatically clicks back to the previous shape after a brief recovery period. In one of its two shapes it is a powerful catalyst, but not in the other. So, when light causes it to snap into its active shape, this initiates a special chain reaction and a rapid turnover of molecules. It is as if the light had switched on a high-pressure tap.
The end product of the resulting chemical cascade is a stream of nerve impulses which are relayed to the brain via a series of nerve cells, each of which is a long thin tube. Nerve impulses, too, are rapidly catalysed chemical changes. They sweep along the long thin tubes like fizzing trails of gunpowder. Each fizzing sweep is discrete and separate from the others, so they arrive at the far end of the tube like a series of short, sharp reports - nerve impulses.
The rate at which the nerve impulses arrive - which may be hundreds per second - is a coded representation of (in this case) the intensity of light falling on the rod or cone cell. As far as a single nerve cell is concerned, the difference between strong stimulation and weak is the difference between a high-speed machine gun and intermittent rifle fire.
So far, what I have said applies to the rods and all three kinds of cone. Now for the ways in which they differ. Cones respond only to bright light. Rods are sensitive to dim light and are needed for night vision. Rods are found all over the retina, and are nowhere particularly crowded, so they are no good for resolving small detail. You can't read with them. You read with cones, which are extremely densely packed in one particular part of the retina, the fovea. The denser the packing, of course, the finer the detail that can be resolved.
Rods are not involved in colour vision because they all have the same wavelength sensitivity as each other. They are most sensitive to yellow light in the middle of the visible spectrum, less sensitive nearer the two ends of the spectrum. This does not mean that they report all light to the brain as yellow. That isn't even a meaningful thing to say. All nerve cells report to the brain as nerve impulses, and that's all. If a rod fires rapidly, this could either mean that there is a lot of red or blue light, or that there is somewhat less yellow light. The only way for the brain to resolve the ambiguity is to have simultaneous reports from more than one kind of cell, differentially sensitive to different colours.
This is where the three kinds of cone come in. The three kinds of cone have three different flavours of rhodopsin. All of them respond to light of all wavelengths. But one kind is most sensitive to blue light, another is most sensitive to green light, and the third is most sensitive to red light. By comparing the firing rates of the three kinds of cone - in effect, subtracting them from each other - the nervous system is able to reconstruct the wavelengths of light hitting the retina. Unlike the case of vision by rods alone, the brain is not confused between dim light of one colour and bright light of another colour. The brain, because it receives reports from more than one kind of cone, is able to compute the true colour of the light.
As I said when recalling Doctor Dolittle on the moon, the colours that we finally think we see are labels used for convenience by the brain. I used to be disappointed when I saw 'false colour' images, say, satellite photographs of earth, or computer-constructed images of deep space. The caption tells us that the colours are arbitrary codes, say, for different types of vegetation, in a satellite picture of Africa. I used to think false colour images were a kind of cheat. I wanted to know what the scene 'really' looked like. I now realize that everything I think I see, even the
colours of my own garden through the window, are 'false' in the same sense: arbitrary conventions used, in this case by my brain, as convenient labels for wavelengths of light. Chapter 11 argues that all our perceptions are a kind of 'constrained virtual reality' constructed in the brain. (Actually, I am still disappointed by false colour images! )
We can never know whether the subjective sensations that different people associate with particular wavelengths are the same. We can compare opinions about what colours seem to be mixtures of which. Most of us agree to find it plausible that orange is a mixture of red and yellow. Blue-green's status as a mixture is conveyed by the compound word itself, though not by the word turquoise. It is controversial whether different languages agree on how they partition the spectrum. Some linguists aver that the Welsh language does not divide the green and blue region of the spectrum in the same way as English does. Instead, Welsh is said to have a word corresponding to part of green, and another word corresponding to the other part of green plus part of blue. Other linguists and anthropologists say that this is a myth, no more true than the equally seductive allegation that the Inuit ('Eskimos') have 50 different words for snow. These sceptics claim experimental evidence, obtained by presenting a large range of coloured chips to native speakers of many languages, that there are strong universals in the way humans partition the spectrum. Experimental evidence is, indeed, the only way to settle the question. It matters nothing that, at least to this English speaker, the story about the Welsh partitioning of blue and green feels implausible. There is nothing in physics to gainsay it. The facts, whatever they are, are facts of psychology.
