Things that cannot be done — page 7
The colours a circle forces
Take every pair from five things and join two pairs when they share nothing. Three colours are enough to colour the result so joined pairs differ, and two are not — but no triangle, no dense cluster and no counting argument explains why. The reason is five points on a circle and a direction that cannot be told apart from its opposite, and the same reason, one sphere at a time, settles Kneser's question for every size.
A limit can jump at every fraction
A sequence of continuous functions can settle, point by point, on a function that is discontinuous at every rational number. It cannot settle on one that is discontinuous everywhere — the indicator of the rationals needs two limits in a row, and Riemann's integral cannot follow the second. The line between the two is Baire's theorem, and it measures smallness by gaps rather than by length.
The nearest consistent verdict
When a court's majorities contradict each other, one repair is to announce the consistent verdict that disagrees with the judges least. It treats the premises and the conclusion alike, which neither of the two standard procedures does. On the classic case it returns a three-way tie; on five judges, with every question weighted equally, it never returns a single answer on a troubled profile at all — and what breaks the tie is a decision about which question matters more.
Agendas that cannot contradict themselves
A court voting on two unconnected questions never contradicts itself, and neither does one voting on a chain of thresholds. A court voting on two premises and their conjunction sometimes does. What separates them is the size of the smallest sets of judgements that cannot all be true: pairs are harmless, because two majorities always share a judge, and triples are not. The same count says exactly how large a supermajority has to be to stay consistent on any agenda.
No set with a line in every direction is small
In the plane over the integers modulo 7 there are 49 points and lines in 8 directions. A set holding a whole line in every direction needs 31 of the points — more than half — and in any dimension such a set fills a fixed share of the space. In the real plane the same sets can have area zero. Over a finite field one polynomial of low degree shows they cannot be small.
A sum of two sets modulo a prime cannot be small
Add every element of one set of residues to every element of another. Over the whole numbers the sums always number at least |A| + |B| − 1. Modulo a prime the sums can wrap round and collide, and still they never number fewer — the theorem Cauchy proved in 1813 and Davenport again in 1935. Modulo 12 they can. A polynomial of low degree explains the difference in a paragraph.
The loops on a torus that never cross themselves
Every loop on a torus is classified by two whole numbers: how often it goes round one way and how often the other. Some classes can be drawn without the loop ever crossing itself and some cannot, and the rule is the oldest in arithmetic — the two numbers must have no common factor. The same two numbers say how often any two loops must meet.
The ripples that make a series run away
Adding up the first N terms of a Fourier series is the same as averaging the function against one fixed wiggly curve. Its area is always one, but the area of its absolute value grows like the logarithm of N, without limit — and that single number is enough to force a continuous function, with no jump and no corner anywhere, whose Fourier series diverges at a point. Averaging the partial sums removes the negative ripples, and with them the whole problem.
Orthogonal squares are a code
Write down each cell of a set of orthogonal Latin squares as a word — its row, its column, and its entry in each square — and no two words agree in more than one place. That is not a pleasant accident of the squares. It is exactly what being Latin and being orthogonal say, it makes the list an error-correcting code as good as any code of its size can be, and the squares a field builds turn out to be a Reed–Solomon code, the one on every compact disc.
The diagonal no unit measures
Draw the five diagonals of a regular pentagon and they make a star with a smaller pentagon at its centre. Subtract the side from the diagonal and what is left is the smaller pentagon's diagonal; subtract that from the side and what is left is its side. The pentagon has handed back a smaller copy of itself, and it will do so for ever — which means no unit, however small, measures both the side and the diagonal an exact whole number of times.
Tiles that never repeat
Two rhombs with angles taken from the pentagon, cut each into halves, and cut each half into smaller copies of the two halves by a fixed rule. Repeat, and the pieces fill the plane with no gaps and no overlaps, in a pattern with five-fold stars everywhere and no period anywhere. The reason it cannot repeat is a single number: thick tiles outnumber thin ones by φ, and a repeating pattern would make that ratio a fraction.
