radio interferometer

A radio telescope with thousands of antennas is like a giant ear that hears the whole sky at once. But an ear cannot draw a picture: signals from every pair of antennas must be multiplied, and in an array of ten thousand elements there are already fifty million pairs. A classical correlator does exactly that, and its complexity grows as the square of the number of antennas.

At night on a volcano summit, six telescopes stare at the same speck of light. Each catches its own copy of the wave, and if you combine their signals, you get an image that no single instrument could produce alone. But there's a catch: light captured by different stations cannot simply be added like photographs.

Every second, thousands of passenger aircraft in the sky transmit radio signals: that's how air traffic controllers track where each flight is. These signals don't travel in a straight line: air of varying humidity bends them like a lens. If you can measure that bending, you can work out where the air is drier and where it's more humid.

Light in an optical fiber is like a stream: it flows inside a glass thread and doesn't spill out. A thick thread carries many streams at once, a thin one only one. Astronomers often need to pour light from a thick fiber into several thin ones to split it into colors.

When an orchestra of thousands of musicians plays in harmony, the credit goes not only to each player's talent but also to the invisible work of the conductor.

Photographing an exoplanet orbiting another star is like trying to spot a firefly in front of a spotlight. Earth's atmosphere is constantly churning, which makes stars appear as dancing speckles through a telescope.

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.

When designing smartphone antennas, engineers need a reference — something like a tuning fork for adjusting musical instruments. As Maxwell showed, radio waves and light are of the same nature, and the new antenna module uses 5G millimeter waves traveling at the speed of light.

In the silent ocean of the Galaxy, mature civilizations have likely long chosen an unexpected strategy: instead of loud beacons, they scatter quiet fireflies — autonomous interstellar laser beacons, drifting in the void and dropping microsecond flashes. These 'seeds of contact' are not tied to their home stars and do not drown in their glow.

Gravitational waves from merging black holes sound like bass chords, pulsars tap out a rhythm, and the cosmic microwave background carries echoes of the Big Bang. But there is a silent player — dark matter, whose presence is betrayed only by gravitational effects.

The early universe expanded at a breakneck pace: this phase is called inflation. But how exactly did it do it? Some models describe the expansion as a steep exponential surge, others as a more gentle power-law motion.

3I/ATLAS burst into the Solar System like an uninvited guest, a gift of fate for hunters of extraterrestrial intelligence. This comet-like wanderer from the depths of the Galaxy flew close enough to be heard in all its details — unlike distant exoplanets.

The planet-spanning web of undersea internet cables acts like a giant ear. The glass thread inside responds to water movements: currents, tides, and distant earthquakes bend the cable. Light traveling along the thread takes slightly longer: this delay is measured on shore against a reference. That’s how the speed of light reveals itself.

Drop two pebbles into a pond at the same time — the ripples will spread evenly and in sync. The same happens in a quantum interferometer: a particle is split into two waves that travel along different paths and then meet. Ideally, their crests align.

Black holes come in lightweights, born from dying stars, and supermassive ones at galactic cores. The missing intermediate link had been hiding. Fast radio bursts, cosmic signals lasting milliseconds but carrying the energy of days of sunlight, helped crack the case. Think of these bursts as cries from the depths of the universe.

Gravitational waves are ripples in space from the mergers of black holes and neutron stars. Existing detectors, built with contributions from Kip Thorne and Rainer Weiss, work like highly sensitive microphones but only hear the highest 'notes'.

A solar telescope is like an eye trying to spot an ant through a pot of boiling soup. The daytime sky dazzles, the air shimmers, and the image swims. To freeze it, you need adaptive optics — a system that predicts distortions and corrects them hundreds of times per second.

Gravitational waves are ripples in the fabric of space, like circles on water from a thrown stone. On Earth, they are drowned out by traffic, tides, and earthquakes, like a storm beating on a lake, making it impossible to notice faint splashes. The LILA project moves the detector to the Moon, where windless silence reigns.

An X-ray machine with gratings takes not one but three pictures at once: a regular image, a map of beam deflections invisible to the eye, and an image of tiny structures that scatter light. Together, they help spot, for example, emphysema or pulmonary fibrosis. But there's a catch: to separate these three layers, you need a clever mathematical trick.

Light from a star travels for millions of years, yet in a telescope it still appears as a point: it's just too far away. To see a star's surface, you need an instrument the size of a city. In Chile, such a giant is already under construction: ELT with a 39-meter mirror made of 798 hexagonal segments.

Galaxies, like giant whirlpools, sometimes collide and merge. In this chaos, gas compresses, new stars flare up, and a bright radio beacon is born at the very center. Its light — not visible to the eye, but radio waves — pierces through dust and gas like a siren through fog.

Light from a streetlamp passing through blinds flickers: the stripes shift, and brightness rises and falls. From that rhythm, you can guess how wide the lamp is. The new method for measuring stars works similarly: instead of capturing a sharp image, astronomers monitor the "twinkling" of light collected by two or more telescopes simultaneously.

Gravitational waves are ripples in space itself, caused by events like colliding black holes. To hear these ripples, we build giant L-shaped facilities: a laser beam travels down two arms, bounces off mirrors, and returns. If space has been slightly squeezed or stretched, the light arrives with a difference, and we see a signal.

On an ordinary optical table, amid lasers and mirrors, a cloud of a hundred strontium-87 atoms begins to live by the laws of curved spacetime. Half a second later, its quantum interference fades: gravitational time dilation destroys the superposition.