spin rate

A million orbits: the same score. Nine dark matter halos: nine orchestras without a conductor. All musicians play from the same notes, but in each hall the music sounds different: sometimes in tune, sometimes out of sync. Likewise, satellite galaxies falling into a host halo follow orbits that depend not only on mass but also on the shape of the invisible stage.

It's like a sprint record: to break it, you need a perfect run-up. But for sub-millisecond pulsars, the run-up is too short. The fastest known pulsar, PSR J1748-2446ad, spins 716 times per second — faster than a kitchen blender. If it were the size of Earth, a point on its equator would move at about 0.24 times the speed of light. But why doesn't any pulsar spin even faster?

The solar wind is a continuous stream of charged particles flowing from the Sun. It has two main components: protons (hydrogen nuclei) and alpha particles (helium nuclei, four times heavier).

Think of a merry-go-round: the farther you sit from the center, the faster you're carried around. For a long time, astronomers assumed galaxies work the same way — stars at the edges should orbit more slowly than those near the center. But back in the 1970s, it turned out that in many spiral galaxies, the speed of stars barely drops with distance from the center.

A galaxy is like a city: bright lights and dense buildings at the center, sparse lights and emptiness toward the outskirts. But if you watch how gas rotates in a galaxy's disk, you see that its speed barely drops at the edges. As if invisible neighborhoods keep the motion going. Astronomers have found a way to map this invisible city.

Drop two stones of different shapes into a pond — the ripples will tell you which one was smooth and which was jagged. Gravitational waves work the same way: when two ultra-dense objects merge, the trembling of spacetime carries details about their inner workings.

A cosmic object spins, but its shadow isn't round. Astrophysicists examined a black hole in an unusual version of gravity — the so-called brane world (where our universe is a three-dimensional surface in a space of higher dimensions).

A globular cluster, a dense swarm of hundreds of thousands of stars, plows through a galaxy like a bullet through water. In ordinary dark matter (the invisible mass that holds galaxies together), it should quickly lose speed due to dynamical friction.

A black hole is not a perfect vacuum cleaner. It is surrounded by a swarm of particles and fields, and this swarm alters its fate. In a new study, astrophysicists examined how a massive vector field, a hypothetical form of dark matter, behaves near a rotating black hole.

At the very heart of the Milky Way, stars whirl around an invisible supermassive black hole. One of them, S301, completes an orbit in just 8.7 years. Its path is a highly squashed ellipse: sometimes it grazes the black hole, sometimes it shoots far away. At closest approach, the distance to the black hole is tiny by cosmic standards.

26,000 light-years from Earth, in the heart of the Milky Way, star S301 tears through space at 18,000 kilometers per second. It loops around the supermassive black hole Sgr A* on an elongated orbit. At its closest approach, just 280 gravitational radii separate the star from the black hole — roughly the distance from the Sun to Uranus.

The fastest wind in the Universe travels at 0,58 times the speed of light. It covers the distance from Earth to the Moon in two seconds. This wind is not a jet stream but a broad flow of gas erupting from the center of a galaxy. Not all black holes work the same: some create such hurricanes, while others produce narrow plasma beams.

At the center of a distant galaxy, where a supermassive black hole weighing a hundred million suns spins, space is threaded with magnetic fields. They coil into tight vortices, like a drain in a sink, but instead of water, there's plasma whipped up to near-light speeds.

89 milliseconds. That's how long a vortex avalanche lasts that abruptly speeds up the rotation of the Vela pulsar — one of the most famous 'glitching' pulsars. Pulsars are rapidly spinning neutron stars born in the collapse of supernovae.

Three milliseconds before the merger. A gargantuan black hole spinning at breakneck speed drags in a neutron star — a ball the size of a city but with 1.5 times the Sun's mass. Tidal forces stretch the star into a thread as thin as a needle and fling its matter outward.

In May 2020, the LIGO and Virgo detectors picked up a gravitational-wave burst known as GW200105. Among the many similar gravitational waves recorded, this one stood out for an oddity: the orbit of the colliding neutron star and black hole was not a perfect circle, but a stretched ellipse.

For decades astrophysicists painted a neat picture: a galaxy, like a giant carousel, spins in a unified rhythm, and the supermassive black hole at its center inherits that dance.

In the heart of a dense star cluster, a true forge reigns: here stars, like glowing blanks, collide and merge under gravity, and these mergers are not a catastrophe but an opportunity. Each strike of the stellar hammer transfers spin to the future black hole.

Think of a merry-go-round: it's easier to spin a light one, harder to spin a heavy one. Neutron stars, the ultra-dense remnants of exploded stars, behave in a similar way. Astronomers looked at fifty binary systems where one neutron star orbits another and noticed: the heavier the star, the longer its spin period. The link isn't strict, but it's statistically noticeable.

