cosmic explorer

Gravitational-wave detectors are like extremely sensitive ears: they pick up the trembling of space when black holes or neutron stars collide somewhere in the universe. But even the most sophisticated "ears" cannot hear everything. The new LIGO A# project is like replacing the eardrum with a thinner, more sensitive membrane.

The calm surface of a lake suddenly ripples — somewhere in the depths, an underwater cliff has collapsed. The water trembles almost imperceptibly, and the circles spread wider and wider until they reach a bobber near the shore.

Somewhere in the depths of the Milky Way, radio pulses flare up from time to time — rare, steady, like the ticks of a distant metronome. These long-period radio transients were discovered only recently, and they immediately puzzled astronomers.

At the end of a massive star's life, its core collapses in a fraction of a second, giving birth to a supernova flash. This cataclysm shakes spacetime itself, emitting gravitational waves — ripples that race across the Universe.

You could send a short radio pulse toward a black hole and wait for the reflected echo. Intuitively, the shorter the signal, the better it would probe the finest details of spacetime right at the horizon: that region from which even light cannot return.

A bell rings not from the strike but from a fleeting shudder of space. A gravitational wave, like ripples on a pond, passes through a massive magnet, and it deforms ever so slightly. That deformation can be turned into an electrical signal.

A noisy café. You're trying to make out two quiet conversations: one from the table by the window (black hole mergers), the other a barely audible whisper from the far corner (echoes of the universe's birth). But the hiss of the espresso machine and street noise (detector jitter) drown everything out. New work teaches a computer to separate these sounds.

A spinning top that makes a hundred turns per second suddenly starts losing speed dramatically — much faster than any known top. That's exactly what pulsar J0435+3233 is doing. It's a dead star, crushed to the size of a city, but whirling at a furious rate.

Two tiny weights, each about the mass of a grain of sand, hang in the dark at a temperature colder than deep space. They don't touch, but an invisible thread connects them — gravity. The experiment physicists are now building aims to catch the moment when that thread tugs one weight due to the motion of the other.

In 2034, a rocket leaves a spaceport with an unusual payload: two spheres the size of a large globe, each weighing nearly a ton. No engines, no electronics. Just a mirrored surface of hundreds of corner-cube reflectors — tiny prisms that return light exactly to where it came from. This is the future space tuning fork.

A laser beam in a multi-kilometer tunnel trembles as a gravitational wave passes, but the tremor is barely perceptible, on the scale of fractions of a proton's diameter. To hear this cosmic whisper, physicists squeeze every last bit of performance out of light.

A pair of neutron stars, locked in a gravitational embrace, traces invisible circles in the void. A century ago, Albert Einstein described this dance as waves of curved geometry, but for a long time we could only catch glimpses — through the feverish flicker of radio pulses.

The universe is permeated by invisible mass, dark matter, whose existence was first proposed by Fritz Zwicky in the 1930s, based on his observations of galaxies moving in clusters.

In 2015, detectors caught a gravitational wave for the first time — a ripple in space that traveled from merging black holes. Since then, such signals have become a new window into the universe for astrophysics. But gravitational waves can do more: they carry the imprint of the very theory of gravity.

When a distant galaxy sends us light, it dims with distance, and from that dimming, we can tell how far away it is. Gravitational waves work in much the same way: the farther their source, the weaker the ripple in space that detectors on Earth pick up.

Pulsars are dead stars spinning with flawless rhythm. Their radio blips are more precise than atomic clocks. However, gravitational waves — ripples in the fabric of spacetime, predicted by Einstein — disrupt that rhythm.

It was Edwin Hubble who discovered that galaxies are rushing apart, and Georges Lemaître linked this to the expansion of space. Today, the ΛCDM model, relying on dark energy and dark matter, asserts that the Universe is flat as a perfectly stretched canvas.

LIGO, Virgo, and KAGRA detectors act like giant microphones, listening in on gravitational waves — vibrations of space itself. The new GWTC-5.0 catalog recorded 161 black hole mergers, bringing the total count to 390 events.

Imagine a giant inflatable balloon with galaxies painted on it. As it inflates, the pattern stretches and neighboring dots move apart. The rate of that stretching is the Hubble constant. Astronomers usually catch light from distant stars and see how much it has reddened due to the stretching of space.

Two dots on the surface of a balloon: that's all the reference points you have when trying to figure out how it inflates. That's roughly how cosmologists reconstruct the history of the universe's expansion.

The universe sometimes resembles a pot of boiling water. With enough heat, liquid turns to vapor: that's a phase transition. Something similar could have happened in the early universe: a field filling space suddenly changed its state, like water becoming gas.