Unlike birds, which have excellent colour vision, many mammals have no true colour vision at all. Others, including certain kinds of partially colour-blind humans, use a two-colour system based on two kinds of cones. High-quality colour vision with a three-colour system may have evolved in our primate ancestors as an aid to finding fruits in the green forest. It has even been suggested, by the Cambridge psychologist John Mollon, that the three-colour system 'is a device invented by certain fruiting trees in order to propagate themselves': an imaginative way of calling attention to the fact that trees benefit from attracting mammals to eat their fruits and spread the seeds. Some New World monkeys go in for weird arrangements in which different individuals within a species have different combinations of two-colour systems, and are thereby specialized to see different things. Nobody knows whether or how this benefits them, but it may be suggestive that bomber crews in the Second World War liked to include at least one colour-blind member, who could penetrate certain kinds of camouflage on the ground.
Unweaving the wider rainbow, moving to other parts of the electromagnetic spectrum, we separate station from station on the radio dial, we insulate conversation from conversation in the network of cellular telephones. Without sensitive unweaving of the electromagnetic rainbow, we'd hear everybody's conversation simultaneously, and all the frequencies on the broadcasting dial, in a white babel of noise. In a different way, and with the assistance of special-purpose computers, unweaving the rainbow underlies Magnetic Resonance Imaging, the spectacular technique by which doctors today can discern the three- dimensioned structure of our internal organs.
When a source of waves is itself moving relative to its detector, something special happens. There is a 'Doppler shift' of wavelengths as detected. This is easy to notice in the case of sound waves because they travel slowly.
A car's engine note is of a distinctly higher pitch when it is approaching than when receding. This is why we hear the characteristic dual-tone eee-aaah when a car whizzes past. The Dutch scientist Buys Ballott in 1845 first verified Doppler's prediction by hiring a brass band to play on an open railway wagon as it sped past his audience. Light waves travel so fast that we notice the Doppler shift only if we are moving very fast towards the source of light (in which case the light is shifted towards the blue end of the spectrum) or away from it (in which case the light is red-shifted). This is true of distant galaxies. The fact that they are fast receding from us was first discovered because of the Doppler shift in their light. It is redder than it should be, shifted consistently towards the longwave, red end of the spectrum.
How do we know that the light coming from a distant galaxy is red- shifted? How do we know that it wasn't red when it set out? You can tell by using the Fraunhofer lines as markers. Each element, remember, signs its name in a unique barcode of lines. The spacing between the lines is characteristic like a fingerprint, but so is the precise position of each line along the rainbow. Light from a distant galaxy shows barcodes that have familiar spacing patterns. This very familiarity is what tells us that other galaxies are made of the same range of stuffs as our own. But the whole pattern is shifted a fixed distance towards the longwave end of the spectrum: it is redder than it should be. In the 1920s, the American astronomer Edwin Hubble (after whom the Hubble Space Telescope is now named) discovered that distant galaxies have red-shifted spectra. Those galaxies with the most pronounced red shift are also the most distant - as estimated from the faintness of their light.
Hubble's famous conclusion (although it had been suggested by others before) was that the universe is expanding, and from any given observation point the galaxies seem to recede at ever-increasing speed.
When we look at a distant galaxy, we are looking far back into the past, for the light has taken billions of years to reach us. It has become faint, which is how we know it has come a great distance. The speed with which our galaxy is racing apart from the other galaxy has had the effect of shifting the spectrum towards the red end. The relationship between distance and velocity of receding is a lawful one (it obeys 'Hubble's law). By extrapolating this quantitative relationship backwards we can estimate when the universe began expanding. Using the language of the now prevailing 'Big Bang' theory, the universe began in a gigantic explosion between ten billion and 20 billion years ago. All this we infer from unweaving the rainbow. Further developments of the theory, supported by all available evidence, suggest that time itself began in this mother of all cataclysms. You probably don't understand, and I certainly don't, what it can possibly mean to say that time itself began at a particular moment. But once again that is a limitation of our minds, which were only ever designed to cope with slow, rather large objects on the African savannahs, where events come well behaved and in order, and every one has a before. An event that has no before terrifies our poor reason. Maybe we can appreciate it only through poetry. Keats, thou shouldst be living at this hour.
