Counting the same thing twice — page 9
A whole number split into two that are not
Run a ribbon round a closed loop and its two edges link a whole number of times. That number is shared between two quantities that are nothing like whole numbers: how far the ribbon twists about its core, and how far the core coils about itself. Bend the loop and the twist and the coiling trade continuously, to three decimal places, while their sum stays fixed — the arithmetic behind a coiled telephone cord and a supercoiled loop of DNA.
The prices nobody can break away from
When houses are sold to buyers who value them differently, there is a whole range of prices at which nobody wants to walk away, and it has a remarkable shape — one corner best for every buyer at once, one best for every seller at once, and the buyers' corner pays each buyer exactly what the market would lose without them.
Two halves a sieve cannot tell apart
Split the whole numbers into those with an even number of prime factors and those with an odd number. To a sieve — which sees only how many numbers each small divisor divides — the two halves look almost exactly alike. Yet sifting out the small primes leaves every prime in one half and nothing at all in the other. That is Atle Selberg's parity example, and it is the reason no sieve can prove there are infinitely many twin primes.
The patterns primes are allowed to make
Primes two apart are twin primes; primes six apart are about twice as common; three primes two apart happen exactly once, at 3, 5, 7. Which patterns of primes can recur for ever is decided by remainders alone — a pattern must leave some remainder free modulo every prime — and how often each one recurs is predicted, to within a few per cent, by a constant computed from nothing else.
Points on a lattice that see almost nothing
Average a function over the points of a carefully tilted lattice and the error can fall like one over the square of the number of points — far faster than random sampling, and faster than the most evenly spread sequences. The reason is that a lattice rule is blind to only a thin set of frequencies, its dual lattice, and a smooth periodic function has almost nothing there.
Every count a solid can have
Euler's formula ties the corners, edges and faces of a convex solid together, but it does not say which numbers are possible. Ernst Steinitz answered in 1906: V corners and F faces occur together exactly when neither is more than twice the other less four. The proof in one direction is two lines of counting; in the other it is two moves — cut off a corner, glue on a tetrahedron — that walk from the pyramids to every allowed pair.
Counting targets by their holes
The Euler characteristic adds up like an area: glue two shapes together and it is the sum of theirs minus that of their overlap. So it can be used to measure, and measuring with it does something no area can. A field of sensors that each report only how many targets they detect — not which, not where — can have its readings added up, weighted by the Euler characteristics of the regions where the count is high, and the answer is exactly the number of targets.
The count a fold cannot change
A curved map can fold the plane over itself, so that one point has three preimages and its neighbour has one. Count each preimage with the sign of the determinant there and the jump disappears — the signed count is the same everywhere, and it is a whole number.
Every crowd holds a bowl or a dome
Among enough points in the plane, some k of them always bend upward like a bowl or some l bend downward like a dome. The number that forces it is a binomial coefficient, it is exactly right, and it proves that every large enough crowd contains a convex polygon — with a bound nobody could lower to the true answer for eighty years.
Counting the classes that break factorisation
The class number measures how badly unique factorisation fails in a field, and defined through ideals it looks impossible to compute. Gauss computed it by hand, for every field he wanted, by counting quadratic forms — and every form can be squeezed, by changes of variable that keep its values, into exactly one small standard shape.
The forgetting that happens all at once
A single small chain forgets its start gradually, a little more with every step. A family of large ones can do something different — stay almost perfectly informed about where it began, and then lose all of it inside a window far shorter than the wait. That cliff is the cutoff phenomenon, and it is why "seven shuffles" is an answer rather than a convention.
Every surface is sewn from pants
A sphere with three holes — a pair of pants — is the smallest piece a surface with two or more handles can be cut into. Every such surface falls apart into them, and the Euler characteristic alone says how many pieces and how many cuts, however the cutting is done. What it does not say is the pattern, and the patterns are counted by drawing each one as a graph: two for two handles, five for three, seventeen for four.
The fewest corners a surface needs
Build a closed surface from triangles, any two meeting along a whole edge, at a single corner or not at all, and ask for the fewest corners. Two lines of counting give a floor for every surface, in terms of its Euler characteristic alone. The torus meets it with seven, the projective plane with six — and the Klein bottle, which the counting says could be built from seven, cannot, as a search of every possible arrangement shows.
