ice grain molecular formation

A frozen orchestra where musicians swap seats when the conductor, magnetism, sets a new score. In a spinel crystal, iron and magnesium atoms sit in two types of seats: some surrounded by four neighbors, others by six. At room temperature, they barely stir, but cool the material to 5 K and a mass migration begins.

In the coldest, darkest corners of space, dust grains get covered in ice, like a window on a frosty day. This ice isn't just frozen water: it also contains carbon monoxide and carbon dioxide. From such ice, comets and planets may eventually assemble. But until now, it was unclear how the dust grain itself affects the ice that forms on it.

In a dense molecular cloud, at the edge of glowing gas, an invisible assembly line is at work. It takes simple scraps — single atoms and light pairs — and glues them together step by step into long carbon chains and rings. The first piece of this assembly line has long eluded our eyes. Now it has been found.

In the black depths of space, on the surfaces of tiny icy dust grains, a quiet construction is underway. There, where temperatures drop to near absolute zero and harsh radiation abounds, the ordinary amino acid glycine, the simplest protein building block, links up with itself.

A speed of 7,5 kilometers per second is the threshold beyond which a cosmic collision turns dust grains into a chemical reactor. In the interstellar medium drift tiny cosmic dust grains — the legacy of dying stars.

In water cooled to –40°C, a paradoxical pause sets in: perfect hexagonal ice is in no hurry to form. Instead, a disordered structure with interspersed cubic layers emerges — a real cradle for future symmetry, brimming with disorder yet already charged with hidden architecture.

Dark matter remains one of the greatest mysteries of modern physics. Back when Vera Rubin observed galaxy rotation, she proved that visible matter is insufficient to keep stars from flying apart.

Tiny seeds of life can cross the black void on icy wanderers like comet 3I/ATLAS. The James Webb Space Telescope found water and methane on it for the first time, and light analysis revealed an unusual gas composition.

In 2019, an unusual visitor, comet 3I/ATLAS, zoomed into the Solar System. It came from another star, and for the first time, astronomers were able to see what its dusty tail is made of.

In the heart of the Milky Way, in the cloud G+0.693, astronomers caught a sweet signal — emission lines of erythrulose, a simple sugar with four carbon atoms and four oxygen atoms.

Using the James Webb telescope, astronomers peered into an ancient quasar — the dazzling heart of a galaxy where a giant black hole sucks in matter. It turns out it doesn't just destroy, but also creates: its powerful outflows and shock waves act like a true cosmic mill.

For nearly half a century, astronomers have been searching for glycine, the simplest amino acid and one of the fundamental building blocks of proteins, in the interstellar medium.

In a cold cloud of gas and dust that astronomers call TMC-1, two sulfur-bearing compounds were recently found: one smells like bitter almonds, the other like rotten eggs. But such a cloud contains less sulfur than it should. Where does it go? It seems to hide in tiny icy pockets on the surface of dust grains. Space ice is not like a skating rink. It is fluffy, like snow, and full of crevices and hollows.

In cold clouds between the stars, dust grains are coated with ice, like windows covered with frost in winter. On this icy crust, chemical reactions take place that do not occur in gas. One such reaction is the encounter between a carbon atom and a nitrogen molecule.

Imagine trying to examine a snowflake without letting it melt or get damaged. That's roughly the challenge facing scientists who want to study individual proteins — the tiny molecular machines of life. In solution, a protein constantly jiggles and clumps with its neighbors, and in an electron microscope, the beam destroys it.

Yeast are trapped in a clear gel, like raisins in jelly. They can't move on their own, but soon they start rising to the top. The secret lies in their own homemade fizz. During fermentation, yeast release carbon dioxide. In a thick medium, the gas doesn't escape but accumulates until bubbles form.

Every molecule is like a set of building blocks: the same pieces can be assembled in different ways. Two assemblies with the same atoms but different geometry are called isomers. If one can be turned into the other by a simple rotation around a bond, they are conformers, like a bent arm versus a straight one.

Radio telescopes detected emissions from the celestial object G358.93-0.03 MM1 — a hot cocoon inside which a massive star is igniting. Within that glow, lines of glycolamide appeared, a delicate carbon molecule.

A drop of water with tiny particles dries on a table. The water evaporates, leaving the particles behind, and they arrange into a pattern, like sand after the tide. But if the particles are soft, the pattern turns out quite different. Researchers studied this process under a microscope, varying only one property of the particles: their elasticity.

In a metal crystal, atoms line up in neat rows like bricks in a wall. Knock out a single brick, and you're left with a void — what scientists call a vacancy. Under irradiation, these voids multiply and start merging into large holes, sapping the metal's strength. It's like holes in a brick wall joining up into a gaping breach.

Ultracold molecules are a promising material for quantum computing, but assembling them into a neat array, like eggs in a carton, is no easy feat. A method has been proposed to load molecules one by one into optical tweezers or lattices directly from a gas. The molecules immediately end up in the calmest state of motion.

Life may be hiding in the oceans beneath the ice of Europa, Ganymede, and Callisto. Its carbon-based building blocks perhaps baked before the moons were born — in a disk of gas and dust around a young Jupiter. This giant cosmic oven ran on slow frictional heating, not harsh ultraviolet light.

In dark, cold clouds where stars are just beginning to form, dust grains put on icy coats. This ice is not just frozen water: it contains dissolved carbon dioxide, methanol, ammonia, and other molecules.

In the dark, cold clouds where stars are born, dust grains are covered with an icy crust. Across this crust, like on a winter road, individual atoms wander slowly. Calculations show that it is precisely these wandering oxygen and nitrogen atoms that kick off the assembly of the HNSO molecule — a compound of hydrogen, nitrogen, sulfur, and oxygen.

Astronomers using James Webb and spectroscopy (splitting light into colors) peered through dust into the center of galaxy IRAS 07251-0248. There they discovered benzene, acetylene, methane — the same hydrocarbons found in gasoline and plastics.

Dissolve a few salts and formaldehyde in a glass of water. After a while, the liquid spontaneously separates: droplets with membranes appear, like tiny bubbles. Inside each droplet, chemical transformations occur, and the droplet itself grows, absorbing material from the surrounding solution. These droplets are not just bubbles.

In cold clouds of interstellar gas, carbon hides inside carbon monoxide (CO) molecules, like sugar dissolved in tea. But near hot, massive stars, this 'tea' boils: harsh radiation tears the molecules apart, and carbon escapes as lone atoms or ions.

At the center of our Galaxy lies a dense forest of dust and gas. Starlight barely penetrates this thicket, like a flashlight in fog. But it is precisely there, in this dense cloud, that new stars are born. Scientists decided to look into this fog. They took light from 15 bright stars that shine through cold clouds.

A cosmic dust grain is covered in ice, and on this ice, like in a tiny kitchen, molecules are cooked. One of them is methanol, an alcohol that serves as a building block for more complex compounds in space. Previously, it was thought that methanol only forms when hydrogen atoms stick one by one to a carbon monoxide molecule.

The usual way to freeze a living cell is like trying to put a spacesuit on it: you first need to get a protective substance inside, but while it's crossing the membrane, the cell can burst from salt imbalances or get poisoned by the chemicals.