Dualities like this—situations in which two very different theories accurately

describe the same

phenomenon—are consistent with model-dependent realism. Each theory can
describe and explain
certain properties, and neither theory can be said to be better or more real than
the other.
Regarding the laws that govern the universe, what we can say is this: There
seems to be no single
mathematical model or theory that can describe every aspect of the universe.
Instead, as mentioned
in the opening chapter, there seems to be the network of theories called M-
theory. Each theory in
the M-theory network is good at describing phenomena within a certain range.
Wherever their
ranges overlap, the various theories in the network agree, so they can all be said
to be parts of the
same theory. But no single theory within the network can describe every aspect
of the universe—
all the forces of nature, the particles that feel those forces, and the framework of
space and time in
which it all plays out. Though this situation does not fulfill the traditional
physicists’ dream of a
single unified theory, it is acceptable within the framework of model-dependent
realism.
We will discuss duality and M-theory further in Chapter 5, but before that we
turn to a
fundamental principle upon which our modern view of nature is based: quantum
theory, and in
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particular, the approach to quantum theory called alternative histories. In that
view, the universe
does not have just a single existence or history, but rather every possible version
of the universe
exists simultaneously in what is called a quantum superposition. That may
sound as outrageous as
the theory in which the table disappears whenever we leave the room, but in this
case the theory
has passed every experimental test to which it has ever been subjected.
The Grand Design
The Grand Design
The Grand Design
N 1999 A TEAM OF PHYSICISTS in Austria fired a series of soccer-ball-
shaped molecules toward a
barrier. Those molecules, each made of sixty carbon atoms, are sometimes
called buckyballs
because the architect Buckminster Fuller built buildings of that shape. Fuller’s
geodesic domes
were probably the largest soccer-ball-shaped objects in existence. The
buckyballs were the
smallest. The barrier toward which the scientists took their aim had, in effect,
two slits through
which the buckyballs could pass. Beyond the wall, the physicists situated the
equivalent of a
screen to detect and count the emergent molecules.
If we were to set up an analogous experiment with real soccer balls, we would
need a player with
somewhat shaky aim but with the ability to launch the balls consistently at a
speed of our
choosing. We would position this player before a wall in which there are two
gaps. On the far side
of the wall, and parallel to it, we would place a very long net. Most of the
player’s shots would hit
the wall and bounce back, but some would go through one gap or the other, and
into the net. If the
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gaps were only slightly larger than the balls, two highly collimated streams
would emerge on the
other side. If the gaps were a bit wider than that, each stream would fan out a
little, as shown in the
figure below.
Notice that if we closed off one of the gaps, the corresponding stream of balls
would no longer get
through, but this would have no effect on the other stream. If we reopened the
second gap, that
would only increase the number of balls that land at any given point on the
other side, for we
would then get all the balls that passed through the gap that had remained open,
plus other balls
coming from the newly opened gap. What we observe with both gaps open, in
other words, is the
sum of what we observe with each gap in the wall separately opened. That is the
reality we are
accustomed to in everyday life. But that’s not what the Austrian researchers
found when they fired
their molecules.
In the Austrian experiment, opening the second gap did indeed increase the
number of molecules
arriving at some points on the screen—but it decreased the number at others, as
in the figure
below. In fact, there were spots where no buckyballs landed when both slits
were open but where
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balls did land when only one or the other gap was open. That seems very odd.
How can opening a
second gap cause fewer molecules to arrive at certain points?
We can get a clue to the answer by examining the details. In the experiment,
many of the
molecular soccer balls landed at a spot centered halfway between where you
would expect them to
land if the balls went through either one gap or the other. A little farther out
from that central
position very few molecules arrived, but a bit farther away from the center than
that, molecules
were again observed to arrive. This pattern is not the sum of the patterns formed
when each gap is
opened separately, but you may recognize it from Chapter 3 as the pattern
characteristic of
interfering waves. The areas where no molecules arrive correspond to regions in
which waves
emitted from the two gaps arrive out of phase, and create destructive
interference; the areas where
many molecules arrive correspond to regions where the waves arrive in phase,
and create
constructive interference.
