A collider sends particles of matter speeding in one direction and particles of antimatter in the opposite direction, smashing them into one another at detector sites located where the beams intersect.
In the end, CERN took the gamble. For three years, while the antiproton ring was being constructed, Rubbia busied himself building the detector, an instrument with the bulk and weight of a Wall Street bank vault, ten meters long by five meters wide and weighing two thousand tons, buried underground and straddling the accelerator tunnel. He worked himself to new depths of exhaustion and twice was nearly electrocuted, but he seldom faltered and he kept learning as he went along. “Look at this place,” he said with pride, once the giant detector was completed. “I know the function of every switch in here.”30
Tests of the proton-antiproton collider began in 1982, and to nearly everybody’s astonishment, the thing worked. The protons and antiprotons collided as promised, producing tiny, intense bursts of energy, and subatomic particles came reeling out of the explosions, peppering the onionskin layers of the detector. Out of a billion such interactions emerged five that held clear evidence of the existence of the elusive W particle. On January 20, 1983, Rubbia stood in the CERN auditorium, in front of a long blackboard bleached with the technicolor palimpsests of thousands of rubbed-out equations, and told his colleagues that the W particle had been detected and the electroweak theory thus confirmed. Detection of the Z soon followed, and the masses of both bosons matched the predictions of the electroweak unified theory. Weinberg, Glashow, and Salam had been right; we live in a universe of broken symmetries, where at least two of the fundamental forces of nature, electromagnetism and the weak nuclear force, have diverged from a single, more symmetrical parent.
The battle of the big accelerators continued in the years that followed. Enormous boring machines toiled in Rembrandtesque gloom beneath the French countryside, digging a tunnel seventeen miles in circumference for a CERN accelerator that would collide electrons with their antimatter opposite numbers, the positrons. Proton accelerators continued to grow as well. The original CERN proton-antiproton machine had achieved an energy of 640 GeV; in America, Fermilab’s proton-antiproton collider, which went into operation in 198S, soon was climbing toward an energy of over 1 TeV. Two years thereafter, the United States began planning a “superconducting super collider” that would attain energies of 20 TeV, flushing out particles forty times more massive than any previously detectable. With a ring fifty miles or more in circumference, the super collider would be the largest machine ever constructed.
The theorists, meanwhile, kept sifting through the particle zoo in search of further hidden symmetries. A number of grandly titled “grand unified” theories (GUTs for short) were written that purported to identify the electroweak and strong nuclear forces as partners in a single, broken gauge symmetry group. The GUTs made a curious prediction: They implied that the proton, always assumed to be stable, instead decays. Its half-life was estimated at some 1032 years. That’s a long time—a thousand billion times the age of the universe—but the prediction could be tested by keeping watch on 1032 protons, one of which ought then to decay each year on the average. To test the grand unified theories, protons accordingly were gathered together, in the form of thousands of tons of filtered water in a tank in a salt mine near Cleveland and in a lead mine in Kamioka, Japan, a thirty-five-ton block of concrete in an iron mine in Minnesota, sheets of iron in a gold mine in India, and stacks of steel bars adjacent to a highway tunnel under Mont Blanc. (The experiments were conducted deep underground to minimize contamination by cosmic rays.) Light-sensing devices were attached to computers programmed to record the telltale flash of light that would be produced by a spontaneously disintegrating proton.
It was a hard life, waiting for years on end in lead mines and salt mines. (“That’s what they get for choosing to be experimental physicists,” joked one hard-hearted theorist.) The results, moreover, were null, and as years went by and no proton was observed to decay, it became increasingly evident that the GUT theorists had picked the wrong broken symmetries. Meanwhile, looking for something to do while they waited, the experimentalists put their instruments to work detecting neutrinos, a few of which betrayed their presence by smashing into atoms in the vats of water and stacks of concrete and metal that had been assembled to look for proton decay. This came in handy in 1987, when a supernova blazed forth in the Large Magellanic Cloud and a wave of neutrinos was promptly detected at the Kamioka and Lake Erie proton-decay installations. The observation confirmed a theory (authored in part by Bethe, indefatigable student of stars) that Supernovae generate enormous quantities of neutrinos, and gave birth to the new science of observational neutrino astronomy.
The waning of the grand unified theories went widely unmourned. The GUTs had lacked the sweeping simplicity that unified theories are supposed to be all about; like the standard model they were full of arbitrary parameters, and, of course, they left out gravity. What the theorists really wanted was a “superunified” theory that would identify symmetrical family relationships among all four forces.
Elements of just such a theory began to appear, first in the Soviet Union and then independently in the West, in the 1970s. Collectively called “supersymmetry,” these new theories identified a symmetry linking bosons, the carriers of force, with fermions, the stuff of matter. Gravitation was drawn under the umbrella of the theory in 1976, a development that generated widespread excitement. And yet, by the early 1980s, supersymmetry had begun to stall. In itself it could not generate all the known quarks, leptons, and gauge particles, and it introduced even more unexplained terms than had grand unified theories and the standard model. Something was missing.
