Quantum Theory Cannot Hurt You (10 page)

Can anything travel faster than light? Well, nothing can catch up with a beam of light. But the possibility exists that there are “subatomic” particles that live their lives permanently travelling faster than light. Physicists call such hypothetical particles tachyons. If tachyons exist, perhaps in the far future we can find a way to change the atoms of our bodies into tachyons and then back again. Then we too could travel faster than light.

One of the problems with tachyons, however, is that from the point of view of certain moving observers, a body travelling faster than light could appear to be travelling back in time! There is a limerick that goes like this:

Time travel scares the living daylights out of physicists because it raises the possibility of paradoxes, events that lead to logical contradictions like you going back in time and killing your grandfather. If you killed your grandfather before he conceived your mother, goes the argument, how could you have been born to go back in time to kill your grandfather? Some physicists, however, think that some as-yet-undiscovered law of physics intervenes to prevent any paradoxical things from happening, and so time travel may be possible.

But what does relativity mean in a nuts-and-bolts sense? Well, say it were possible for you to travel to the nearest star and back at 99.5 per cent of the speed of light. Since Alpha Centauri is about 4.3 light-years from Earth, those left on Earth will see you return after about 9 years, assuming a brief stopover to see the sights. From your point of view, however, the distance to Alpha Centauri will be shrunk by 10 times because of relativity. Consequently, the round-trip will take only nine-tenths of a year, or about 11 months. Say you departed on your journey on your twenty-first birthday, waved off from the spaceport by your identical twin brother. When you arrived back home, now almost 22 years old, your twin would be 30!
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How would your stay-at-home twin make sense of this state of affairs? Well, he would assume that you had been living in slow motion throughout your journey. And, sure enough, if it were somehow possible for him to observe you inside your spaceship, he would see you moving as if through treacle, with all the shipboard clocks crawling around 10 times slower than normal. Your twin will correctly attribute this to the time dilation of relativity. But to you all the clocks and everything else on board will appear to be moving at perfectly normal speed. This is the magic of relativity.

Of course, the more rapidly you travelled to Alpha Centauri and back, the greater the discrepancy between your age and your twin’s. Travel fast enough and far enough across the Universe and you will return to find that your twin is long dead and buried. Even faster and you will find that Earth itself has dried up and died. In fact, if you travelled within a whisker of the speed of light, time would go so slowly for you that you could watch the entire future history of the Universe flash past you like a movie in fast-forward. “The possibility of visiting the future is quite awesome to anyone who learns about it for the first time,” says Russian physicist Igor Novikov.

We do not yet have the ability to travel to the nearest star and back at close to the speed of light (or even 0.01 per cent of the speed of light). Nevertheless, time dilation is detectable—just—in the everyday world. Experiments have been carried out in which super-accurate atomic clocks are synchronised and separated, one being flown around the world on an airplane while the other stays at home. When the clocks are reunited, the experimenters find that the around-the-world clock has registered the passage of marginally less time than its stay-at-home counterpart. The shorter time measured by the moving clock is precisely what is predicted by Einstein.

The slowing of time affects astronauts too. As Novikov points out in his excellent book,
The River of Time
: “When the crew of the Soviet Salyut space station returned to Earth in 1988 after orbiting for a year at 8 kilometres a second, they stepped into the future by one hundredth of a second.”

The time dilation effect is minuscule because airplanes and spacecraft travel at only a tiny fraction of the speed of light. However, it is far greater for cosmic-ray muons, subatomic particles created when cosmic rays—superfast atomic nuclei from space—slam into air molecules at the top of Earth’s atmosphere.

The key thing to know about muons is that they have tragically short lives and, on average, disintegrate, or decay after a mere 1.5 millionths of a second. Since they streak down through the atmosphere at more than 99.92 per cent of the speed of light, this means that they should travel barely 0.5 kilometres before self-destructing. This is not far at all when it is realised that cosmic-ray muons are created about 12.5 kilometres up in the air. Essentially none, therefore, should reach the ground.

Contrary to all expectations, however, every square metre of Earth’s surface is struck by several hundred cosmic-ray muons every second. Somehow, these tiny particles manage to travel 25 times farther than they have any right to. And it is all because of relativity.

The time experienced by a speeding muon is not the same as the time experienced by someone on Earth’s surface. Think of a muon as having an internal alarm clock that tells it when to decay. At 99.92 per cent of the speed of light, the clock slows down by a factor of about 25, at least to an observer on the ground. Consequently, cosmic-ray muons live 25 times longer than they would if stationary—time enough to travel all the way to the ground before they disintegrate. Cosmic-ray muons on the ground owe their very existence to time dilation.

What does the world look like from a muon’s point of view? Or come to think of it, from the point of view of the space-faring twin or the atomic clock flown round the world? Well, from the point of view of all of these, time flows perfectly normally. Each, after all, is stationary with respect to itself. Take the muon. It still decays after 1.5 millionths of a second. From its point of view, however, it is standing still and it’s Earth’s surface that is approaching at 99.92 per cent of the speed of light. It therefore sees the distance it has to travel shrink by a
factor of 25, enabling it to reach the ground even in its ultrashort lifetime.

The great cosmic conspiracy between time and space works whatever way you look at it.

The behaviour of space and time at speeds approaching that of light is indeed bizarre. However, it need not have been a surprise to anyone. Although our everyday experience in nature’s slow lane has taught us that one person’s interval of time is another person’s interval of time and that one person’s interval of space is another person’s interval of space, our belief in both of these things is in fact based on a very rickety assumption.

