transit

A telescope stares at a star for many nights in a row. Somewhere in the stream of light hides a tiny dip in brightness — an Earth-sized planet briefly blocking part of the star. Such a dip lasts a few hours and repeats once a year or less. Catching it is like hearing a single quiet click in a noisy hall.

A light ray passing by a massive body slightly changes its direction, like a stream of water bending around a rock in a creek. In the solar system, there are many such "rocks": planets, their moons, asteroids. And each one, with its own gravity, bends the path of light coming from distant stars.

The light of a distant lighthouse does not go out all at once: first it flares brightly, then slowly fades into darkness. That is how the X-ray pulsar 4U 0115+63 behaves — a neutron star that periodically brightens when gas from a companion ordinary star falls onto it.

Around young stars, flat clouds of gas and dust swirl: these are future planetary systems. Inside some of them, a void gapes: the dust and gas have been swept away, as if someone thinned out the middle of a vinyl record.

In a binary star system, one star pulls matter from its companion. Over centuries, this material settles onto the surface of a neutron star — the ultra-dense remnant of a dead star. This process, called accretion, usually proceeds smoothly. Gravity behaves as general relativity predicts, without surprises.

Tabby's Star, a beacon in the cosmic sea, has baffled astronomers since 2015. Its light flickered not in the rhythm of planets, but as if scattered by a storm — deep dips, sharp spikes. But amid this chaos, a smooth, nearly perfect dip was found. The eye of the storm.

Every 165 days, the giant planet dives toward its star, nearly grazing its fiery corona, then flies off into the icy void. This is TIC 241249530 b — an exoplanet with a record eccentricity of 0,94.

The cosmos is full of screams we can't hear. Every time a black hole tears a star apart, a blinding flash is born, and often — a narrow relativistic jet, shooting out thousands of light-years. But if that searchlight is aimed away from Earth, we see only a faint afterglow — a radio echo arriving with a delay.

When a distant planet passes in front of its star, it briefly blocks part of the light. Astronomers call this a transit and judge the planet's size by the depth of the dip. But light has a property: a massive body acts like a lens. Even a giant planet can slightly bend the star's rays, and the dip becomes a bit shallower than you might expect.

In deep space, 95 parsecs from Earth, nature is assembling a planetary clock. The model HD 114082 is a prototype, only 15 million years old. Two massive pendulums — exoplanets b and c — are already swinging with periods of 225 and 314 days, but the whole mechanism is still covered in the construction dust of a debris disk.

Cosmic rays do not travel in straight lines. Charged particles accelerated to enormous speeds loop through the Galaxy's magnetic field like dust motes in a gust of wind. It's usually assumed that they simply scatter along and across field lines.

The birth of planets resembles the workings of a cosmic forge. Rocky blocks collide and fuse together. A powerful impact strikes a spark — material heats to white-hot and glows like cooling metal. Computer simulations show: the flash is visible from days to years, peaking at a tenth of the sun's light.

The planet WASP-121 b is a gas giant, heated to 2500°C. It always faces its star with one side, like a globe frozen under a lamp. But as it passes in front of the star's disk, its rotation reveals different facets to us — as if that globe were slowly turned, letting us peer into every corner.

A planet glides across a star's disk, and for a moment becomes a flashlight. It blocks a tiny patch of surface, revealing details that otherwise escape our view. That's exactly how astronomers peered into the dark spots on V1298 Tauri, a young twin of our Sun. They were aided by the James Webb Space Telescope JWST and three giant planets in orbit.

In the late 1990s, astronomers including Saul Perlmutter discovered that the universe is expanding at an accelerating rate. The cause was dubbed dark energy — an invisible force stretching the cosmos.

Picture a tightrope walker balancing over an abyss. Every step changes the rope's tension, and the slightest shift in center of gravity can prove fatal. That's roughly what the dance of an ordinary sun-like star around a black hole of ten solar masses looks like when the orbit is highly elongated.

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.

A star's light curve is not chaotic noise, but a text written by pulsations, spots, and the steady glow of a thermonuclear furnace. Any planet slipping across the disk leaves a typo in this text: a tiny dip in brightness lasting hours.

