
Update: On 2 June 2011, Barry Wood’s committee for the fundamental physical constants. The value for “big G” was reduced by 66 parts per million, and the uncertainty on it increased from 100 parts per million to 120 parts per million.
Original article from 23 April 2011 issue:
We’ve been measuring gravity for 200 years, but we’re still not sure how strong it is. Meet the metrologists striving to find out
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HAROLD PARKS’S belongings were already leaving for France when he realised gravity had given him the slip. “The movers were in my apartment taking my stuff away,” he says. He was in his lab at the research institute in Boulder, Colorado, making the final checks on an experiment that had taken up the past two years of his life – to precisely measure the strength of gravity. “The signal shouldn’t have changed,” he recalls. “But it did.”
That was 10 years ago. Having relocated, for a while Parks was tempted to give up on gravity. But the force exerts a mysterious pull on those who measure it. After a sojourn at the high temple of metrology, the (BIPM) in Paris, France, Parks was back in Boulder, rebuilding and improving his old experiment.
By the time he and his supervisor, Jim Faller, published their measurement of gravity’s strength in Physical Review Letters (), it was September 2010. The intervening years of scrupulous checking and rechecking had given them reasonable confidence in their result. “It was beautiful,” says Parks. Beautiful, but for one thing: it didn’t agree with anyone else’s.
Sitting in his office 2000 kilometres away in Ottawa, Canada, Barry Wood has the task of mulling such problems over. A metrologist at Canada’s , he chairs the international that decides the values for the fundamental physical constants. These are numbers such as the Planck constant – which determines the size of a quantum of energy – or the charge of an electron. Or indeed Newton’s constant of gravitation, the object of Parks and Faller’s attentions.
Every four years, Wood’s committee revises these numbers, and the results of the latest overhaul are due any day. Normally it is a routine celebration of the onward march of precision metrology, as the constants are redefined with accuracies that edge ever closer to 1 part in a billion.
All except gravity, that is, which has always been a bit of a party pooper. More than 200 years of measurements of Newton’s constant – “big G” to its friends – have delivered a number accurate to a measly 1 part in 10,000. The latest round of experiments, Parks and Faller’s included, raise the dismal prospect that this could get even worse. Wood’s jury is still out, but depending on what they agree this month it could become official: gravity is going down.
Gravity’s ways are as mysterious as its effects are ubiquitous. Ever since Isaac Newton grappled with an apple over 300 years ago to produce the first quantitative description of the force, we have been puzzling over what it means. While Newton had no answer, he at least came up with a definition – a handy formula that allows us to work out its effects. According to his inverse square law, gravity makes any two objects attract one another with a force proportional to their masses divided by the square of the distance separating them. Riding at the front of that equation, telling us how big that force should be, is big G.
Pending a shiny new quantum depiction of gravity, no theory tells us where this number comes from, or what its value should be. “Big G is just there,” says of the University of Birmingham, UK, who has spent 30 years investigating the ups and downs of gravity. It is there in Newton’s inverse square law and in Einstein’s general theory of relativity, our most accurate description of gravity to date.
The only way to reveal gravity’s true worth is to measure it in highly controlled experiments – which is easier said than done. Earth’s hulking mass sucks everything towards it, masking a fundamental truth: gravity is by far the weakest of nature’s four fundamental forces. And that means it is by far the trickiest to measure.
Since Henry Cavendish to measure it a little more than two centuries ago, progress has been painfully slow (see “Big G, little g”). “It is not a case of someone pops into a lab, stays a week and comes out with a number,” says Wood. “Most of the experiments take a decade.” Few people have the time, resources or nerve to stick at it that long.
It doesn’t help that there is no obvious pay-off to pinning down big G. A precise number would help us predict the motions of planets and stars more accurately, but no applications depend on it in the way that, say, GPS depends on knowing how long a second lasts to 1 part in a trillion.