Two beams of light race around a closed loop, heading toward each other. Since the speed of light is constant, when the ring turns, one beam has to catch up with a moving finish line, while the other meets it sooner. Their meeting creates a pattern, and from that pattern we can tell how fast the whole system is spinning.

Gravitational waves are ripples in space from the mergers of black holes and neutron stars. Existing detectors, built with contributions from Kip Thorne and Rainer Weiss, work like highly sensitive microphones but only hear the highest 'notes'.

A tiny ball weighing a fraction of a milligram, suspended in a magnetic field and cooled to near absolute zero, oscillates for 110 hours without stopping: this is record isolation. The energy loss is so small that the system's entropy barely increases, making any external influence noticeable.

Mirrors in gravitational wave detectors listen to the Universe, but they're drowned out by their own trembling — like a microphone in a noisy train station.

A pulsar is a dead star spinning at breakneck speed, sending out radio pulses like a lighthouse. But for PSR J1928+1815, the signal sometimes cuts out for 3.6 hours. Something is blocking the beacon. A companion star orbits the pulsar, and its shadow falls on us.

After a supernova explosion, a neutron star neutron star remains: a city-sized ball of unimaginably dense matter, spinning hundreds of times per second. Any tiny bump on its surface would make it wobble like an off-balance spinning top, humming faintly through the fabric of space.

Black holes aren't silent abysses, but nature's tuning forks. Their rapid spin, predicted by Roger Penrose, makes spacetime itself sing, producing a stream of the lightest particles — axions. These accumulate around the hole, like sound in a concert hall, and begin to oscillate in unison.

Rhythmic flashes of a lighthouse in thick fog: that's what searching for pulsars looks like. The lighthouse spins, and its beam periodically sweeps across the telescope. But the fog smears the light, making the period seem slightly different. If the same lighthouse was observed twice, you can compare: the periods should nearly match, and the smearing should be similar.

A beam of light passing through a transparent plate usually keeps its color. But if you stack the plate from thin alternating layers, it becomes a grating that reflects and transmits waves selectively. This has long been used in lasers and optical filters. Now such gratings have been made to vibrate, and light started changing color.

Even Einstein predicted gravitational waves — a trembling of the very fabric of spacetime. Today they are captured by gigantic installations like LIGO, created thanks to Rainer Weiss and Kip Thorne.

In its first moments, the universe resembled dough that alternately rises rapidly and then pauses for a second. During these short bursts, called expansion of the universe with interruptions, even tiny magnetic fields could have grown like bubbles in well-beaten dough.

In August 2017, gravitational wave detectors caught a signal from the merger of two neutron stars — the ultra-dense remnants of exploded stars. At that very moment, life on Earth was business as usual: planes were landing, cars were driving, and navigators were plotting routes.

Pluck a guitar string, and it vibrates — the air around it carries the tremor to your ear. Spacetime vibrates differently: when a gravitational wave passes through, it stretches and squeezes slightly. Spotting such a tremor at frequencies from 10 kilohertz to 100 megahertz is the challenge that new detectors are being built for.

The night sky is dotted with stars, and many of them have planets. But how do you spot a tiny dark disk against the glare of a distant sun? The Kepler telescope spent nine years watching hundreds of thousands of stars, waiting for a planet to pass in front of its star and briefly dim it. That 'wink' is the only way to find worlds like ours.

The merger of two neutron stars is like a strike on a gong: a ripple in space, a gravitational wave, spreads through the universe. Detectors on Earth catch this ripple and, from its strength, calculate the distance to the source.

Measuring the universe’s expansion is like timing a race when the track stretches. Neutron star mergers act as standard sirens: their gravitational waves ring out with a known “volume,” so fainter signals mean greater distance.

Imagine a membrane stretched like the skin of a drum. It picks up two signals at once: gravitational waves — the trembling of space itself — and elusive particles of dark matter. The membrane is placed between mirrors, and light presses on it like a finger on a string, keeping it under constant tension.

The Universe is expanding, and every galaxy cluster takes part in a grand dance. The tempo of this dance is set by the Hubble constant, first measured by Edwin Hubble nearly a century ago. Pinpointing the number is tough because you need a ruler that spans billions of light-years.

Astronomers have found an invisible object in the Universe weighing just a million Suns — for cosmic scales, that’s a mere trifle, a hundred times lighter than anything they’ve been able to “weigh” at such distances. The object itself doesn’t shine, but it gave itself away by bending the light from an even more distant galaxy.