In the first two thousand or so years of scientific thought, ordinary experience
and intuition were
the basis for theoretical explanation. As we improved our technology and
expanded the range of
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phenomena that we could observe, we began to find nature behaving in ways
that were less and
less in line with our everyday experience and hence with our intuition, as
evidenced by the
experiment with buckyballs. That experiment is typical of the type of
phenomena that cannot be
encompassed by classical science but are described by what is called quantum
physics. In fact,
Richard Feynman wrote that the double-slit experiment like the one we
described above “contains
all the mystery of quantum mechanics.”
The principles of quantum physics were developed in the first few decades of
the twentieth century
after Newtonian theory was found to be inadequate for the description of nature
on the atomic—or
subatomic—level. The fundamental theories of physics describe the forces of
nature and how
objects react to them. Classical theories such as Newton’s are built upon a
framework reflecting
everyday experience, in which material objects have an individual existence,
can be located at
definite locations, follow definite paths, and so on. Quantum physics provides a
framework for
understanding how nature operates on atomic and subatomic scales, but as we’ll
see in more detail
later, it dictates a completely different conceptual schema, one in which an
object’s position, path,
and even its past and future are not precisely determined. Quantum theories of
forces such as
gravity or the electromagnetic force are built within that framework.
Can theories built upon a framework so foreign to everyday experience also
explain the events of
ordinary experience that were modeled so accurately by classical physics? They
can, for we and
our surroundings are composite structures, made of an unimaginably large
number of atoms, more
atoms than there are stars in the observable universe. And though the
component atoms obey the
principles of quantum physics, one can show that the large assemblages that
form soccer balls,
turnips, and jumbo jets—and us—will indeed manage to avoid diffracting
through slits. So though
the components of everyday objects obey quantum physics, Newton’s laws
form an effective
theory that describes very accurately how the composite structures that form our
everyday world
behave.
That might sound strange, but there are many instances in science in which a
large assemblage
appears to behave in a manner that is different from the behavior of its
individual components. The
responses of a single neuron hardly portend those of the human brain, nor does
knowing about a
water molecule tell you much about the behavior of a lake. In the case of
quantum physics,
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physicists are still working to figure out the details of how Newton’s laws
emerge from the
quantum domain. What we do know is that the components of all objects obey
the laws of
quantum physics, and the Newtonian laws are a good approximation for
describing the way
macroscopic objects made of those quantum components behave.
The predictions of Newtonian theory therefore match the view of reality we all
develop as we
experience the world around us. But individual atoms and molecules operate in
a manner
profoundly different from that of our everyday experience. Quantum physics is
a new model of
reality that gives us a picture of the universe. It is a picture in which many
concepts fundamental to
our intuitive understanding of reality no longer have meaning.
The double-slit experiment was first carried out in 1927 by Clinton Davisson
and Lester Germer,
experimental physicists at Bell Labs who were studying how a beam of
electrons—objects much
simpler than buckyballs—interacts with a crystal made of nickel. The fact that
matter particles
such as electrons behave like water waves was the type of startling experiment
that inspired
quantum physics. Since this behavior is not observed on a macroscopic scale,
scientists have long
wondered just how large and complex something could be and still exhibit such
wavelike
properties. It would cause quite a stir if the effect could be demonstrated using
people or a
hippopotamus, but as we’ve said, in general, the larger the object the less
apparent and robust are
the quantum effects. So it is unlikely that any zoo animals will be passing
wavelike through the
bars of their cages. Still, experimental physicists have observed the wave
phenomenon with
particles of ever-increasing size. Scientists hope to replicate the buckyball
experiment someday
using a virus, which is not only far bigger but also considered by some to be a
living thing.
There are only a few aspects of quantum physics needed to understand the
arguments we will
make in later chapters. One of the key features is wave/particle duality. That
matter particles
behave like a wave surprised everyone. That light behaves like a wave no longer
surprises anyone.