The word that cannot describe itself
Some adjectives describe themselves — 'short' is short — and some do not — 'lengthy' is not lengthy. Call the second kind heterological, and ask whether 'heterological' is heterological. It is exactly when it is not. The diagonal that beat every list of numbers, every set of sets and every provability predicate has been turned on words that describe words, and it proves that no language can contain a word for its own notion of describing, naming or truth.
The crossings an alternating knot cannot lose
Peter Guthrie Tait drew knots for years and believed, without proof, that a diagram whose crossings alternate over and under, and which has no twist that can be undone, is already drawn with the fewest crossings the knot allows. The proof took a century, and when it came it needed only the two most extreme ways of smoothing the diagram and Euler's count of the regions of a map.
What is left when the middle is taken out
Cut a finite piece out of a group's picture and count the parts of what remains that run off forever. The integers leave two, the plane one, a tree more with every cut — and no group anywhere leaves exactly three, because a third end is always the first of infinitely many.
A coin in front of every power
Toss a coin for each sign of ±1 ± λ ± λ² ± … and the sum lands somewhere. Below λ = 1/2 it lands on a dust with gaps in it, at exactly 1/2 it lands anywhere with equal chance, and above 1/2 it lands on a smooth-looking hill — which for most λ has a density and for the golden value does not, though no picture can tell the two apart.
Two sign patterns that land together
At λ = 1/φ the sign patterns + − − and − + + land in exactly the same place, because λ² + λ = 1. That one coincidence, repeated wherever it fits, puts 2ⁿ patterns onto a Fibonacci number of points, leaves the random sum's transform ringing at the same height forever, and makes a distribution that fills a whole interval live on a set of no length.
The polynomial that bounds the caps
For forty years the best bound on a set of SET cards with no set among them shrank only like one over the dimension. In 2016 a two-page argument made it shrink exponentially, and the whole proof is a count of monomials: a table that is diagonal on a cap, one polynomial that describes it, and the fact that three parts of a degree cannot all be large.
Three places cut apart
Separating two places as cheaply as possible is solved exactly by a flow. Separating three from one another is a different problem: no flow measures it, the pairwise answers do not add up to it, and the best shortcut known in 1994 — cut each place off on its own and throw the dearest cut away — is guaranteed only to within a third of the truth.
A whole interval of speeds
Below the critical line every orbit of the circle map goes round at the same average speed. Above it the map folds back on itself, and the speed depends on where the orbit starts — not a few different values but a whole interval of them, every fraction in it the speed of some periodic orbit, and almost none of them ever seen by an orbit started at random.
The least wall for equal rooms
Divide the plane into rooms of equal area using as little wall as possible, and every wall does double duty. Bees settled on hexagons long ago, and the proof that nothing does better — not even rooms with curved walls — came in 1999. The straight-walled half of it is two facts: the rooms of any division average six sides, and more sides never cost more wall.
Every chord slid to the middle
Take a shape, pick a line, and slide every chord that crosses the line at right angles until the line cuts it in half. The area cannot change, the boundary can only get shorter, and the result is symmetric. Do it again about another line, and another, and the shape is squeezed towards a disc — unless the lines are badly chosen, in which case it stops short.
A ratio nobody else has
Divide the sum of a number's divisors by the number and you get its abundancy: 2 for every perfect number, 12/5 for both 30 and 140. Numbers that share an abundancy are called friends. Some numbers provably have no friend at all, most have friends only far away — and for 10, whose abundancy is 9/5, nobody knows whether a friend exists.
A proof that says which half
Classical logic proves p ∨ ¬p without any idea which half is true. The constructive system never does that: whenever it proves a disjunction, it proves one of the two halves. The reason is a picture — two countermodels placed side by side above a new first stage that forces neither — and the logics between the two lose the property exactly when their pictures are not allowed to be glued.
No table of truth values is enough
Two truth values decide classical logic. Gödel asked in 1932 whether some longer list of values could decide the constructive system, and answered with a pigeonhole: with n values, some two of n + 1 statements must share one, so a formula saying exactly that holds in every n-valued table and is not a theorem. The chains of truth values then descend forever, and what they share is a logic of its own — the logic of the real interval.