Even so, our apparent impotence in the face of gravity raises hackles. “I have been heckled at meetings by people who said it was a scandal big G was so imprecise,” says Speake.
The latest round of experiments designed to remedy gravity’s shortcomings was inspired by the last notable episode in big G’s history. In 1995, a team from , the PTB in Braunschweig, published a new value using a new version of the apparatus that Cavendish had used 200 years earlier. “They had the equipment, they had good people, they had the time and the money,” says Terry Quinn, who at the time was head of the BIPM. “Everyone assumed this was going to be the Գ.”
In the event, it was a disaster. The PTB team delivered a value that was 6 parts in 1000 higher than the then-accepted value. In metrological terms, that’s off the scale. No one could believe that gravity had suddenly become that much stronger, or that all the experiments before had been so consistently wrong. There had to be a mistake.
“Everyone thought, ‘we must be able to do better than that’,” says Quinn. So teams from all over the world set out to find their own number for gravity, which Wood’s committee would then combine to give the official value – as it has done since 1969. In the meantime, the committee opted to keep big G unchanged. To reflect the large spread of measurements, however, they increased the uncertainty by a factor of 10.
Cruel tricks
By the time the fundamental constants were up for review again in 2002, a consensus had been reached that excluded the PTB measurement. The value for big G was increased a little and the official error was set back to where it had been before 1998.
“The fundamental constants are accurate to one part in a billion, all except gravity”
Meanwhile, Parks was beavering away in Boulder. His and Faller’s experiment was a variant of an apparatus that had been used to try to pin down big G before. It consisted of two free-hanging pendulum bobs surrounded by four massive stacks of tungsten. Moving the tungsten masses inwards (see diagram) draws the bobs closer together by an amount 1000 times smaller than the diameter of a human hair. Still, the shift is large enough to be picked up by a laser interferometer.
Not that it is easy to be sure the movements are down to gravity alone. “It’s about thinking of all the things the world can do to you to muck up your experiment,” says Parks. The pair set up the pendulums in a vacuum to avoid the effects of temperature changes and air resistance slowing the pendulums’ movements. They also floated the tungsten stacks on a thin layer of air to stop them vibrating unexpectedly. Even so, tiptoeing anywhere near the experiment was a no-no: the additional mass of a person would weigh down one side of the floor and nudge the apparatus ever so slightly.
“Gravity is so tricky to measure that even tiptoeing anywhere near the experiment is a no-no”
The problems didn’t stop at the doors of the lab. Next to, and towering over, the basement where the experiment was situated was a high-rise block. As the sun crept across the sky during the day, it warmed first one side of the tower and then the other, causing it to expand unevenly. The effect was to imperceptibly tilt the tower and everything attached to it, including Parks’s lab, first one way and then the other.
Even that cruel trick was nothing compared to what was unmasked the day the fire alarm sounded. “There had been regular spikes in data taken during the day,” says Parks. “They just went quiet.” It turned out that a surge in current each time the elevator moved in the tower caused a slight change in the magnetisation of the pendulum bobs, moving them ever so slightly and skewing the results.
After years of noticing such effects and removing or compensating for them, Parks could be forgiven for a moment of self-doubt when he had what he thought was his final number: some 0.03 per cent below the official value for big G, and three standard deviations away from the previously accepted mean.
“Physicists like to get the right answer,” says Faller. Parks’s response was to sit on his work while he ran through every other source of error he could think of. “I assumed I’d come up with something where I’d say, ‘Oh that’s stupid. Why didn’t you see that?’,” he says. But nothing came.
By the time he had regained his mojo it was clear he wasn’t the only one getting anomalous results. In June 2009, a group at the in Wuhan, China, measured big G by timing the swing of a pendulum suspended in a vacuum as large masses rotated around it. That, too, represented the culmination of more than a decade’s work – and came in lower than the accepted value ().
