Less way previously:
We were chatting about central forces. In these a small object — a satellite, a planet, a weight on a spring — is attracted to the center of the universe, called the origin. We’ve been studying this by looking at potential energy, a function that in this case depends only on how far the object is from the origin. But to find circular orbits, we can’t just look at the potential energy. We have to modify this potential energy to account for angular momentum. This essay I mean to discuss that angular momentum some.
Let me talk first about the potential energy. Mathematical physicists usually write this as a function named U or V. I’m using V. That’s what my professor used teaching this, back when I was an undergraduate several hundred thousand years ago. A central force, by definition, changes only with how far you are from the center. I’ve put the center at the origin, because I am not a madman. This lets me write the potential energy as V = V(r).
V(r) could, in principle, be anything. In practice, though, I am going to want it to be r raised to a power. That is, V(r) is equal to C rn. The ‘C’ here is a constant. It’s a scaling constant. The bigger a number it is the stronger the central force. The closer the number is to zero the weaker the force is. In standard units, gravity has a constant incredibly close to zero. This makes orbits very big things, which generally works out well for planets. In the mathematics of masses on springs, the constant is closer to middling little numbers like 1.
The ‘n’ here is a deceiver. It’s a constant number, yes, and it can be anything we want. But the use of ‘n’ as a symbol has connotations. Usually when a mathematician or a physicist writes ‘n’ it’s because she needs a whole number. Usually a positive whole number. Sometimes it’s negative. But we have a legitimate central force if ‘n’ is any real number: 2, -1, one-half, the square root of π, any of that is good. If you just write ‘n’ without explanation, the reader will probably think “integers”, possibly “counting numbers”. So it’s worth making explicit when this isn’t so. It’s bad form to surprise the reader with what kind of number you’re even talking about.
(Some number of essays on we’ll find out that the only values ‘n’ can have that are worth anything are -1, 2, and 7. And 7 isn’t all that good. But we aren’t supposed to know that yet.)
C rn isn’t the only kind of central force that could exist. Any function rule would do. But it’s enough. If we wanted a more complicated rule we could just add two, or three, or more potential energies together. This would give us , with C1 and C2 two possibly different numbers, and n1 and n2 two definitely different numbers. (If n1 and n2 were the same number then we should just add C1 and C2 together and stop using a more complicated expression than we need.) Remember that Newton’s Law of Motion about the sum of multiple forces being something vector something something direction? When we look at forces as potential energy functions, that law turns into just adding potential energies together. They’re well-behaved that way.
And if we can add these r-to-a-power potential energies together then we’ve got everything we need. Why? Polynomials. We can approximate most any potential energy that would actually happen with a big enough polynomial. Or at least a polynomial-like function. These r-to-a-power forces are a basis set for all the potential energies we’re likely to care about. Understand how to work with one and you understand how to work with them all.
Well, one exception. The logarithmic potential, V(r) = C log(r), is really interesting. And it has real-world applicability. It describes how strongly two vortices, two whirlpools, attract each other. You can write the logarithm as a polynomial. But logarithms are pretty well-behaved functions. You might be better off just doing that as a special case.
Still, at least to start with, we’ll stick with V(r) = C rn and you know what I mean by all those letters now. So I’m free to talk about angular momentum.
You’ve probably heard of momentum. It’s got something to do with movement, only sports teams and political campaigns are always gaining or losing it somehow. When we talk of that we’re talking of linear momentum. It describes how much mass is moving how fast in what direction. So it’s a vector, in three-dimensional space. Or two-dimensional space if you’re making the calculations easier. To find what the vector is, we make a list of every object that’s moving. We take its velocity — how fast it’s moving and in what direction — and multiply that by its mass. Mass is a single number, a scalar, and we’re always allowed to multiply a vector by a scalar. This gets us another vector. Once we’ve done that for everything that’s moving, we add all those product vectors together. We can always add vectors together. And this gives us a grand total vector, the linear momentum of the system.
And that’s conserved. If one part of the system starts moving slower it’s because other parts are moving faster, and vice-versa. In the real world momentum seems to evaporate. That’s because some of the stuff moving faster turns out to be air objects bumped into, or particles of the floor that get dragged along by friction, or other stuff we don’t care about. That momentum can seem to evaporate is what makes its use in talking about ports teams or political campaigns make sense. It also annoys people who want you to know they understand science words better than you. So please consider this my authorization to use “gaining” and “losing” momentum in this sense. Ignore complainers. They’re the people who complain the word “decimate” gets used to mean “destroy way more than ten percent of something”, even though that’s the least bad mutation of an English word’s meaning in three centuries.
Angular momentum is also a vector. It’s also conserved. We can calculate what that vector is by the same sort of process, that of calculating something on each object that’s spinning and adding it all up. In real applications it can seem to evaporate. But that’s also because the angular momentum is going into particles of air. Or it rubs off grease on the axle. Or it does other stuff we wish we didn’t have to deal with.
The calculation is a little harder to deal with. There’s three parts to a spinning thing. There’s the thing, and there’s how far it is from the axis it’s spinning around, and there’s how fast it’s spinning. So you need to know how fast it’s travelling in the direction perpendicular to the shortest line between the thing and the axis it’s spinning around. Its angular momentum is going to be as big as the mass times the distance from the axis times the perpendicular speed. It’s going to be pointing in whichever axis direction makes its movement counterclockwise. (Because that’s how physicists started working this out and it would be too much bother to change now.)
You might ask: wait, what about stuff like a wheel that’s spinning around its center? Or a ball being spun? That can’t be an angular momentum of zero? How do we work that out? The answer is: calculus. Also, we don’t need that. This central force problem I’ve framed so that we barely even need algebra for it.