A ball on a slope with two pits usually rolls into the nearest one and comes to rest. But if the slope is slightly deformed and 'remembers' recent nudges, the ball can hang around halfway for a long time — in a narrow spot it doesn't want to leave. That's exactly the trick physicists played with light.

A lighthouse blinks steadily once per second. If it moves in a circle, its flashes arrive sometimes a bit early, sometimes a bit late, and they give away an invisible companion. That's exactly how astronomers exposed the hidden partner of the star IY Lyrae. IY Lyrae is a pulsating variable star in the thick disk of the Galaxy.

Edwin Hubble and Georges Lemaître discovered the expansion of the Universe nearly a century ago. One way to test it is the surface brightness test: in an expanding cosmos, the light of a distant galaxy should fade like a pattern on a stretching film.

Light from the distant Dragon Galaxy has been traveling toward us for more than seven billion years. On its way, it passes by a huge galaxy cluster whose gravity bends the path of light like a lens. As a result, the galaxy appears brighter and larger than it really is, just as a magnifying glass enlarges fine print.

The TESS telescope photographed the sky for a full year, but its standard pipeline skipped over dim stars. The T16 project took the same images and cleaned them from scratch — resulting in 83,717,159 light curves, like EKGs for every star. Planets passing in front of their star briefly dim it, and these dips in the EKGs are what we look for.

In a constellation where new stars are born, one of them behaves like a faulty lightbulb: sometimes shining steadily, sometimes dimming by a factor of several. Astronomers have been monitoring the star Gaia-GIC-1 for several years and now understand that its blinking is the shadow of a huge dust cloud that periodically passes in front of it.

A planet hugging its star is like an ice cube forgotten on a scorching skillet. The ice melts and evaporates, except instead of water, it's hydrogen and helium from the planet's upper layers.

The center of a galaxy is a bustling metropolis where a giant black hole often snatches inattentive stars. But telescopes caught a flare in a quiet suburb, tens of thousands of light-years from the core. This gave away a wandering black hole — an invisible predator, flung out of the center after an ancient galaxy collision.

For ten hours, the star HD 137010 dimmed a little, like a lamp with a speck of dust on it. The K2 telescope caught this in 2017, and in all the observing time, it happened only once. Astronomers realized: a planet had passed in front of the star. This way of finding worlds is called the transit method. When a planet crosses the star's disk, the star briefly fades.

Light from the hottest young stars usually cannot leave its galaxy: hydrogen absorbs it, like a thick curtain blocking a sunbeam. But sometimes the curtain parts, and ultraviolet photons burst into intergalactic space.

A family moves into a cramped apartment in the city center. If the move was calm, relatives might have moved in with them. But if the family was evicted from their old home by a storm, they'll end up alone in the new place.

When a planet approaches its star to a critical distance, tidal forces, the result of a sharp gradient in gravity between the near and far sides of the celestial body, tear it apart. This process ignites a cosmic funeral pyre: the planet's debris forms a glowing accretion disk around the star.

The Comet Interceptor mission launches without a target. The spacecraft freezes at a point of space equilibrium, like a fighter jet on combat standby: engine warmed up, but takeoff only on alert.

The hunt for exomoons — the search for satellites around planets of other stars — resembles watching shadows in a theater where the spotlight keeps fading and flaring. The planet Kepler-167e, a gas giant near a scorching star, was discovered by William Borucki and his team.

The camera lens is no bigger than a quarter. You'd find it in a smartphone, but here it was mounted on the Hayabusa2 probe for asteroid landings.

The TESS telescope, usually hunting for planets around other stars, spotted 24 dimmings around RZ Psc. These were comets — chunks ranging from 1 to 7 km in size, transiting the star's disk. Like a distant searchlight momentarily blocked by a tiny pebble: the deeper the shadow, the larger the object.

Every day, particles with colossal energy enter Earth's atmosphere, like unsigned letters. Their source long remained a mystery. New research shows: these 'visitors' point to nearby galaxies, where from time to time catastrophes occur — collisions of neutron stars, ultra-dense spheres the size of a city but with the mass of the Sun.

Four hours and fifty-eight minutes. With a rhythm like a metronome, something passes in front of the white dwarf ZTF J1944+4557, dimming its light by a third, sometimes almost by half.