And are there eyes out there in the galaxies, looking back at us? Back is the word, for they can see us only in our past. The inhabitants of a world 100 million light years distant might at this moment see, if they could see anything at all on our planet, red-shifted dinosaurs lunging over the rose-tinted plains. Alas, even if there are other creatures in the universe, and even if they have eyes, it is unlikely that, however powerful their telescopes, they will have the resolving power to see our planet, let alone individual inhabitants of it. We ourselves have never seen another planet outside our solar system. We didn't even know about all the planets in our own solar system until recent centuries. Neptune and Pluto are too faint to be seen by the naked eye. The only reason we knew which way to point the telescope was by calculations from minute perturbations in the orbits of nearer planets. In 1846, two mathematical astronomers, J. C. Adams in England and U. J. J. Leverrier in France, were independently puzzled by a discrepancy between the actual position of the planet Uranus and where it theoretically should have been. Both calculated that the perturbation could have been caused by the gravity of an invisible planet of a particular mass in a particular place. The German astronomer J. G. Galle duly pointed his telescope in the right direction and discovered Neptune. Pluto was discovered in the same way, as late as 1930 by the American astronomer C. W. Tombaugh, alerted by its (much smaller) gravitational effects on the orbit of Neptune. John Keats would have appreciated the excitement those astronomers felt:
Then felt I like some watcher of the skies When a new planet swims into his ken; Or like stout Cortez when with eagle eyes He stared at the Pacific - and all his men Look 'd at each other with a wild surmise - Silent upon a peak in Darien. 'On First Looking into Chapman's Homer' (1816)
I have had a special affection for these lines ever since they were quoted to me by a publisher on first reading the manuscript of The Blind Watchmaker.
But are there planets orbiting other stars? An important question, this, whose answer affects our estimate of the ubiquity of life in the universe. If there is only one star in the universe that has planets, that star has to be our sun and we are very very alone. At the other extreme, if every star is the centre of a solar system, the number of planets potentially available for life will exceed all counting. Almost whatever the odds of life on any one planet, if we find planets orbiting one other typical star as well as the sun, we feel sensibly less lonely.
Planets are too close to their suns, and too smothered by their brightness, for our telescopes normally to see them. The main way we know that other stars have planets - and the discovery waited till the 1990s - is, once again, through orbital perturbations, this time detected via Doppler shifts in coloured light. Here's how this works. We think of the sun as
the centre about which planets orbit. But Newton tells us that two bodies orbit each other. If two stars are of similar mass - they're called a binary pair - the two swing round each other like a pair of dumb-bells. The more unequal they are, the more it seems the lighter one orbits the heavier one, which almost stays still. When one body is much larger than the other, for instance the sun versus Jupiter, the heavier one just wobbles a bit while the lighter one whizzes round like a terrier circling its master on a walk.
It is such wobbles in the positions of stars that betray the presence of otherwise invisible planets orbiting them. But the wobbles themselves are too small to be seen directly. Our telescopes cannot resolve such small changes in position; less so, indeed, than they can resolve the planets themselves. Again, it is unweaving the rainbow that comes to the rescue, As a star wobbles back and forth under the influence of an orbiting planet, the light from it reaches us red-shifted when the star is moving away, blue-shifted when it is moving towards us. Planets give themselves away by causing minute, but measurable, red/blue oscillations in the light reaching us from their parent stars. In the same way, inhabitants of distant planets might just detect the presence of Jupiter by watching the sun's rhythmic changes of hue. Jupiter is probably the only one of our sun's planets large enough to be detectable
in this way. Our humble planet is too tiny to make gravitational ripples for aliens to notice.
They might, however, be aware of us through unweaving the rainbow of radio and television signals that we ourselves have been pumping out for the past few decades. The swelling spherical bubble of vibrations, now more than a light-century' across, has enveloped a significant number of stars though an insignificant proportion of those that populate the universe. Carl Sagan, in his novel Contact, has darkly noted that in the vanguard of images announcing earth to the rest of the universe will be Hitler's speech opening the 1936 Olympic Games in Berlin. No reply has so far been picked up, no message of any kind from any other world.
