exoplanet detection noise reduction

When two black holes merge, ripples spread across the fabric of spacetime — gravitational waves. But what if one of them isn't a run-of-the-mill black hole but something else — an exotic compact object?

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.

Every night, hundreds of observatories scan the sky, yet planets around other stars remain ghosts. Their light is billions of times fainter than the glare of their parent star — the task seems hopeless. But optics found a way: rather than block the star’s light, cancel it with a counter-wave of the same amplitude, shifted by half a period.

A pebble on a streambed lies still as sunlight sparkles dance on the water's surface. In astronomy, the contrast is similar: a real exoplanet is the stone, while myriad speckles (patches of scattered starlight) are the ripples trembling in instruments.

A spotlight blazes straight into your eyes, and a few steps away a tiny firefly flickers. That's roughly what it's like hunting for an Earth-like planet around a neighboring star: the planet is a hundred million to ten billion times fainter than its star, and in the sky they almost merge into a single point.

A star's light curve is not chaotic noise, but a text written by pulsations, spots, and the steady glow of a thermonuclear furnace. Any planet slipping across the disk leaves a typo in this text: a tiny dip in brightness lasting hours.

At the edge of the solar system, far beyond Neptune, hundreds of icy chunks circle the Sun. Some of them move as if an invisible hand had aligned their orbits like compass needles. Ten years ago, this led astronomers to suspect that a massive planet, about ten times heavier than Earth, is hiding there.

The light from a distant star is never steady. It shimmers like heat over hot asphalt. When astronomers pointed JWST at the star TOI 700, they saw this shimmer especially clearly: every 16 minutes, the brightness changed by a tiny fraction, just 46 parts per million.For comparison: if you placed a light bulb a kilometer away, this change would be…

When a planet passes in front of a star, the light pierces its atmosphere and absorbs the flavor of gases. Each gas leaves its color fingerprint in the light — a bitter or sweet stroke. Scientists try to read this recipe: what substances and in what proportions are mixed in the air of an alien world.

The night sky in a telescope image looks like a photo taken through a fogged-up window: bright stars are visible, but everything faint drowns in a murky haze. That haze is noise — random interference from electronics, heat, and the atmosphere itself.

For six straight years, the HARPS-N telescope on La Palma island stared at the Sun as if it were a distant star — taking spectra, tracking brightness, and recording every quiver of spectral lines. All this was to understand how to distinguish a star's subtle sway from a genuine planetary signal. A star doesn't sit still: its surface boils like a pot of soup.

Cosmic particles with energies millions of times greater than anything our accelerators can produce slam into the atmosphere and create a shower of secondary particles. This shower emits radio waves that antennas on the ground pick up. But the signal is weak: it's swamped by the radio noise of our galaxy and the receivers' own noise.