Take time. You can spend a lifetime trying futilely to define it. Einstein, however, realised that the only useful definition is a practical one. We measure the passage of time with watches and clocks. Einstein therefore said: “Time is what a clock measures.” (Sometimes, it takes a genius to state the obvious!)

If everyone is going to measure the same interval of time between two events, this is equivalent to saying that their clocks run at the same rate. But as everyone knows, this never quite happens. Your alarm clock may run a little slow, your watch a little fast. We overcome these problems by, now and then, synchronising them. For instance, we ask someone the right time and, when they tell us, we correct our watch accordingly. Or we listen for the time signal “pips” on the BBC. But in using the pips, we make a hidden assumption. The assumption is that it takes no time at all for the radio announcement to travel to our radio. Consequently, when we hear the radio announcer say it is 6 a.m., it is 6 a.m.

A signal that takes no time at all travels infinitely fast. The two statements are entirely equivalent. But as we know, there is nothing in our Universe that can travel with infinite speed. On the other hand, the speed of radio waves—a form of light invisible to the naked eye—
is so huge compared to all human distances that we notice no delay in their travel to us from the transmitter. Our assumption that the radio waves travel infinitely fast, although false, is not a bad one in the circumstances. But what happens if the distance from the transmitter is very large indeed? Say the transmitter is on Mars.

When Mars is at its closest, the signal takes 5 minutes to fly across space to Earth. If, when we hear the announcer on Mars say it is 6 a.m., we set our clock to 6 a.m., we will be setting it to the wrong time. The way around this is obviously to take into account the 5-minute time delay and, when we hear 6 a.m., set our clock to 6:05.

Everything, of course, hinges on knowing the time it takes for the signal to travel from Earth to Mars. In practice this can be done by bouncing a radio signal from Earth off Mars and picking up the return signal. If it takes 10 minutes for the round-trip, then it must take 5 minutes to travel from the spaceship to Earth.

The lack of an infinitely fast means of sending signals is not, therefore, a problem in itself for synchronising everyone’s clocks. It can still be done by bouncing light signals back and forth and taking into account the time delays. The trouble is that this works perfectly only if everyone is stationary with respect to everyone else. In reality, everyone in the Universe is moving with respect to everyone else. And the minute you start bouncing light signals between observers who are moving, the peculiar constancy of the speed of light starts to wreak havoc with common sense.

Say there is a spaceship travelling between Earth and Mars and say it is moving so fast that, by comparison, Earth and Mars appear stationary. Imagine that, as before, you send a radio signal to Mars, which bounces off the planet and which you then pick up back on Earth. The round-trip takes 10 minutes, so, as before, you deduce that the signal arrived at Mars after only 5 minutes. Once again, if you pick up a time signal from Mars, saying it is 6 a.m., you will deduce from the time delay that it is really 6:05.

Now consider the spaceship. Assume that at the instant you send your radio signal to Mars, it sets off at its full speed to Mars. At what
time does an observer on the spaceship see the radio signal arrive at Mars?

Well, from the observer’s point of view, Mars is approaching, so the radio signal has a shorter distance to travel. But the speed of the signal is the same for you and for the observer on the spaceship. After all, that’s the central peculiarity of light—it has exactly the same speed for everyone.

Speed, remember, is simply the distance something travels in a given time. So if the observer on the spaceship sees the radio signal travel a shorter distance and still measures the same speed, the observer must measure a shorter time too. In other words, the observer deduces that the radio signal arrives at Mars earlier than you deduce it does. To the observer, clocks on Mars tick more slowly. If the observer picks up a time signal from Mars, saying it is 6 a.m., the observer will correct it using a shorter time delay and conclude it is, say 6:03, not the 6:05 you conclude.

The upshot is that two observers who are moving relative to each other never assign the same time to a distant event. Their clocks always run at different speeds. What is more, this difference is absolutely fundamental—no amount of ingenuity in synchronising clocks can ever get around it.

The slowing of time and the shrinking of space is the price that must be paid so that everyone in the Universe, no matter what their state of motion, measures the same speed of light. But this is only the beginning.

Say there are two stars and a space-suited figure is floating in the blackness midway between them. Imagine that the two stars explode and the floating figure sees them detonate simultaneously—two blinding flashes of light on either side of him. Now picture a spaceship travelling at enormous speed along the line joining the two stars. The spaceship passes by the space-suited figure just as he sees the two stars explode. What does the pilot of the spaceship see?

Well, since the ship is moving towards one star and away from the other, the light from the star it is approaching will arrive before the light from the star it is receding from. The two explosions will therefore not appear simultaneously. Consequently, even the concept of simultaneity is a casualty of the constancy of the speed of light. Events that one observer sees as simultaneous are not simultaneous to another observer moving with respect to the first.

The key thing here is that the exploding stars are separated by an interval of space. Events that one person sees separated by only space, another person sees separated by space and time—and vice versa. Events one person sees separated only by time, another person sees separated by time and space.

The price of everyone measuring the same speed of light is therefore not only that the time of someone moving past you at high speed slows down while their space shrinks but that some of their space appears to you as time and some of their time appears to you as space. One person’s interval of space is another person’s interval of space and time. And one person’s interval of time is another person’s interval of time and space. The fact that space and time are interchangeable in this way tells us something remarkable and unexpected about space and time. Fundamentally, they are same thing—or at least different sides of the same coin.

The person who first saw this—more clearly even than Einstein himself—was Einstein’s former mathematics professor Hermann Minkowski, a man famous for calling his student a “lazy dog” who would never amount to anything. (To his eternal credit, he later ate his words.) “From now on,” said Minkowski, “space of itself and time of itself will sink into mere shadows and only a kind of union between them will survive.”