We have never been given any direct reason to suppose that we have company. In very different ways, the possibility that the universe is teeming with life, and the opposite possibility that we are totally alone, are equally exciting. Either way, the urge to know more about the universe seems to me irresistible, and I cannot imagine that anybody of truly poetic sensibility could disagree. I am ironically amused by how much of what we have discovered so far is a direct extrapolation of unweaving the rainbow. And the poetic beauty of what that unweaving has now revealed, from the nature of the stars to the expansion of the universe, could not fail to catch the imagination of Keats; would be bound to send Coleridge into a frenzied reverie; would make Wordsworth's heart leap up as never before.
The great Indian astrophysicist Subrahmanyan Chandrasekhar said, in a lecture in 1975:
This 'shuddering before the beautiful', this incredible fact that a discovery motivated by a search after the beautiful in mathematics should find its exact replica in Nature, persuades me to say that beauty is that to which the human mind responds at its deepest and most profound.
How much more sincere that sounds than Keats's better-known expression of a superficially similar emotion:
'Beauty is truth, truth beauty,'- that is all Ye know on earth, and all ye need to know.
'Ode on a Grecian Urn' (1820)
Keats and Lamb should have raised their glass to poetry, and to mathematics, and to the poetry of mathematics. Wordsworth would have needed no encouragement. He (and Coleridge) had been inspired by the
Scottish poet James Thomson, and might have recalled Thomson's 'To the Memory of Sir Isaac Newton' (1727):
. . . Even Light itself, which every thing displays. Shone undiscovered, till his brighter mind Untwisted all the shining robe of day;
And, from the whitening undistinguished blaze. Collecting every ray into his kind,
To the charmed eye educed the gorgeous train Of parent colours.
First the flaming red
Sprung vivid forth; the tawny orange next; And next delicious yellow; by whose side
Fell the kind beams of all-refreshing green
Then the pure blue, that swells autumnal skies.
Ethereal played; and then, of sadder hue,
Emerged the deepened indigo, as when
The heavy-skirted evening droops with frost;
While the last gleamings of refracted light
Died in the fainting violet away. These, when the clouds distil the rosy shower,
Shine out distinct adown the watery how;
While o 'er our heads the dewy vision bends
Delightful, melting on the fields beneath.
Myriads of mingling dyes from these result,
And myriads still remain - infinite source
Of beauty, ever flushing, ever new.
Did ever poet image aught so fair,
Dreaming in whispering groves by the hoarse brook?
Or prophet, to whose rapture heaven descends?
Even now the setting sun and shifting clouds,
Seen, Greenwich, from thy lovely heights, declare
How just, how beauteous the refractive law.
4
BARCODES ON THE AIR
We shall find the Cube of the Rainbow, Of that, there is no doubt But the Arc of a Lover's conjecture Eludes the finding out.
EMILY DICKINSON (1894)
On the air, in contemporary English, means on the radio. But radio waves have nothing to do with air, they are better regarded as invisible
light waves with long wavelengths. Airwaves can sensibly mean only one thing and that is sound. This chapter is about sound and other slow waves, and how they, too, can be unwoven like a rainbow. Sound weaves travel about a million times more slowly than light (or radio) waves, not much faster than a Boeing 747 and slower than a Concorde. Unlike light and other electromagnetic radiation, which propagates best through a vacuum, sound waves travel only through a material medium such as air or water. They are waves of compression and rarefaction (thickening and thinning) of the medium. In air, this means waves of increasing and then decreasing local barometric pressure. Our ears are tiny barometers capable of tracking highspeed rhythmic changes of pressure. Insect ears work in another way entirely. In order to understand the difference, we need a small digression to examine what pressure really is.
We feel pressure on our skin, when we place our hand over the outlet of a bicycle pump, for example, as a kind of springy push. Actually, pressure is the summed bombardments of thousands of molecules of air, whizzing about in random directions (as opposed to a wind, where the molecules predominantly flow in one particular direction). If you hold your palm up to a high wind you feel the equivalent of pressure - bombardment of molecules. The molecules in a confined space, say, the interior of a well-pumped bicycle tyre, press outwards on the walls of the tyre with a force proportional to the number of molecules in the tyre and to the temperature. At any temperature higher than -275? C (the lowest possible temperature, corresponding to complete motionlessness of molecules), the molecules are in continuous random motion, bouncing off each other like billiard balls. They don't only bounce off each other, they bounce off the inside walls of the tyre - and the walls of the tyre 'feel' it as pressure. As an additional effect, the hotter the air, the faster the molecules rush about (that's what temperature means), so the pressure of a given volume of air goes up when you heat it. By the same token, the temperature of a given quantity of air goes up when you compress it, i. e. raise the pressure by reducing the volume.