The wavelike behavior of light seems natural to us and has been considered an
accepted fact for
almost two centuries. If you shine a beam of light on the two slits in the above
experiment, two
waves will emerge and meet on the screen. At some points their crests or
troughs will coincide and
form a bright spot; at others the crests of one beam will meet the troughs of the
other, canceling
them, and leaving a dark area. The English physicist Thomas Young performed
this experiment in
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the early nineteenth century, convincing people that light was a wave and not,
as Newton had
believed, composed of particles.
Though one might conclude that Newton was wrong to say that light was not a
wave, he was right
when he said that light can act as if it is composed of particles. Today we call
them photons. Just
as we are composed of a large number of atoms, the light we see in everyday
life is composite in
the sense that it is made of a great many photons—even a 1-watt night-light
emits a billion billion
each second. Single photons are not usually evident, but in the laboratory we
can produce a beam
of light so faint that it consists of a stream of single photons, which we can
detect as individuals
just as we can detect individual electrons or buckyballs. And we can repeat
Young’s experiment
employing a beam sufficiently sparse that the photons reach the barrier one at a
time, with a few
seconds between each arrival. If we do that, and then add up all the individual
impacts recorded by
the screen on the far side of the barrier, we find that together they build up the
same interference
pattern that would be built up if we performed the Davisson-Germer experiment
but fired the
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electrons (or buckyballs) at the screen one at a time. To physicists, that was a
startling revelation:
If individual particles interfere with themselves, then the wave nature of light is
the property not
just of a beam or of a large collection of photons but of the individual particles.
Another of the main tenets of quantum physics is the uncertainty principle,
formulated by Werner
Heisenberg in 1926. The uncertainty principle tells us that there are limits to our
ability to
simultaneously measure certain data, such as the position and velocity of a
particle. According to
the uncertainty principle, for example, if you multiply the uncertainty in the
position of a particle
by the uncertainty in its momentum (its mass times its velocity) the result can
never be smaller
than a certain fixed quantity, called Planck’s constant. That’s a tongue-twister,
but its gist can be
stated simply: The more precisely you measure speed, the less precisely you can
measure position,
and vice versa. For instance, if you halve the uncertainty in position, you have
to double the
uncertainty in velocity. It is also important to note that, compared with everyday
units of
measurement such as meters, kilograms, and seconds, Planck’s constant is very
small. In fact, if
reported in those units, it has the value of about
6/10,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000,000. As a result, if you
pinpoint a macroscopic
object such as a soccer ball, with a mass of one-third of a kilogram, to within 1
millimeter in any
direction, we can still measure its velocity with a precision far greater than even
a billionth of a
billionth of a billionth of a kilometer per hour. That’s because, measured in
these units, the soccer
ball has a mass of 1/3, and the uncertainty in position is 1/1,000. Neither is
enough to account for
all those zeroes in Planck’s constant, and so that role falls to the uncertainty in
velocity. But in the
same units an electron has a mass of .000000000000000000000000000001, so
for electrons the
situation is quite different. If we measure the position of an electron to a
precision corresponding
to roughly the size of an atom, the uncertainty principle dictates that we cannot
know the
electron’s speed more precisely than about plus or minus 1,000 kilometers per
second, which is not
very precise at all.
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According to quantum physics, no matter how much information we obtain or
how powerful our
computing abilities, the outcomes of physical processes cannot be predicted
with certainty because
they are not determined with certainty. Instead, given the initial state of a
system, nature
determines its future state through a process that is fundamentally uncertain. In
other words, nature
does not dictate the outcome of any process or experiment, even in the simplest
of situations.
Rather, it allows a number of different eventualities, each with a certain
likelihood of being
realized. It is, to paraphrase Einstein, as if God throws the dice before deciding
the result of every
physical process. That idea bothered Einstein, and so even though he was one of
the fathers of
quantum physics, he later became critical of it.
Quantum physics might seem to undermine the idea that nature is governed by
laws, but that is not
the case. Instead it leads us to accept a new form of determinism: Given the
state of a system at
some time, the laws of nature determine the probabilities of various futures and
pasts rather than
determining the future and past with certainty. Though that is distasteful to
some, scientists must
accept theories that agree with experiment, not their own preconceived notions.