A black hole is not just a dark spot in the sky. Its shadow falls on the glowing backdrop of infalling matter and carries the imprint of spacetime geometry itself. If gravity works even slightly differently than we think, the shadow will give it away. In a new study, physicists traced light rays around a rotating black hole in so-called Rastall gravity.

When two superdense stars circle in a tight dance, the space around them shudders. This shudder, gravitational waves, is caught by giant detectors on Earth. But deciphering the signal is tricky: you need to figure out what exactly you're dealing with — a pair of black holes or neutron stars.

Imagine a person in an old photograph standing in a crowd while spinning — guessing their age would be nearly impossible. That's roughly how astronomers determine the ages and masses of distant stars, and they often get it wrong. For stars slightly heavier than the Sun (from 1.4 to 2.5 solar masses), standard methods like chemical-composition 'clocks' work poorly.

In the accretion disks that gird the nuclei of active galaxies (quasars, discovered by Maarten Schmidt way back in the 1960s) a river of incandescent gas and dust churns. In its backwaters, where turbulent flows subside, against all odds, planets are born.

In the centers of galaxies, where supermassive black holes lie dormant surrounded by stellar swarms, lights of monstrous power sometimes flare up — tidal disruption events. But some of these events behave oddly: they repeat again and again, and each new ignition is dimmer than the last.

Light passing by a black hole falls into a gravitational trap: its trajectory curves and the particle bounces along a nearly closed orbit, like a pinball.

A spinning top whirls at great speed and, instead of a steady hum, emits a quiet buzz — because it is slightly dented. Neutron stars work much the same way: city-sized spheres compressed to such density that a teaspoon of their material weighs as much as a mountain.

A whirlpool in a river sucks everything in. Now imagine adding an invisible jelly to the water that thickens near the vortex and suddenly vanishes at its edge: that's roughly what a black hole looks like in a new mathematical model.

Einstein and Rosen imagined a bridge connecting two sheets of reality. Wheeler gave it a name — wormhole, and Thorne with Morris proved: the tunnel is traversable if you fill it with exotic matter.

A giant whirlpool spins at tremendous speed. If you toss a rope into it, securing one end at the rim and leaving the other outside, the whirlpool will wind the rope around itself, making it spin. That's roughly how a cosmic string behaves near a rotating black hole.

The halo of our Galaxy is a huge, sparse cloud of old stars that envelops the familiar disk. It holds the story of how the Milky Way grew by gobbling up neighboring dwarf galaxies.

Light reflecting off the scorching disk around a black hole can reveal more about it than we ever thought. When the disk emits heat, some of that light bounces back onto the disk and scatters, acquiring an unusual energy distribution, as if a new component, resembling a power law, is added to the ordinary glow.

Radio pulsar J1574+4703 behaves like a finicky lighthouse. Instead of shining steadily, it turns its radio beam on in short flashes and then falls silent for long stretches. Objects like this are called 'rotating radio transients', or RRATs for short.

A galaxy is like a giant merry-go-round: stars and gas whirl around the center, and their speeds reveal how much stuff is on the ride. If we only saw the luminous matter, the outer parts would spin slower than observations show. So there must be invisible mass, dark matter, that holds the galaxy together.

In 2019, gravitational-wave detectors caught a signal from the merger of distant objects. One was a black hole of 23 solar masses. The other weighed just 2.5 solar masses — and that's weird. Usually, neutron stars don't get heavier than two solar masses: beyond that, they collapse into a black hole.

A laser beam usually travels straight, like a jet of water from a hose. But what if you twist that jet like the thread of a corkscrew? You get a light spring — a beam that, as it moves, also spins around its own axis. At every point in space, its brightness traces a spiral, and if you place a flat screen in its path, you'll see a rotating spot of light.

A star like the Sun hums like a bell: sound waves inside make its surface tremble ever so slightly. From this trembling, astronomers, like doctors reading a pulse, infer the star's temperature, density, and age. But the Kepler telescope spotted an oddity: many stars that spin fast and are covered in spots show no trembling at all. It's as if they've lost their voice.

In the cold clouds of gas and dust where stars will one day ignite, some atoms have lost electrons and become charged. Charged particles feel the magnetic field, while neutral ones do not, so the charged ones slip through the neutral ones like water through a sieve. Astronomers have measured this drift speed: about a hundred meters per second.

The Gaia space telescope has measured how fast more than a hundred thousand stars spin. It turns out that a star's rotation speed depends on its temperature. For stars cooler than 6500 degrees, the surface moves at 10–20 kilometers per second.

At the centers of almost all galaxies lurk black holes — invisible giants. When two galaxies collide, their black holes become a pair doomed to dance around each other. But to merge into one, they must close the gap from vast distances to just kilometers, in the final instant unleashing a burst of gravitational waves.