TEXT: Foundations
  by Greg Egan
  3:  Black Holes
  Copyright © Greg Egan, 1999.  All rights reserved.
  The previous article in this series began building the framework of ideas needed for 
  general relativity by describing the geometry of manifolds — mathematical spaces 
  without any notion of distance or angle — and then showing how it was possible to add a 
  metric that defined these things in a very general way.  The idea of parallel transport of 
  a vector was introduced:  moving along any path, you can carry a kind of “reference 
  copy” of a vector from your starting point with you.  A path is called a geodesic if it 
  continues to follow the parallel-transported copy of its initial direction, never swerving 
  away from its original bearing.  Parallel transport of a vector around a closed loop can 
  produce a reference copy back at the starting point that fails to match the original vector, 
  and this effect is used to quantify the curvature of space (or spacetime), via the Riemann 
  curvature tensor.
  Einstein's equation links the curvature of spacetime with the presence of matter 
  and energy.  We haven't quite said all that we need to about curvature, but this article will 
  begin by attacking the other side of the equation.  This will give us some insight into why 
  the equation takes the form it does, before we reach the final goal:  examining one 
  solution of the equation, the Schwarzschild solution, which describes a black hole.
  Mass
  If we want to quantify the amount of matter and energy in a region of spacetime, a good 
  place to start is the idea of mass.  According to Newtonian physics, when we weigh an 
  object we're measuring the gravitational force that the Earth exerts upon it, and this force 
  is taken to be proportional to the object's mass.  Mass is usually defined quite differently, 
  though, through the property of inertia:  in the absence of complications like friction, 
  when you apply a certain force to an object its rate of acceleration will be inversely 
  proportional to its mass.  Imagine pushing two items of furniture on frictionless pallets 
  across a level surface; even though you're not opposing gravity, the same push will 
  accelerate a 100-kilogram sofa half as much as a 50-kilogram bookcase.
  Are these two ways of measuring mass — gravitational and inertial — necessarily 
  equivalent?  If they are, then neglecting the effects of atmospheric drag, a truck and a 
  pebble should both fall off a cliff with the same acceleration all the way:  however much 
  harder it is to accelerate the truck, the gravitational force on it is proportionately greater.   
  In a vacuum, all objects should fall to Earth at exactly the same rate, whatever their mass, 
  and whatever they're made of.  Centuries of experiments have confirmed that they do, so 
  
  this is no surprise to anyone at this point in history, but from a Newtonian perspective 
  it's quite baffling that there are no known exceptions to this rule.  No other force works 
  like this.  The electrostatic force between two objects depends on their electric charges; a 
  proton and a positron have identical positive charges, but very different masses, so 
  although they'll experience the same electrostatic force — the same push — if placed in 
  the same electric field, they won't accelerate identically like the truck and the pebble.  
  What's so special about the gravitational force that it's always perfectly matched to an 
  object's inertial mass?
  Einstein's answer is that gravity isn't a force at all.  Rather, in the absence of 
  forces, any object — whatever its mass and composition — simply follows a geodesic in 
  spacetime:  it takes the straightest possible world line in the direction it happens to be 
  heading.  In the curved spacetime near the Earth, the geodesic of an object that started out 
  stationary would carry it straight to the centre of the planet if nothing got in its way.  The 
  only reason a pebble and a truck sitting motionless on the edge of a cliff aren't following 
  such paths is because the cliff pushes up on them, with an electrostatic force between the 
  electrons of the atoms at the surfaces making contact.  The different forces required by 
  the pebble and the truck to keep them from falling aren't really opposing two different 
  “gravitational forces.”  If you define an object's acceleration in curved spacetime as the 
  degree to which its world line fails to be a geodesic — by analogy with the case in flat 
  spacetime, where having a constant velocity means having a perfectly straight world line 
  — the cliff is simply applying different forces to produce the same acceleration in two 
  different masses.
  If the idea that a motionless object can be accelerating strikes you as bizarre, 
  imagine swinging a weight on the end of a rope:  once it's swinging in a fixed circle, you 
  still need to apply a constant force to accelerate it towards you, just to keep it from getting 
  further away.  What you're doing is curving a path that would otherwise be straight:  cut 
  the rope and the weight will fly off in a straight line.  Letting the rope hang vertically is 
  similar:  the force you're applying to keep the weight motionless is still keeping its world 
  line from being the straightest possible path through spacetime, a path that would carry it 
  towards the Earth.  Being “motionless in space” (relative to some massive object like the 
  Earth) generally doesn't produce the straightest possible world line in curved spacetime.  
  Compare this to a ship travelling east at a fixed latitude, say 45° S.  The ship is 
  “motionless” in the dimension of latitude — it's not drawing closer to either the south 
  pole or the equator — but it can only do this if its engines are constantly applying a 
  south-directed force to keep it from heading north along a great circle, the geodesic it 
  would otherwise naturally follow if merely propelled forward.
  So, your inertial mass tells you how much force must be provided (by the 
  ground, or the floor, or the chair you're sitting in) to accelerate you sufficiently to keep 
  you motionless with respect to the surface of the Earth, in exactly the same way as it tells 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.2
  
