Chapter I
A Term in a Rate Equation
In 1916 Albert Einstein tried to derive Planck's blackbody law by balancing the rates at which atoms absorb and emit radiation, and found the books would not balance. Absorption and spontaneous emission alone give the wrong spectrum. A third process is required: an atom already excited, when radiation of the right frequency passes, is induced to emit, and the induced photon shares the frequency, phase, polarisation and direction of the one that provoked it.
That last clause is the whole of laser physics. A photon entering a medium of excited atoms can come out as two identical photons, then four. The catch is that the same photon can equally be absorbed by an atom in the lower state, and in any system at equilibrium the lower states are more populated, so absorption always wins. To amplify light you need a population inversion, which is to say a medium held far from equilibrium.
Charles Townes built one for microwaves in 1954, by sending a beam of ammonia molecules through an electrostatic sorter that discarded the ground-state ones, and letting the survivors into a cavity. Nikolai Basov and Alexander Prokhorov did the equivalent in Moscow. In 1958 Townes and Arthur Schawlow published what it would take to do the same at optical wavelengths, where the cavity has to be two mirrors tens of thousands of wavelengths apart, and several laboratories started racing.
Theodore Maiman won with the least fashionable approach. The consensus was that ruby would not work, because its chromium ions must be pumped very hard. Maiman noticed that the available photographic flashlamps were absurdly bright, coiled one around a ruby rod with silvered ends, and in May 1960 produced a narrow pulse at 694.3 nm. The paper was rejected by Physical Review Letters as yet another maser result and appeared in Nature instead.
Chapter II
From Curiosity to Infrastructure
Nobody knew what it was for. The standard line in 1960 was that the laser was a solution in search of a problem, and the first decade's uses were mostly alignment and ranging.
Two developments turned it into infrastructure. The first was shrinking it. Zhores Alferov and Herbert Kroemer independently saw that a thin active layer sandwiched between wider-bandgap material would confine the electrons, the holes and the light in the same small volume, cutting the current needed by orders of magnitude; by 1970 gallium arsenide lasers ran continuously at room temperature. They are now manufactured in the billions.
The second was finding something to send the light through. Glass fibres guided light, but the best optical glass of 1965 lost about 1,000 decibels per kilometre — half the signal every three metres. The received view was that this was intrinsic. Charles Kao argued in 1966 that it was dissolved iron and water, that purified silica should do far better, and that below 20 dB/km fibre would beat copper cable. Four years later Corning reached 17. Today's fibre loses about 0.2 dB/km.
Arthur Ashkin opened a third direction by noticing that light pushes. A focused beam not only pushes a transparent bead along its axis but pulls it sideways into the brightest region, because refraction through the bead deflects photons and the bead takes the opposite momentum. In 1986 he showed a single focused beam traps in all three dimensions, and a year later he was holding live bacteria. The forces involved are piconewtons — the scale on which molecular machines work, which is why biophysics took the technique over.
Chapter III
A Closer Look: Why 20 Decibels Per Kilometre Was the Whole Argument
Optical loss is logarithmic. A length of fibre that transmits a fraction of the power has loss
so 3 dB is a halving, 10 dB a factor of ten, and 20 dB a factor of a hundred. Per kilometre, this number decides everything about long-distance communication.
The glass of 1965 lost 1,000 dB/km, which is 1 dB/m. Three metres is 3 dB, so half the light is gone in the length of a desk. Over a kilometre the attenuation is , which is not a number with any physical meaning: the fibre is opaque.
Kao's target was 20 dB/km. Suppose a system can tolerate 50 dB between transmitter and receiver before the signal is lost in detector noise. Then the repeater spacing is
which is roughly what copper coaxial cable managed, and fibre carries far more bandwidth. That is why 20 was the threshold he argued for: not because it is good, but because it is the point at which the comparison tips.
Now put in the modern figure of 0.2 dB/km at 1550 nm:
A hundredfold increase in repeater spacing, from one insight about iron contamination. In practice transatlantic systems amplify every 60 to 100 km for other reasons — dispersion, noise accumulation, and the need to keep the optical power in the region where the fibre stays linear.
It is worth seeing what the alternative would be. A transatlantic cable is about 6,600 km. Without amplification the loss is
an attenuation factor of . For comparison, the Sun will emit on the order of photons in its entire main-sequence lifetime. There is no transmitter power that compensates for 1,320 dB; the system exists because of the erbium-doped amplifiers spaced along it, each one a short length of fibre doped with erbium ions, pumped by a semiconductor laser, amplifying the signal as light without ever converting it to electronics. Every piece of that sentence is from this chapter.
Chapter IV
Counting Optical Frequencies
The last entry in the thread is a measuring instrument. A frequency is counted by comparing cycles, and electronics counts to about Hz. Optical frequencies are near Hz, four orders of magnitude out of reach, so measuring one meant building a chain of lasers and nonlinear multipliers that filled a laboratory and worked for one frequency.
John Hall and Theodor Hänsch found the shortcut. A mode-locked laser emitting a train of very short pulses has a spectrum that is a comb of lines spaced by the pulse repetition rate — a radio frequency, around 100 MHz, which electronics counts easily. The comb's lines sit at , and if the comb is broadened until it spans a full octave, the offset can be measured by comparing the low end doubled against the high end. Both parameters then being known, every tooth's absolute frequency is known. Beat an unknown laser against the nearest tooth and the optical frequency is reduced to counting.
This is what makes the optical clocks of quantum optics usable as clocks rather than as very narrow lamps, and it is the reason a 1999 tabletop result sits underneath a proposed redefinition of the second. What happens when the pulses are made shorter and more intense still — short enough to resolve an electron's motion, intense enough to tear atoms apart and rebuild the light at harmonics of itself — is nonlinear and nano-optics.