Small cases lie — page 2
The seat that vanishes when the house grows
Twenty-seven whole seats have to be divided between five regions whose exact shares are 15.417, 7.209, 1.755, 1.431 and 1.188. Every rule for rounding those five numbers breaks something, and the instance drawn here breaks all three of the classical ways at once.
The road that makes everyone later
An equilibrium is a state nobody can improve alone, which is a much weaker thing than a state anybody would choose. Adding a link that costs nothing to use makes every traveller in this network strictly slower, and the arithmetic says by exactly how much.
Nobody gets their own hat
Hand back a pile of hats at random and ask for the chance that not one person gets their own. The answer barely moves as the crowd grows — it is a third and a bit at four people, and a third and a bit at four thousand.
The staircase that is not the diagonal
A staircase can be made to follow a quarter circle as closely as anyone likes. Its length is 2 at every stage and the arc's length is 1.5708, and no amount of refinement closes the gap — which is a fact about length rather than about staircases.
How far from the average a thing can be
Knowing only an average and a spread — nothing about the shape, nothing about the number of outcomes, nothing about symmetry — the chance of landing three standard deviations out is at most one in nine. And there is a distribution that lands there exactly that often, so the bound cannot be improved.
Two right angles and the diagonal of a box
The theorem applied once gives the diagonal of a floor. Applied again, standing on the first result, it gives the diagonal of the room — and the pattern does not stop at three, which is where a fact about triangles quietly becomes the definition of distance.
The triangle that a globe gets wrong
On a sphere, a right triangle with legs of fifty and sixty degrees has a hypotenuse of seventy-two, not seventy-eight. The theorem is not approximately true there — it is false, and what replaces it says exactly how much room the surface has.
The solid where the answer is not two
A slab with a hole through it has flat faces, straight edges and sixteen corners, and its alternating sum is zero. It is not a trick and not a degenerate case — it is the object that shows the theorem had a hypothesis nobody had written down.
Half the time is the rarest answer
In a fair game of many rounds, the fraction of the time one side is ahead is not usually near a half. It is usually near nought or one, and an even split is the single least likely outcome there is.
Two barriers and a fair game
A fair walk between two absorbing barriers is ruined with a probability that is a straight line in the starting stake, and lasts for a number of steps that is the product of what each side can lose. Both facts come from the same two-line recurrence, and both are bad news for the smaller player.
Five colours, and a chain that can be followed
The four-colour theorem cannot be checked by a person. The five-colour theorem can, in a page, and the argument that does it is the one Kempe thought had settled four — with the exact step where it fails visible in the picture.
Seven regions on a doughnut
A map on a torus can need seven colours, and the proof is a picture — seven regions, each sharing a border with all six others. The plane needed a computer and eighty-six years; the harder surface was settled in 1890 by drawing something.
An average that never settles
The average of many independent quantities is supposed to steady as their number grows. For one famous distribution it does not steady at all — the average of a thousand draws has exactly the same distribution as a single draw, and no amount of further averaging changes it.
How fast the bell arrives
The limit theorem says a standardised sum approaches the bell curve and says nothing about when. The rate is one over the square root of the number of terms, the constant in front is made of the third moment, and both are visible.
The tail is not a bell
The limit theorem describes a window of width one over the root of n around the mean; ask instead for the chance that an average lands a fixed distance away and the answer falls exponentially, at a rate computed from the summand before any n is chosen.
A multiplication that remembers the order
Four characters — i² = j² = k² = ijk = −1 — define a multiplication in which ab and ba are different numbers. Everything follows from them, including the fact that a rotation of a solid body has two names, and that two full turns are needed to get one of them home.
The planes a recurrence cannot leave
One multiplication and one addition, taken modulo a fixed number, produce a sequence that passes for random one value at a time. Taken two or three at a time it does not, and the reason is a whole-number relation that pins every point onto one of a small family of parallel lines.
The staircase that is flat almost everywhere
A map of the circle advances by an average amount each step. Plot that average against the parameter driving it and the graph is flat over an interval at every rational, rises only on a set of measure zero, and still climbs from nothing to one.
A limit that forgets to be continuous
Every one of the functions x, x², x³, … is as smooth as anything could be, and every column of the picture settles down. What they settle on has a jump in it — and the quantity that sees the difference is the largest gap anywhere, which is a number about the whole graph rather than about any point of it.
The moment everything joins up
Add edges to a set of points one chance at a time and the graph goes from dust to a single piece — not gradually, but over a window that narrows as the point count grows. The last obstacle is almost always a single point with no edge at all, and that is what fixes where the change happens.
Six in four dimensions, and three forever after
The count of regular solids goes five in three dimensions, six in four, and then three in every dimension above — for good. Four dimensions is the last place anything unusual happens, and it happens twice.
Approached too fast to be algebraic
An algebraic number of degree d cannot be approached by fractions faster than the denominator's dth power. So a number that is approached faster than that is the root of no polynomial at all — and one can be built by choosing where its decimal digits go.
A line with as many points as a square
Interleave the decimal places of two numbers and one number comes out; take every other place back and the two return. The square has no more points than the segment, and dimension turns out to be invisible to counting.
How fast the staircase arrives
The slope at a crossing decides whether an orbit reaches it. The same number decides how fast — and when the slope is zero the arithmetic changes kind, from a fixed factor per step to a doubling of the correct digits.