Back in Ottawa, Wood’s committee is now chewing over the figures, wondering how strong gravity should be for the next four years. With such a slippery customer, however, there is no clear right answer. Now that two of the latest results disagree with the previous best judgement, the likelihood is that the new value will, like that in 1998, be less accurate than the one before – and possibly even a bit lower.
Lifelong obsession
Is gravity actually changing? Probably not. Exotic theories of gravity do exist which postulate that its strength should vary from day to day, place to place or season to season (èƵ, 18 April 2009, p 28). But the state of our experimental art means we are not yet able to see the tiny shifts predicted, even if they do exist. “At the moment big G just looks like a boring constant in Newton’s law,” says Speake. Quinn goes further. “We just don’t discuss these things,” he says.
Which leads to the obvious question: why bother to accurately measure big G if it’s so tricky and no one’s expecting unusual gravitational effects anyway? One answer is the hoary chestnut, “because it is there”. “Part of the fun of it is doing something really hard you’re not sure you can do,” says Parks.
“It’s like weeding the garden,” says Speake. “As soon as you start paying attention to weeds, they start bothering you.” He and Quinn are getting ready to publish their latest determination of big G – which builds on work started in 2001 and is the product of years of Quinn’s retirement and Speake’s Christmas and summer holidays.
“If you look at people from Cavendish onwards who’ve done this, we’re all a bit crazy,” says Quinn. But there is more to it than physicists with their heads in the clouds, he says. Aside from the measurements leading to advances in other areas of precision metrology, it is important to know what the gravitational constant is, says Quinn – not today, perhaps, but certainly in the future. A possible quantum theory of gravity could one day predict precisely what big G’s value should be. “Then we’ll need a robust experiment to test whether it’s right or not,” says Quinn. “That’s ultimately the point.”
That is a good few years away yet. But judging by history, we will probably need that long to get to grips with gravity. Parks remembers attending a conference in London in 1998 to mark the bicentenary of Cavendish’s original experiment, at a time when he was just starting out on his own measurements. “Someone looked around and said, ‘Nice to see all these young physicists working on gravity again’,” he recalls. “And Terry Quinn said, ‘Yes – but they’ll all be old physicists before they’re done.'”


Big G, little g
You might think that Earth’s huge gravity would be a boon to those wishing to measure big G, Newton’s gravitational constant. Quite the reverse, for one simple reason: it is difficult to work out our planet’s exact mass. Without this crucial number, it is impossible to calculate big G from Newton’s inverse square law, which relates the force of gravity between a test mass, the mass of the Earth and the distance between them.
Earth’s overbearing mass makes it comparatively easy to work out its particular gravitational attraction. Time how long a ball takes to drop and it is easy to work out “little g”, the acceleration due to Earth’s gravity – about 9.8 metres per second per second.
Useful as this number is, all it tells us is the gravitational attraction experienced by a body about 6400 kilometres away from the centre of a body of Earth’s mass. But with no independent method for working out Earth’s mass, we are still a world away from a value for big G, the underlying strength of gravity.
The way to break the deadlock is to ignore Earth entirely. The principle behind this idea was devised by the English geologist John Michell, who towards the end of the 18th century invented an apparatus known as the torsion balance (see diagram). In its basic set-up, it consists of a long horizontal bar suspended from a wire that is free to twist. The bar is weighted with identical spheres made of lead or a similarly dense metal at either end.
The strength of gravity is tested by moving two other spheres towards opposite ends of the bar and observing how far the attractive force between the masses twists the wire. That way, you don’t need to worry how much Earth’s unknown mass is pulling on the whole equipment. “It gets rid of little g, it is a brilliant idea,” says Jim Faller of JILA in Boulder, Colorado.
Starting in 1797, the physicist Henry Cavendish used the torsion balance to produce what is acknowledged as the first precise value for big G, accurate to 5 parts in 1000. Subsequent measures have largely used subtle variations on the torsion balance – and achieved accuracies only subtly better.