laser spectroscopy

Light falling on matter usually scatters off it or heats it up. But when there are many photons and they are very energetic, two quanta of light can collide and vanish, leaving two particles in their place: an electron and its antimatter twin, the positron. This process, predicted back in 1934, has never been reproduced in the lab with real photons.

A cartographer receives a sheet with distances between hundreds of unnamed islands. No island is labeled, but the distances repeat, forming triangles and quadrilaterals. From these repetitions, the cartographer reconstructs the map of the archipelago, not knowing which island is which. This is roughly how the new work in molecular spectroscopy works.

Light passing by a tiny structure changes direction. If the structure is smaller than the wavelength of the light, it acts like a lens and focuses the light into a spot smaller than the wave itself.

The atomic nucleus is not a bag of marbles but an ordered structure where protons and neutrons fill shells, much like electrons in an atom. When a shell is filled, the nucleus becomes especially stable, and the number of particles is called magic. For calcium with 20 protons, the classic magic neutron numbers are 20 and 28.

An ultra-sensitive microphone listens not to sound, but to the trembling of space itself. That's how gravitational wave detectors work — LIGO, Virgo, KAGRA.

A drop of water in your palm holds roughly $$10^{21}$$ molecules, each made of three atoms surrounded by a swarm of electrons. To understand how matter behaves, physicists solve equations for these electrons. The trouble is that the number of equations grows like an avalanche: for N electrons, you need to store $$N^2$$ numbers.

Ever since Paul Dirac theoretically predicted antimatter, physicists have been hunting for the tiniest differences between particles and their antiparticles.

A drop of blood from a vein falls under three beams, and each one drags its own clues into the light. The infrared beam makes molecules vibrate — from that trembling, you learn how much sugar and fat is in the sample. A green laser scatters off proteins and lipids, shifting color — revealing the remodeling of cell membranes.

A hundred people are talking at once in a large hall. You try to hear one, but voices blend, some whisper, and you don't even suspect the existence of others. That's roughly how a conventional laser gas analyzer feels when dozens of substances mix in a combustion chamber or a factory pipe.

A conventional lidar is like an artist who paints a landscape but sees only gray shadows. It measures distances to each point accurately, but can't tell whether it's looking at rock, wood, or plastic. To learn the composition, you need a spectrometer — a separate device that works slowly and can't keep up with a fast scanner. The new system takes a different approach.

A laser strikes a piece of rock from another planet. The rock vaporizes, and the instrument catches the flying particles and sorts them by weight.

Hot massive stars are the kitchens of the Universe, where heavy elements are cooked up. They end their lives in supernova explosions. To understand their recipe, astronomers use spectroscopy — the analysis of the rainbow band of light passed through a prism. Previously, deciphering such a 'menu' took hours.

Cosmic rays are charged particles that constantly bombard Earth from deep space. When one of these particles enters the atmosphere, it collides with air nuclei and spawns a whole cascade of secondary particles: electrons, muons, photons.

In the dark, a tiny spark flashes. A gamma ray born inside a patient's body strikes a crystal and knocks out a shower of light. The detector's job is to figure out exactly where that happened. The more precise the answer, the sharper the image on the tomograph screen. The new detector resembles a honeycomb, but not a flat one — the cells narrow toward the bottom.

Infrared light with a wavelength of about three micrometers is the working range for identifying molecules: each molecule absorbs light at its own characteristic frequencies, leaving behind "fingerprints." But until now, instruments for this range could not simultaneously provide broad frequency coverage, sufficient power, and…

The helium atom is like a tiny solar system: electrons orbit the nucleus, but their orbits are governed by strict rules. Scientists have learned to observe these motions with incredible precision.

In a tank of pure water, particles traveling faster than light in that medium leave bluish flashes, like a plane breaking the sound barrier creates a sonic boom. From these flashes, you can tell what kind of visitor passed through: a gamma quantum or a neutron. This is no idle task: at borders and warehouses, you need to quickly distinguish a harmless radioactive cargo from weapon-usable material.

Ice clouds can masquerade as water clouds. A satellite lidar sends a short laser pulse downward and catches the reflection. If flat ice plates hang horizontally in the cloud, they act like tiny mirrors: light bounces back almost without loss. To the instrument, such a flash looks just like a reflection from water droplets.

A thin film of thorium dioxide, just 10 nanometers thick, is deposited on a steel disk. A laser pulse strikes it, but instead of the expected glow, the detector catches a stream of electrons.