That something, a few young theorists proposed, was strings. Traditionally, elementary particles like the electron had been regarded as dimensionless points. In string theory, the particles are instead portrayed as extended objects, longer than they are wide —in short, as strings. They can be mistaken for infinitesimal objects because they are very small—only about one Planck length long, which is just about as small as anything can be. The prospect that particles are strings rather than points made an enormous difference, however, in the way their behavior was interpreted. Strings can vibrate, and the rate at which they vibrate, it turned out, can generate the properties of all known particles—and of an infinite variety of other particles as well. The bewildering diversity of the myriad particles was suddenly, if only potentially, unified, by a stroke as simple as a chord struck on Pythagoras’s lyre: All, said the theory, are but differing harmonies of strings.
String theory proffered potential answers to some of the most troubling questions that had been confronting theorists concerned with unification. Why did prior versions of quantum field theory so often generate infinities that had to be “renormalized” away? Because they regarded the elementary particles as having zero dimension: This meant they could draw infinitesimally close together, in which case the energy level of the force being exchanged between them could rise to infinity. Since strings have length, the problem of infinities did not arise in string theory. Why are gravitons spin two and the other force-carrying particles spin one? Because, said the theory, a string can either be open, meaning it has two ends, or closed, meaning that the ends are joined, forming a loop: Open strings can be spin one, closed strings can be spin two. Why has the Yang-Mills gauge field concept enjoyed such broad applicability in understanding the forces? Because a string when in its lowest energy state—straight and nonrotating—acts like a massless, spin-one particle, and that is the description of the gauge particles that convey the Yang-Mills fields. String theory even opened a door toward understanding the conceptual gulf between relativity and quantum mechanics. Indeed, string theory could not work without including gravity. It was an inherently unifying conception.
Subatomic particles, traditionally envisioned as points, are depicted in string theory as extended objects (top). Particles in motion trace out
world lines; strings, world sheets (middle). A “Feynman diagram” of pointlike particle interactions consists of lines; for closed (i.e., looplike) strings, the Feynman diagram is tubular (bottom).
The string concept originally was invoked in the 1960s, by theorists who had in mind larger strings whose harmonies might explain the behavior of the rapidly spinning hadrons. At this task it did not fare well, and most physicists soon dropped the idea. One of the few to appreciate its potential was (once again) the perspicacious Murray Gell-Mann, who encouraged the American physicist John Schwarz that even if string theory appeared sterile at present, “somehow, sometime, somewhere, it would still be useful.”31
A breakthrough came in 1974, when Schwarz and the young French physicist Joel Scherk realized that an unwelcome particle that kept turning up in their string equations—its mass zero, its spin two—might be none other than the graviton, the boson that carries gravitation. Schwarz and Scherk then began thinking of strings as being only 10−35 meter long, the “Planck length” at which gravitation becomes as strong as the other forces and, therefore, presumably begins to function in an obviously quantized manner. Though these ideas initially garnered little enthusiasm in the scientific community, Schwarz stubbornly kept returning to the string concept, working on it in collaboration with Michael Green, who was visiting Caltech from the University of London. The concept was so unfashionable that Schwarz and Green apparently were the only two people in the world conducting research into strings at that time. But their efforts finally began to bear fruit, and in the summer of 1984 they were able to demonstrate that anomalies that had troubled other unified field theories canceled out in string theory. This captured attention, and by 1987 strings were the hottest topic in theoretical particle physics.
Writing a unified theory is something of an ad hoc affair, like putting up a tent in a high wind; while one sets the pegs, the tent flaps free. Einstein’s relativity required abandoning classical conceptions of space and time; quantum mechanics required abridging classical causality. The odd thing about string theory was very odd indeed: It required that the universe have at least ten dimensions. As we live in a universe of only four dimensions (three of space plus one of time), the theory postulated that the other dimensions were “compactified,” meaning that they had collapsed into structures so tiny that we do not notice them. Weinberg stumped for this idea, and was kidded about it when Howard Georgi, known for his work in grand unified theory, introduced a 1984 Weinberg lecture at Harvard by writing a limerick on the blackboard that read:
Steve Weinberg, returning from Texas
Brings dimensions galore to perplex us.
But the extra ones all
Are rolled up in a ball
So tiny it never affects us.32
Unification of quantum mechanics and general relativity, long a conundrum, appears to be inherent to string theory. It implies that gravitation, explicated in relativity, is produced by open strings (top), while the other, quantum forces are produced by closed strings (middle). Cutting a closed string produces two open strings (bottom), suggesting a natural affinity between the two classes of force.
Hyperdimensionality had first been introduced into unified theory by Theodor Kaluza in Germany in 1919. Kaluza wrote to Einstein, proposing that Einstein’s dream of finding a unified theory of gravitation and electromagnetism might be realized if he worked his equations in five-dimensional space-time. Einstein at first scoffed at the idea, but later reconsidered and helped Kaluza get his paper published. A few years after that, the Swedish physicist Oskar Klein published a quantum version of Kaluza’s work. The resulting Kaluza-Klein theory seemed interesting, but nobody knew what to do with it until the 1970s, when it turned out to be salutary in working on supersymmetry. Soon Kaluza-Klein was on everyone’s lips (with Gell-Mann, in his role as linguistic sentry, chiding colleagues who failed to pronounce it “Ka-woo-sah-Klein”).
