free fall

Plasma is a gas in which electrons are stripped from atoms and roam freely. Sometimes, regions where electrons are almost absent spontaneously appear in such a gas; they are called holes. It is like a whirlpool forming in a stream, pulling everything around it in. But exactly how such a whirlpool is born has long remained a mystery.

Light freezes at the edge of the abyss: that's what the event horizon of an ordinary black hole looks like. But at the center of this abyss lurks a singularity, a point where the laws of physics break down. What if, instead of a point, there were a hard shell? A gravastar is not a black hole.

Two houses with identical facades. Windows, doors, wall color — everything matches. But inside, one is empty, while the other buzzes with life. How can you tell without stepping inside? In space, there's a similar puzzle: a black hole and a gravastar look the same from the outside, but they are built differently.

A thrown stone sends ripples across water. A gravitational wave is the same kind of ripple, but in spacetime. It is produced, for example, by the merger of two black holes. In classical physics, this ripple is eternal: once created, it travels through the Universe without fading.

An engineering blueprint of a skyscraper always includes a number: the maximum load on the foundation — say, 500 kilopascals. Einstein's field equations in curved spacetime impose a similar limit on the 'force load' inside stars, planets, and any other clumps of matter.

A lead sphere hangs above another lead sphere. According to the usual laws of gravitation, they attract each other exactly along the vertical — along the line connecting their centers.

According to Einstein's general theory of relativity Albert Einstein, a massive rotating body drags the fabric of spacetime along with it, much like a spoon twirled in a jar sets thick honey flowing.

A wormhole is a tunnel connecting two distant regions of the universe. If such a wormhole existed and were traversable, a particle inside it would feel not only gravity but also a force from its own electric field. This force depends on how spacetime is curved around it.

A ball sits in a pit. It won't roll out on its own: it needs a push. But in the quantum world, a particle can leak through a barrier without extra energy. This trick is called tunneling.

Light passing near a massive body slightly changes its path — gravity pulls even on rays. In ordinary situations, a beam of light from a distant star is squeezed as if drawn together by an invisible rubber band. This property is called the null convergence condition: gravity makes light trajectories converge rather than diverge.

When a grain of sand falls on a table, its impact is predictable. But if you squeezed it down to the size of an atomic nucleus, the familiar laws of gravity would break down — the force of gravity would grow without bound.

Gravity is usually explained through the curvature of spacetime. Massive bodies press it down like a bowling ball on a stretched rubber sheet. But this approach has two lesser-known twins. In one, gravity arises from torsion (twisting) of spacetime; in the other, from its non-metricity (when lengths and angles change during transport).

At the very beginning of the universe, when all of space was compressed into a point, the laws of physics break down. This point is called a singularity — an edge where our equations lose meaning. But what if it's not an end, but a special type of boundary? The authors of this work propose viewing the singularity as a free boundary.

Perth residents know: when the daytime heat becomes unbearable, relief arrives from the ocean — a fresh breeze affectionately called the Freo Doctor. The same wind, only on a global scale, decides the fate of cosmic visitors plunging into the atmosphere. A meteorite fall is a two-act spectacle.

Stephen Hawking imagined that the universe was born not from an explosion, but by smoothly emerging from a quantum 'nothing.' In worlds with concave geometry (anti-de Sitter space), such a birth acquires a rim, like the hoop of a drum.

A guitar string decides for itself how tightly to stretch when a musician plays a chord in different octaves. That's roughly the picture physicists paint when they try to unite gravity, the weakest but most pervasive force, with the quirky laws of the microcosm.

Quantum objects live in a world of superpositions — being here and there at the same time, with one spin and another. But as soon as they gain enough mass, this magic fades. Roger Penrose suggested that gravity itself is to blame.

A dying star is not just fading away. In its final moments, the core, starved of fuel, collapses into itself at colossal speed. Classical gravity leaves no choice: if the mass is large enough, a black hole is born — a region from which not even light can escape.

Two balls suspended on threads swing side by side. Each moves on its own, but between them is an invisible thread — the attraction of masses. If gravity is quantum, it could bind them into a single whole: nudge one, and the other responds, even without contact.

A rubber band stretched in different directions behaves differently from a whole sheet of paper. If you pull on an edge, the deformation does not spread evenly but seems to linger in certain spots.

In 2015, the LIGO detectors caught the first burst of gravitational waves — astronomers heard two black holes colliding far out in space. That ripple in spacetime reached us with its signal shape intact: like the sound of a bell traveling billions of years without distortion.

A thrown stone arcs along a clean trajectory, but an electron's position in an atom is smeared out like fog. The transition from one to the other is a puzzle. New work shows that the fuzziness disappears not because of an observer, but because of the particle's own gravity.

A raindrop falling to the ground strikes with a certain force. But what if the drop isn't round but elongated like a cigar or flattened like a pancake? It turns out that shape is everything: the impact force can vary by more than a factor of ten just because of how the drop looks at the moment of impact.

A superconducting contact is like a narrow bridge between two shores, carrying current without friction. Place such a bridge near a massive star, and it will feel time flowing slower near the star's surface. Clocks on the shores tick at different rates, and the current begins to oscillate differently. But if the star rotates slowly, the picture gets more complicated.

Gravity always pulls — an apple falls down, planets orbit in circles. But by placing a source of gravity in two places at once, you can get the opposite. Physicists have proposed an experiment: a massive body is put into a quantum state, smeared across space like a cloud. Then a tiny particle is shot into that cloud.

An atom excited by light gives its energy back in an instant — it emits a photon. This process is like a tired runner dropping a heavy load. But if the runner is on a mountain slope, it's harder to pick up speed. Gravity acts on the atom similarly: near a massive body, time flows slower, and the atom emits differently.

A sheet of paper released from a window flutters, tumbles, and sometimes pauses flat for a second. Until now, to honestly predict such behavior, you had to run millions of equations on supercomputers for every drop of air. That's like simulating every atom of a cash register to count change at a store. The new approach is smarter.

In the quantum world, an object can be in several places at once. Yet in everyday life we see things strictly in their places. The reason is gravity. A massive star under its own weight inevitably collapses into a black hole or a neutron star, but it can't be both at the same time.

A water droplet falls onto a lotus leaf and bounces off without leaving a trace. Nature has perfected this self-cleaning marvel over millions of years, and engineers have long tried to replicate it. But if the droplet hits too fast, it shatters into splashes, losing mass and leaving wet marks on the surface.