quark

When a proton is smashed apart in an accelerator, quarks and gluons fly out. But you never see them free: almost immediately they stick together into new particles, like droplets of mercury merging into spheres.

Quarks, the building blocks of protons and neutrons, usually pair up or form trios. But sometimes they assemble into larger, unstable combinations that live for mere fractions of a second. Two such particles, Bs0* and Bs1, have long been a puzzle: calculations hinted they should be bound, but the precision wasn't enough to say so with confidence.

When a heavy atomic nucleus splits into two fragments, an invisible quantum thread remains between them. This thread is entanglement: the state of one fragment is instantly linked to the state of the other, as if they were still a single whole. For the first time, physicists have precisely calculated how long and strong such a thread can be, tracing the fission process step by step.

At the Jefferson Lab accelerator, a beam of light strikes protons, and the collisions give birth to short-lived particles — omega mesons. They live for less than a billionth of a second, but they still manage to tell us about the forces inside the atomic nucleus.

In the first moments after the Big Bang, matter and antimatter were almost equally abundant. But something tipped the balance, leaving only a tiny excess of ordinary particles — the very excess that makes up stars, planets, and ourselves.

The proton is not a solid ball but a tiny prison. Inside it, three quarks are locked up, and the gluon field keeps them from escaping — something like invisible threads that only grow stronger if the quarks try to move apart.

The proton is not a monolithic ball. It is a seething cloud of quarks and gluons that constantly appear and vanish. Parton distribution functions help describe this picture: they show the probability of encountering a quark or gluon with a certain energy inside the proton.

A handful of sand in your fist: the grains press against each other, and your hand can't squeeze any further. Ordinary matter behaves similarly. But in a neutron star, compression is billions of times stronger — atoms are crushed, electrons are squeezed into protons, and nearly all space is filled with neutrons.

Neutron stars are cosmic alchemical retorts: at supranuclear densities, hadrons melt into quark-gluon plasma (QGP), and at the very core where pressure peaks, a color superconductor (CS) is born.

In the microscopic world of the strong interaction, nature's most powerful glue, quarks never wander alone. Over large distances, they stick together into the protons and neutrons we know. But under extreme compression, like in the depths of a neutron star, this glue creates far more exotic forms of matter.

At accelerators, by smashing heavy nuclei, physicists briefly create a quark-gluon plasma — a state of matter where quarks and gluons are not confined inside particles but are free. For a long time, it was imagined as a gas, but experiments showed it's an almost perfect liquid.

Neutrinos are the true ghosts of the microcosm. Nearly massless and chargeless, they pass through planets as if through empty space. But inside each neutrino hides not one particle but three — three 'flavors' (electron, muon, and tau) that constantly morph into one another. This dance is called oscillation.

In the depths of a massive neutron star, where a teaspoon of matter weighs as much as a mountain, quarks are squeezed to unimaginable proximity.

Inside a neutron star, matter is squeezed so hard that atomic nuclei stop being separate clumps. Neutrons and protons get closer together, and their innards, quarks, begin to feel their neighbors through the walls of their 'bags'. A neutron star is a sphere about the size of a small city but with a mass of one and a half Suns.

Ice, water, steam — phase transitions we all know. But what happens if you squeeze and heat an atomic nucleus itself? Theorists think protons and neutrons inside it 'melt,' releasing smaller building blocks — quarks and gluons.

The end of the Universe is not just the fading of light. If dark energy, the mysterious substance accelerating cosmic expansion, tears it apart in a Big Rip scenario, or if expansion reverses into a contraction that pulls everything back to a point like a big bang in reverse, a…

For a long time, a void yawned in the family of ultra-dense remnants of dead stars. Neutron stars, swift city-sized tops, rarely weigh more than two Suns. Black holes start at about five solar masses. Between them lies a 'gap' where for decades no object could be found.

In a boron nitride crystal, the perfect atomic lattice is sometimes disrupted: an atom is missing here, or replaced by a foreign one there. Under a powerful microscope, these tiny imperfections appear as traps for electrons: they capture particles and start to emit light, and they also respond to magnetic fields.

If you squeeze a handful of sand down to the size of a pinhead, it turns into a rock. But squeeze it even harder, to the density of an atomic nucleus, and the grains lose their identity. Protons and neutrons dissolve, and the stuff becomes a soup of free quarks.

A magnet with only one pole — north, but no south. Split it in half, and instead of two ordinary magnets, you get two more one-pole magnets. In our world, no such particle has been found, although many theories predict their existence. These hypothetical objects are called magnetic monopoles. The authors of the study noticed a curious connection.