Though both string theory in particular and supersymmetry in general invoked higher dimensions, strings had a way of selecting their requisite dimensionality: String theory, it soon became apparent, would work only in two, ten, or twenty-six dimensions, and invoked only two possible symmetry groups—either SO(32) or E8 × E8. When a theory points a finger that decisively, scientists pay attention, and by the late 1980s scores were at work on strings. A great deal of toil lay ahead, but the prospects were bright. “The coming decades,” wrote Schwarz and his superstring co-workers Green and Edward Witten, “are likely to be an exceptional period of intellectual adventure.”33
Such optimism may, of course, prove to have been misplaced. The history of twentieth-century physics is strewn with the bleached bones of theories that were once thought to approach an ultimate answer. Einstein devoted much of the later half of his career to trying to find a unified field theory of gravitation and electromagnetism, with popular expectations running so high that equations from his work in progress were posted in windows along New York’s Fifth Avenue, where they were scrutinized by curious if uncomprehending multitudes. Yet nothing came of it. (Einstein had ignored the quantum principle.) Wolfgang Pauli collaborated with Werner Heisenberg on a unified theory for a while, then was alarmed to hear Heisenberg claim on a radio broadcast that a unified Pauli-Heisenberg theory was close to completion, with only a few technical details remaining to be worked out. Put out by what he regarded as Heisenberg’s hyperbole, Pauli sent George Gamow and other colleagues a page on which he had drawn a blank box. He captioned the drawing with the words, “This is to show the world that I can paint like Titian. Only technical details are missing.”34
Critics of the superstring concept pointed out that claims for its power were based almost entirely upon its internal beauty. The theory had not yet so much as duplicated the achievements of the standard model, nor had it made a single prediction that could be tested by experiment. Supersymmetry did mandate that the universe ought to contain whole families of new particles, among them “selectrons” (supersymmetric counterparts of the electron) and “photinos” (counterparts of the photon), but it did not postulate the hypothetical particles’ masses. The absence of evidence adduced in preliminary searches for supersymmetric particles, like those conducted at the PEP accelerator at Stanford and at PETRA in Hamburg, therefore proved nothing; one could always imagine that the particles were too massive to be produced in these machines, or indeed in any newer and more powerful machines that might be built. The prospects of conducting experiments to test string theory were even more remote: The putative strings themselves had a theoretical mass of more than 1021 times that accessible to existing accelerators, meaning that their detection, using existing technology, would require building an accelerator larger than the solar system. Supersymmetry and string theory were elegant, but if the theorists working on them had to proceed indefinitely without the benefit of what Weinberg called “that wonderful fertilization that we normally get from experiment,”35 they seemed in danger of drifting away into the ionospheric reaches of pure, abstract thought. If that happened, argued Glashow and his Harvard colleague Paul Ginsparg, their tongues only slightly in cheek, “contemplation of superstrings may evolve into an activity as remote from conventional particle physics as particle physics is from chemistry, to be conducted at schools of divinity by future equivalents of medieval theologians.” They added sardonically that “for the first time since the Dark Ages, we can see how our noble search may end, with faith replacing science once again.”36
Nonetheless, hope continued to run high that there is a fundamentally beautiful, symmetrical principle to nature that has generated the particles and forces, and that it can perhaps be glimpsed by the human mind. “Maybe it isn’t true,” Weinberg allowed. “Maybe nature is fundamentally ugly, chaotic and complicated. But if it’s like that, then I want out.”37
Which brings us back to the other Greek definition of symmetry—“due proportion.” To the Greeks, symmetry consisted, not simply of invariance, but of an aesthetically pleasing kind of in
variance. This implies that there is a higher order of perfection, a more perfect world, that we glimpse through the windows proffered by symmetry and by which the elegance of any symmetry theory can be gauged. Supersymmetry portrays this ultimate perfection as a hyperdimensional universe, of which our poor imperfect universe is but a paltry shadow. It implies that physicists—in identifying, say, the weak and electromagnetic forces as having arisen from the breaking of the more symmetrical electroweak force, or in finding concealed symmetries cowering in the cramped nuclear precincts where the strong force does its work—are in effect piecing together the shattered potsherds of that perfect world. Indeed, the theory indicates that there may be countless more such debris, in the form of supersymmetric particles that have as yet remained undetected because they interact only weakly or not at all with the particles we are made of and have come to know.
Where, then, is the hyperdimensional universe of perfect symmetry to be found? Certainly not here and now; the world we live in is fraught with broken symmetries, and knows but four dimensions. The answer comes from cosmology, which tells us that the supersymmetric universe, if it existed, belonged to the past. The implication is that the universe began in a state of symmetrical perfection, from which it evolved into the less symmetrical universe we live in. If so, the search for perfect symmetry amounts to a search for the secret of the origin of the universe, and the attention of its acolytes may with good reason turn, like the faces of flowers at dawn, toward the white light of cosmic genesis.
Coming of Age in the Milky Way Page 34