Sound waves are waves of oscillating local pressure change. The total pressure in, say, a sealed room is determined by the number of molecules in the room and the temperature, and these numbers don't change in the short term. On average, every cubic centimetre in the room will have the same number of molecules as every other cubic centimetre, and therefore the same pressure. But this doesn't stop there being local variations in pressure. Cubic centimetre A may experience a momentary rise in pressure at the expense of cubic centimetre B, which has temporarily donated some molecules to it. The increased pressure in A will tend to push molecules back to B and redress the balance. On the much larger scale of geography, this is what winds are - flows of air from high-pressure areas to low-pressure areas. On a smaller scale sounds
can be understood in this way, but they are not winds because they oscillate backwards and forwards very fast.
If a tuning fork is struck in the middle of a room, the vibration disturbs the local molecules of air, causing them to bump into neighbouring molecules of air. The tuning fork vibrates back and forth at a particular frequency, causing ripples of disturbance to propagate outwards in all directions as a series of expanding shells. Each wavefront is a zone of increased pressure, with a zone of decreased pressure following in its wake. Then the next wavefront comes, after an interval determined by
the rate at which the tuning fork is vibrating. If you stick a tiny, very fast-acting barometer anywhere in the room, the barometer needle will swing up and down as each wavefront passes over it. The rate at which the barometer needle oscillates is the frequency of the sound. A fast- acting barometer is exactly what a vertebrate ear is. The eardrum moves in and out under the changing pressures that hit it. The eardrum is connected (via three tiny bones, the famous hammer, anvil and stirrup, sequestered in evolution from the bones of the reptilian jaw hinge) to a kind of inverse harp in miniature, called the cochlea. As in a harp, the 'strings' of the cochlea are arranged across a tapering frame. Strings at the small end of the frame vibrate in sympathy with high-pitched sounds, those at the big end vibrate in sympathy with low-pitched sounds. Nerves from along the cochlea are mapped in an orderly way in the brain, so the brain can tell whether a low-pitched or a high-pitched sound is vibrating the eardrum.
Insect ears, by contrast, are not little barometers, they are little weather- vanes. They actually measure the flow of molecules as a wind, albeit a queer kind of wind which travels only a very short distance before reversing its direction. The expanding wavefront which we detect as a change in pressure is also a wave of movement of molecules: movement into a local area as the pressure goes up, then movement back out of that area as the pressure goes down again. Whereas our barometer ears have a membrane stretched over a confined space, insect weather-vane ears have either a hair, or a membrane stretched over a chamber with a hole. In either case, it is literally blown back and forth by the rhythmic, backward and forward movements of the molecules.
Sensing the direction of a sound is therefore second nature for insects. Any fool with a weather-vane can distinguish a north wind from an east wind, and a single insect ear finds it easy to tell a north-south oscillation from an east-west oscillation. Directionality is built into insects' method of detecting sound. Barometers aren't like that. A rise in pressure is just a rise in pressure, and it doesn't matter from which direction the added molecules come. We vertebrates therefore, with our barometer ears, have to calculate the direction of sound by comparing the reports of the two
ears, rather as we calculate colour by comparing the reports of different classes of cones. The brain compares the loudness at the two ears and separately it compares the time of arrival of sounds (especially staccato sounds) at the two ears. Some kinds of sounds lend themselves to such comparisons less readily than others. Cricket song is cunningly pitched and timed so as to be hard for vertebrate ears to locate, but easy for female crickets, with their weather-vane ears, to home in upon. Some cricket chirps even create the illusion, at least to my vertebrate brain, that the (in fact stationary) cricket is leaping about like a jumping squib.
Sound waves form a spectrum of wavelengths, analogous to the rainbow. The sound rainbow is also subject to unweaving, which is why it is possible to make any sense of sounds at all. Just as our sensations of colour are the labels that the brain slaps on to light of different wavelengths, the equivalent internal labels that it uses for sounds are the different pitches. But there is a lot more to sound than simple pitch, and this is where unweaving really comes into its own.