See, we only have a single object that’s moving. That’s the planet or satellite or weight or whatever it is. It’s got some mass, the value of which we call ‘m’ because why make it any harder on ourselves. And it’s spinning around the origin. We’ve been using ‘r’ to mean the number describing how far it is from the origin. That’s the distance to the axis it’s spinning around. Its velocity — well, we don’t have any symbols to describe what that is yet. But you can imagine working that out. Or you trust that I have some clever mathematical-physics tool ready to introduce to work it out. I have, kind of. I’m going to ignore it altogether. For now.
The symbol we use for the total angular momentum in a system is . The little arrow above the symbol is one way to denote “this is a vector”. It’s a good scheme, what with arrows making people think of vectors and it being easy to write on a whiteboard. In books, sometimes, we make do just by putting the letter in boldface, L, which is easier for old-fashioned word processors to do. If we’re sure that the reader isn’t going to forget that L is this vector then we might stop highlighting the fact altogether. That’s even less work to do.
It’s going to be less work yet. Central force problems like this mean the object can move only in a two-dimensional plane. (If it didn’t, it wouldn’t conserve angular momentum: the direction of would have to change. Sounds like magic, but trust me.) The angular momentum’s direction has to be perpendicular to that plane. If the object is spinning around on a sheet of paper, the angular momentum is pointing straight outward from the sheet of paper. It’s pointing toward you if the object is moving counterclockwise. It’s pointing away from you if the object is moving clockwise. What direction it’s pointing is locked in.
All we need to know is how big this angular momentum vector is, and whether it’s positive or negative. So we just care about this number. We can call it ‘L’, no arrow, no boldface, no nothing. It’s just a number, the same as is the mass ‘m’ or distance from the origin ‘r’ or any of our other variables.
If ‘L’ is zero, this means there’s no total angular momentum. This means the object can be moving directly out from the origin, or directly in. This is the only way that something can crash into the center. So if setting L to be zero doesn’t allow that then we know we did something wrong, somewhere. If ‘L’ isn’t zero, then the object can’t crash into the center. If it did we’d be losing angular momentum. The object’s mass times its distance from the center times its perpendicular speed would have to be some non-zero number, even when the distance was zero. We know better than to look for that.
You maybe wonder why we use ‘L’ of all letters for the angular momentum. I do. I don’t know. I haven’t found any sources that say why this letter. Linear momentum, which we represent with , I know. Or, well, I know the story every physicist says about it. p is the designated letter for linear momentum because we used to use the word “impetus”, as in “impulse”, to mean what we mean by momentum these days. And “p” is the first letter in “impetus” that isn’t needed for some more urgent purpose. (“m” is too good a fit for mass. “i” has to work both as an index and as that number which, squared, gives us -1. And for that matter, “e” we need for that exponentials stuff, and “t” is too good a fit for time.) That said, while everybody, everybody, repeats this, I don’t know the source. Perhaps it is true. I can imagine, say, Euler or Lagrange in their writing settling on “p” for momentum and everybody copying them. I just haven’t seen a primary citation showing this is so.
(I don’t mean to sound too unnecessarily suspicious. But just because everyone agrees on the impetus-thus-p story doesn’t mean it’s so. I mean, every Star Trek fan or space historian will tell you that the first space shuttle would have been named Constitution until the Trekkies wrote in and got it renamed Enterprise. But the actual primary documentation that the shuttle would have been named Constitution is weak to nonexistent. I’ve come to the conclusion NASA had no plan in mind to name space shuttles until the Trekkies wrote in and got one named. I’ve done less poking around the impetus-thus-p story, in that I’ve really done none, but I do want it on record that I would like more proof.)
Anyway, “p” for momentum is well-established. So I would guess that when mathematical physicists needed a symbol for angular momentum they looked for letters close to “p”. When you get into more advanced corners of physics “q” gets called on to be position a lot. (Momentum and position, it turns out, are nearly-identical-twins mathematically. So making their symbols p and q offers aesthetic charm. Also great danger if you make one little slip with the pen.) “r” is called on for “radius” a lot. Looking on, “t” is going to be time.
On the other side of the alphabet, well, “o” is just inviting danger. “n” we need to count stuff. “m” is mass or we’re crazy. “l” might have just been the nearest we could get to “p” without intruding on a more urgently-needed symbol. (“s” we use a lot for parameters like length of an arc that work kind of like time but aren’t time.) And then shift to the capital letter, I expect, because a lowercase l looks like a “1”, to everybody’s certain doom.
The modified potential energy, then, is going to include the angular momentum L. At least, the amount of angular momentum. It’s also going to include the mass of the object moving, and the radius r that says how far the object is from the center. It will be:
V(r) was the original potential, whatever that was. The modifying term, with this square of the angular momentum and all that, I kind of hope you’ll just accept on my word. The L2 means that whether the angular momentum is positive or negative, the potential will grow very large as the radius gets small. If it didn’t, there might not be orbits at all. And if the angular momentum is zero, then the effective potential is the same original potential that let stuff crash into the center.
For the sort of r-to-a-power potentials I’ve been looking at, I get an effective potential of:
where n might be an integer. I’m going to pretend a while longer that it might not be, though. C is certainly some number, maybe positive, maybe negative.
If you pick some values for C, n, L, and m you can sketch this out. If you just want a feel for how this Veff looks it doesn’t much matter what values you pick. Changing values just changes the scale, that is, where a circular orbit might happen. It doesn’t change whether it happens. Picking some arbitrary numbers is a good way to get a feel for how this sort of problem works. It’s good practice.
Sketching will convince you there are energy minimums, where we can get circular orbits. It won’t say where to find them without some trial-and-error or building a model of this energy and seeing where a ball bearing dropped into it rolls to a stop. We can do this more efficiently.
8 thoughts on “Why Stuff Can Orbit, Part 4: On The L”