VLBI

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.

The cameras of a self-driving car capture light like telescopes aimed at a distant galaxy. Each frame is a fragmented observation; together they must form a map of the road ahead. The computer, like an astronomer, doesn't just stitch images together: it generates several possible bird's-eye views and compares them to real data.

Back in 1967, Jocelyn Bell Burnell caught the first 'voice' of a neutron star — the strict pulse of a pulsar.

A tiny coin circles a heavy bowling ball. The coin is a small black hole or a neutron star, and the ball is a supermassive black hole at the center of a galaxy.

In the quiet of a laboratory, a graphite flake hovers above a magnetic grid. This is not just a demo of diamagnetism's magic — it's listening to the Universe. Like a spider casting its web to catch vibrations from an invisible world, this flake has become a gravitational web.

Astronomers build maps of galaxies and listen to the radio whisper of neutral hydrogen. The signal is so faint that even a working TV would drown it out, but sensitive antennas pick it up from the depths of the Universe.

A spotlight shines through a dark hall. Between the lamp and the wall, an invisible lens drifts by, and the spot of light briefly brightens and shifts. That is exactly what the DECam telescope, aimed at the Large Magellanic Cloud, a satellite galaxy of our Milky Way, was watching for five consecutive nights.

Back in the 1960s, physicist Joseph Weber tried to catch gravitational waves using aluminum cylinders: they were supposed to tremble like tuning forks from the ripples of spacetime.

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.

For decades, the search for extraterrestrial intelligence has waited for quiet, coherent signals from space — a kind of 'whistle' in the radio silence. However, our own technosphere has created a continuous radio background — the hum of a vast metropolis, emitted by all communications, radars, and broadcasting stations.

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.

Einstein's theory of gravity explains how mass warps space and time. Its predictions have been tested near Earth, but the most grueling tests lie around black holes, where distortions reach their breaking point. Until now, astronomers saw them as blurry smudges on an underexposed photo.

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.

The Moon isn't just hanging in the sky: it leaves behind a long tail of disturbed solar wind. The stream of charged particles from the Sun flows around the rocky sphere, and behind it forms a zone where particles are almost absent. But this emptiness is not simple: electric fields arise in it that push apart the remaining electrons and ions.

An orchestra where musicians play in different cities, and the conductor hears them with a fraction-of-a-second delay. That's roughly how radio telescope networks like the Very Long Baseline Array work — a dozen antennas from Hawaii to the Virgin Islands catch the whispers of distant galaxies.

A laser beam passes through a cell, and the cell responds to the touch, like a taut string plucked by a finger. The frequency of this 'ring' reveals how stiff or soft the material is. That's how Brillouin microscopy works, named after the French physicist Leon Brillouin.

Light from distant stars travels for millions of years, but X-rays can't be caught with ordinary glass: they pass right through it like a bullet through paper. That's why X-ray telescopes need special lenses: stacks of tiny prisms that gently deflect the rays and focus them to a single point.

Modern radio telescopes generate millions of images of distant galaxies every night — giant star systems bound by gravity. Manually sorting such a volume of data is impossible.

A river flows in one direction, but a wave on its surface travels in the opposite direction. The same splitting happens in hyperbolic materials: the energy of a light wave and its fronts diverge, preventing a sharp lens from being created.

A standard laser rangefinder works like a stopwatch on a 100-meter dash: it times how long light takes to run to the target and back. But such a stopwatch has a limit: it ticks in steps of tens of picoseconds (trillionths of a second). In that step, light travels about a centimeter, so finer details are invisible.

Ordinary white light is a jumble of all colors at once, like the noise of a crowd where everyone speaks at their own frequency. But scientists need light where frequencies are aligned with ruler-like precision, like piano keys, where each note sounds distinct and exact.

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.

Until now, dark energy has been studied like a car engine — only by the acceleration the Universe's expansion gains.

The distant galaxy TXS 2005+403, located in the constellation Cygnus, behaves like a lighthouse whose beam shines through fog. Light from its active nucleus, a region where a supermassive black hole heats infalling matter, crosses clouds of charged gas in our Galaxy on its way to us.

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.

A typical 3D printer squeezes out plastic like a pastry chef piping cream from a bag. Here, instead of plastic, it's light. A laser beam draws in liquid resin, making it solidify at precise points. This creates parts too small to see without a microscope. Until now, such printers were slow: the beam crawled across the surface like a pen on paper.

Cells breathe. They need oxygen, and they take it from the blood flowing through the tiniest vessels. If blood flow is weak or oxygen is scarce, cells start to suffocate. Doctors need to see this as early as possible. But how do you look inside living tissue without cutting it open? The new device does it in two ways at once.

A laser hits tissue, and the tissue responds with a barely audible click — a sound wave. Sensors pick it up, and from that, an image of what's inside is built. That's how photoacoustic imaging works: light reaches deep, and sound carries the picture out. In the new scheme, there are no sensors. Instead, several thin light beams are sent through the area where the wave has passed.

The farther apart the antennas, the finer the details they pick up. By merging signals, astronomers effectively turn multiple dishes into a single telescope as big as the distance between them. Add a lunar antenna to the Earth-based array, and you get a virtual eye 384 000 km wide.

The Moon is not just a satellite; it is a potential gravitational bell. When massive bodies collide, spacetime shudders, and that shudder, gravitational waves, makes everything in their path vibrate.