A drop of cream in a glass of milk. Shake it, and the fat doesn't spread evenly: it clumps into denser blobs that move differently from the rest of the liquid. Quarks inside mesons, tiny particles that live for mere fractions of a second, behave in much the same way. A meson consists of a quark and an antiquark, and they are rarely equals.

At first glance, the atomic nucleus is a cramped communal apartment where protons and neutrons (together called nucleons) live by strict rules. Each occupies its own orbit, like electrons in an atom, and on average everything looks orderly.

The core of a neutron star can be likened to a taut string of super-nuclear density. Sound traveling along it is the oscillation of pressure, whose speed $$c_s$$ betrays the stiffness of matter. New research shows that this cosmic string does not hum monotonically.

Ordinary matter consists of atoms, and atoms are made of nuclei and electrons. But in a neutron star, gravity compresses matter so strongly that electrons are squeezed into protons, and almost everything turns into a dense packing of neutrons. It's like one giant atomic nucleus the size of a city.

Three twins on the run constantly change clothes. That's roughly how neutrinos behave — nearly elusive particles that pass through us by the trillions every second.

Steel is not a monolith but a mosaic of microscopic grains fused together. Their seams, the grain boundaries, are the most vulnerable spots: this is where cracks begin. Impurity atoms, even in negligible amounts, accumulate at these seams like sand between gears, and they can either lubricate the mechanism or jam it completely.

The atomic nucleus is not a billiard ball but rather a hazy cloud that constantly changes its contours. Protons and neutrons inside are in continuous motion, and the nucleus can take on many different shapes: elongated, flattened, or pear-like. To describe this quivering diversity, physicists usually picked a few most probable shapes and mixed them, like an artist mixing paints on a palette.

The atomic nucleus is not a solid ball but a dense swarm of tiny particles called quarks, glued together by a special glue (the strong force). In light nuclei, such as calcium, this swarm is simply arranged: the numbers of the two quark types, up and down, are almost equal, like the white and black keys in an octave.

If you squeeze a handful of sand in your fist, it first compacts, but then starts to resist — the grains have nowhere left to go. In the depths of a neutron star, something similar happens, except instead of sand grains, you have elementary particles, and instead of your hand, you have monstrous gravity.

If you try to break a proton apart and pull out a quark, you're in for a surprise. Ordinary forces, like the electric force, weaken as particles fly apart. Here, it's the opposite. The farther a quark gets from its neighbors, the harder it's pulled back.

Every autumn, a robin weighing as much as a pat of butter lifts off from a branch somewhere near St. Petersburg and flies south toward the Mediterranean, never once checking a map. It is believed that its eye contains a built-in magnetic compass, and the main component of this device is the protein cryptochrome 4a.

In the CMS detector at the Large Hadron Collider, protons accelerated to nearly the speed of light collided. Among billions of such collisions, physicists searched for a rare signature: the production of a single heavy particle that immediately decays into a W boson and a b quark.

Two streams of cars collide at an intersection. In the first moments after the impact, the debris scatters not randomly, but as if briefly enveloped by a common cloud. This is roughly what physicists saw at the Large Hadron Collider when protons smashed into each other at tremendous speed.

Oil droplets in boiling broth usually scatter apart, but if you bump them together very slowly, they may stick for a moment. Something similar happens with top quarks — the heaviest known building blocks of matter.

Quarks are the tiny building blocks that make up protons and neutrons. Usually, they stick together in pairs: a particle and its mirror-image antiparticle. But sometimes quarks form more exotic combinations, which physicists call exotic states.

The proton looks like a solid ball, but inside it's a hive of activity: quarks exchange gluons — the particles that bind them together. Gluons pop in and out of existence, and their distribution within the proton is not just a curious detail but a key to predictions at the Large Hadron Collider.

Heavy particles, which physicists call baryons, are like tiny families of three quarks. The common baryons are protons and neutrons, which make up everything around us. But there are also exotic relatives: instead of light quarks, they harbor charm or bottom quarks — heavy and short-lived.

If you place a kaon in an electric field, it stretches slightly, like a balloon rubbed on wool. This response, the electric polarizability, shows how rigidly the particle is built inside. For the charged kaon, it has been measured for the first time, and the number is about one ten-thousandth of the volume occupied by a proton.

In collisions of heavy nuclei at colliders, quark-gluon plasma is born — a state of matter where quarks and gluons are as free as water in steam. Heavy quarks, such as b-quarks, entering this plasma lose energy, and their bound states, bottomonia, are destroyed.

When heavy nuclei collide in accelerators, a multitude of particles is produced, and physicists want to understand how electric charge moves through this chaos. Two trains crash into each other: the passengers (quarks) scatter, but their luggage (charge) may end up far from the crash site.