A tuning fork or a glass harmonica (an instrument favoured by Mozart, made from fine glass bowls tuned by the depth of water they contain, sounded by a wetted finger drawn around the rim) emit a crystalline pure sound. Physicists call these sine waves. Sine waves are the simplest kind of waves, sort of theoretical ideal waves. The smooth curves that snake along a rope when you wiggle one end up and down are more or less sine waves, although of much lower frequency than sound waves, of course. Most sounds are not simple sine waves but are more jagged and complicated, as we shall see. For the moment we shall think of a tuning fork or glass harmonica, singing out its smooth, curvaceous waves of pressure change that race away from the source in concentrically expanding spheres. A barometer ear placed at one spot detects a smooth increase in pressure followed by a smooth decrease, rhythmically oscillating with no kinks or wiggles in the curve. With every doubling in frequency (or halving in wavelength, which is the same thing) we hear a jump of one octave. Very low frequencies, the deepest notes of the organ, shudder through our bodies and are hardly heard by our ears at all. Very high frequencies are inaudible to humans (especially older humans) but audible to bats and used by them, in the form of echoes, to find their way about. This is one of the most enthralling stories in all natural history, but I've devoted a whole chapter to it in The Blind Watchmaker so will resist the temptation to expand.
Tuning forks and glass harmonicas aside, pure sine waves are largely a mathematical abstraction. Real sounds are mostly more complicated mixtures, and they richly repay unweaving. Our brains unweave them effortlessly and to astonishing effect. It is only with much labour that our mathematical understanding of what is going on has caught up, clumsily
and incompletely, with what our ears have effortlessly unwoven - and our brains rewoven - from childhood on.
Suppose we sound one tuning fork with an oscillating frequency of 440 cycles per second, or 440 Hertz (Hz). We shall hear a pure tone, the A above middle C. What is the difference between this and a violin playing the same A, a clarinet playing the same A, an oboe, a flute? The answer is that each instrument includes admixtures of waves whose frequencies are various multiples of the fundamental frequency. Any instrument playing the A above middle C will deliver most of its sound energy at the fundamental frequency, 440 Hz, but superimposed will be traces of vibration at 880 Hz, 1520 Hz and so on. These are called harmonics, although the word can be confusing since 'harmonies' are chords of several notes that we hear as distinct. A 'single' trumpet note is actually a mixture of harmonics, the particular mixture being a kind of trumpet 'signature' that distinguishes it from, say, a violin playing the 'same' note (with different, violin signature harmonics). There are additional complications, which I shall ignore, around the onset of sounds, for example the lippy irruption of a trumpet blast or the zing as a violin bow hits the string.
These complications aside, there is a characteristic trumpet (or violin, or whatever it is) quality to the sustained part of a note. It is possible to demonstrate that the apparently single tone of a particular instrument is a rewoven construct of the brain, summing up sine waves. The demonstration works as follows. Having decided which sine waves are involved in, say, trumpet sound, select the appropriate 'tuning fork' pure tones and sound them one at a time. For a brief period you can hear the separate notes, as if they really were a chord of tuning forks. Then, quite eerily, they click into focus with each other, the 'tuning forks' disappear, and you hear only what Keats called the silver, snarling trumpets, sounding the pitch of the fundamental frequency. A different barcode combination of frequencies is needed to make the sound of a clarinet, and "again you can fleetingly distinguish them as separate 'tuning forks' before the brain homes in on the illusion of one 'woody' clarinet note. The violin has its own barcode signature, and so on.
Now, if you watch a tracing of the pressure wave when a violin is playing some note, what you see is a complicated wiggly line repeating itself at the fundamental frequency but with smaller wiggles of higher frequency superimposed. What has happened is that the different sine waves that constitute violin noise have summed up to make the complicated wiggly line. It is possible to program a computer to analyse any complicatedly repeating pattern of wiggles back into its component pure waves, the separate sine waves that you would have to sum up to make the complicated pattern. Presumably, when you listen to an instrument, you
are performing something equivalent to this calculation, the ear first unweaving the component sine waves, then the brain weaving them together again and giving them the appropriate label: 'trumpet, 'oboe' or whatever it is.
But our unconscious feats of unweaving and weaving are greater even than this. Think what is happening when you listen to a whole orchestra. Imagine that, superimposed on a hundred instruments, your neighbour in the concert is whispering learned music criticism in your ear, others are coughing and, lamentably, somebody behind you is rustling a chocolate wrapper.