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Genius_ The Life and Science of Richard Feynman - James Gleick [59]

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fields seemed like textbook science, already part of history and—in their applied forms—engineering. Physics was “inward bound,” as its chronicler Abraham Pais put it; into the core of the atom the theorists went. All the superlatives were here. The experimental apparatus was the most expensive (machines could now cost thousands or even tens of thousands of dollars). The necessary energies were the highest. The materials and “particles” (this word was acquiring a specialized meaning) were the most esoteric. The ideas were the strangest. Relativity notoriously changed astronomers’ sense of the cosmos but found its most routine application in the physics of the atom, where near-light speeds made relativistic mathematics essential. As experimenters learned to ply greater levels of energy, the basic constituents gave way to new units even more basic. Through quantum mechanics, physics had established a primacy over chemistry—itself formerly the most fundamental of sciences, if the most fundamental was the one responsible for nature’s basic constituents.

As the thirties ended and the forties began, particle physics had not established its later dominance of the public relations of science. In choosing a theme for the annual Washington Conference on theoretical physics in 1940, organizers considered “The Elementary Particles” and the quaintly geophysical “Interior of the Earth”—and chose the interior of the earth. Still, neither Feynman nor Wheeler had any doubt about where a pure theorist’s focus must turn. The fundamental issue in the fundamental science was the weakness in the heart of quantum mechanics. At MIT Feynman had read Dirac’s 1935 text as a cliffhanger with the most thrilling possible conclusion: “It seems that some essentially new physical ideas are here needed.” Dirac and the other pioneers had taken their quantum electrodynamics—the theory of the interplay of electricity, magnetism, light, and matter—as far as they could. Yet it remained incomplete, as Dirac well knew.

The difficulty concerned the electron, the fundamental speck of negative charge. As a modern concept, the electron was still young, although many high-school students now performed (as Feynman had in Far Rockaway) a tabletop experiment showing that electric charge came in discrete units. What exactly was the electron? Wilhelm Röntgen, the discoverer of X rays, forbade the use of this upstart term in his laboratories as late as 1920. The developers of quantum mechanics, attempting to describe the electron’s charge or mass or momentum or energy or spin in almost every new equation, nevertheless maintained a silent agnosticism about certain issues of its existence. Particularly troubling: Was it a finite pellet or an infinitesimal point? In his model of the atom, already obsolete, Niels Bohr had imagined electrons as miniature planetoids orbiting the nucleus; now the atom’s electron seemed more to reverberate in an oscillatory harmony. In some formulations it assumed a wavelike cloak, the wave representing a distribution of probabilities that it would appear in particular places at particular times. But what would appear? An entity, a unit—a particle?

Even before quantum mechanics, a worm had gnawed at the heart of the classical understanding. The equations linking the electron’s energy (or mass) and charge implicated another quantity, its radius. As its size diminished, the electron’s energy grew, just as the pressure transmitted by a carpenter’s hammer becomes thousands of pounds per square inch when concentrated at the point of a nail. Furthermore, if the electron was to be imagined as a little ball of finite size, then what force or glue kept it from bursting from its own charge? Physicists found themselves manipulating a quantity called the “classical electron radius.” Classical in this context came to mean something like make-believe. The problem was that the alternative—a vanishingly small, pointlike electron—left the equations of electrodynamics plagued with divisions by zero: infinities. Infinitely small nails, infinitely energetic hammers.

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