A hole is a cycle that bounds nothing
A hollow triangle and a filled one have the same three edges and the same loop round them. In one the loop is the edge of something and in the other it is not, and that difference — a cycle that is not a boundary — is what a hole is. Counting holes is rank and nullity applied twice, and the Euler characteristic is what is left when the two applications cancel.
The corners are the orders of arrival
Line the players up, let each join in turn, and pay each what it adds on arrival: every order gives a split. When a newcomer always adds at least as much to a bigger group, those splits are exactly the corners of the core — so the core is never empty, it is the outline of the orders, and the average over all of them lies inside it. For a group worth the square of its size the outline is a hexagon whose corners are the six orderings of 1, 3 and 5.
The crossings a graph cannot avoid
Five points all joined need one crossing, six need three, seven need nine. Euler's formula gives a lower bound that grows like the square of the number of points and is badly wrong; a sampling trick turns the same formula into a bound that grows like the fourth power and is right to within a constant. And for drawings with straight edges the count turns out to be something else entirely: the number of quadrilaterals the points make.
Windows counted like necklaces
The logistic map has one window of period three, two of period four, three of period five, five of period six, nine of period seven — and the sine map, which shares no algebra with it, has exactly the same numbers, in exactly the same order along the parameter. The counts are 1, 1, 1, 2, 3, 5, 9, 16, 28, 51, and they are the number of ways to thread a necklace of beads in two colours.
The ball that is largest in five dimensions
A disc of radius one has area π, a ball of radius one volume 4π/3, and in each further dimension the unit ball grows — until five, where its volume is 5.264, after which it shrinks towards nothing. The recursion that shows it is the ring dissection of the disc, done one dimension at a time, and the shrinking is not the ball getting small: it is almost all of a high-dimensional cube lying outside the ball, and almost all of the ball lying in a thin rind at its surface.
What counting can prove exists
There are only as many continuous functions as points of a line, only as many Borel sets, only countably many definitions — and more sets of reals than any of those. So counting proves that discontinuous functions, non-Borel sets and undefinable numbers exist without exhibiting one. It cannot prove that a set with no length exists, because the sets that have a length are exactly as numerous as all sets, and that difference turns out to be the difference between what the axioms force and what they merely allow.
The row that proves a prime
Fermat's little theorem can be fooled: 561 passes it for every base and is not prime. Thread necklaces with a fixed number of black beads instead of any colours at all, and the count becomes a statement about a whole row of Pascal's triangle — every middle entry of row n is a multiple of n exactly when n is prime — which no composite can fake. Written as polynomials it is (x + a)ⁿ = xⁿ + a, and cut down to size it is the first proof that primes can be recognised in polynomial time.
When every value comes from the same hat
A rule that sees values one at a time and must keep or discard each on the spot can guarantee half of what a prophet collects, and no more, when the values come from different distributions. When they all come from the same one, the guarantee rises to 0.745 — and a single fixed threshold, set so that each value crosses it with chance 1/n, already secures 1 − 1/e. For bounded values the best rule collects nearly everything; only a heavy tail, where one enormous value carries the prize, keeps the gap open.
Two copies of the polygon, cross-matched
The two-sided surface that lies over a one-sided one can be built from the gluing word alone: take two copies of the polygon, one read each way round, glue a letter within the copies when it is used once each way, and across them when it is used twice the same way. The recipe works for every surface at once, doubles every count, and shows that a sphere with k cross-caps is covered by the surface with k − 1 handles — and that among all its connected double covers, exactly one is two-sided.
The sums that obey a smaller equation
The twelve non-trivial thirteenth roots of unity satisfy an equation of degree twelve. Split them into three groups of four — the right three groups — and add each group: the three sums are the roots of x³ + x² − 4x + 1, an equation of degree three with whole-number coefficients. Gauss called such sums periods, found one for every divisor of p − 1, and used them to build the seventeen-gon from four quadratic equations.
The sums of primitive roots are always whole
Take the roots of unity of order exactly q, raise each to the power n and add them. The answer is always a whole number, it depends on n only through what n shares with q, and as n varies the sums behave like the sines and cosines of a Fourier series — so well that Ramanujan could rebuild the sum of the divisors of any number from them, and prove that their weighted total is nought, a fact that at n = 1 is the prime number theorem.