  you how much force must be provided to accelerate you into motion.  The idea of a 
  “gravitational mass” that determines your response to a gravitational field is illusory.  
  There is only one kind of mass:  inertial mass.
  However, as we'll see shortly, matter isn't the only thing with inertia.
  Velocity and Acceleration
  To provide a full description of matter and energy as the source of spacetime curvature, 
  we need to introduce the relativistic versions of some simple ideas from classical physics.  
  The ordinary velocity vector, v, of an object in three dimensions tells you how fast the 
  object is travelling in each of three directions — the velocity's coordinates vx, vy and vz 
  describe how fast the object's x, y and z coordinates are changing with time — and the 
  length of v is the speed of the object, how fast it's moving overall.
  This tells you everything you need to know about an object's motion, but there's 
  a way of “re-packaging” the same information that's more useful in relativity.  People 
  using different coordinate systems might disagree about every aspect of the three-
  dimensional vector v:  not just its individual coordinates, but even its overall length, the 
  speed of the object.  But what happens if we extend the vector into four dimensions?  
  Let's define a vector u called the 4-velocity of the object, with coordinates ux, uy, uz 
  and ut that describe how all four spacetime coordinates are changing for the object with 
  time.  Whose time?  We want the 4-velocity to be independent of any coordinate system, 
  so we define u as the rate of change with respect to the time shown by a clock carried 
  along with the object itself:  this is known as proper time, and it's usually referred to 
  by the Greek letter tau, τ.  We're defining the 4-velocity u as being ∂τ, the rate of change 
  of things with respect to τ.  For example, ux=∂τx:  the x coordinate of u is just the rate of 
  change of the object's x coordinate, with respect to a clock moving alongside the object.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.3
  
  Consider a spaceship moving past the Earth with a constant speed of v, a situation 
  where we only need to worry about one space coordinate, plus time.  Call coordinates in 
  which the Earth is stationary x and t, and coordinates in which the ship is stationary λ 
  and τ.  It's easy to describe the ship's 4-velocity u in its own coordinates, because we've 
  defined u as ∂τ.  So uλ=∂τλ=0 (the ship is motionless in its own coordinates) and 
  uτ=∂ττ=1 (the ship's clock keeps perfect time with respect to itself).  Assuming that 
  we've chosen coordinates for the ship in which the metric g is just the Minkowskian 
  metric, we then have:
  g(u,u)
  =
  (uλ)2 – (uτ)2
   
   
  =
  02 – 12
   
   
  =
  –1
  (1)
  The negative sign for g(u,u) tells us that u is a timelike vector, as you'd expect for the 
  direction of an object's world line, and its length is the square root of –g(u,u), which is 
  just 1.  To describe u in Earth coordinates, we use the Lorentz transformation that we 
  derived in the article on special relativity, rewritten slightly to apply to coordinate vectors 
  rather than coordinates themselves:
  ∂λ
  =
  (∂x + v∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (2a)
  ∂τ
  =
  (v∂x + ∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (2b)
  As in previous articles, we're making life simple by using units where the speed of light 
  is equal to 1.  Since u=∂τ, this immediately tells us:
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.4
  
  u
  =
  (v∂x + ∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (3a)
  ux
  =
  v / √(1 – v2)
  (3b)
  ut
  =
  1 / √(1 – v2)
  (3c)
  If the ship's speed v increases, both of the individual coordinates of u grow larger, but 
  due to the nature of the spacetime metric the effects on the overall length of u cancel each 
  other out.  If we compute this with the Minkowskian metric in Earth coordinates:
  g(u,u)
  =
  (ux)2 – (ut)2
   
   
  =
  v2/(1–v2) – 1/(1–v2)
   
   
  =
  –1
  (4)
  The agreement with Equation (1) should come as no surprise:  the length of a spacetime 
  vector is completely independent of the coordinates used.  And since we can pick 
  Minkowskian coordinates like λ and τ that are stationary with respect to any object — 
  even in curved spacetime this is possible over a small region around the object at a given 
  moment, just as we can always pick Euclidean coordinates over a small region of the 
  Earth's curved surface — it's always going to be true that g(u,u)=–1.  The 4-velocity is 
  always a unit timelike vector, a vector with a length of 1 that points along an object's 
  world line.  You can recover the object's ordinary velocity v in a given coordinate system 
  by taking the space coordinates of u and dividing them by the time coordinate, e.g. for 
  the example we've just given, in Earth coordinates, vx=ux/ut =v.
  Just as the acceleration of an object is defined in classical physics as the rate of 
  change of its velocity with time, its 4-acceleration vector, a, is defined in relativistic 
  physics as the rate of change of its 4-velocity with proper time.  How can u change, if its 
  length must always be 1?  Only by the object's world line changing direction in 
  spacetime, which is what it means to change your ordinary velocity.
  But how should we judge a “change of direction” when spacetime is curved?  The 
  physical evidence that your 4-velocity isn't “changing direction” is simply that you're 
  weightless, because no force needs to act on you in order for you to follow your world 
  line.  If you're in a spaceship that's (a) orbiting the Earth, (b) falling straight towards a 
  planet (without atmospheric drag), or (c) cruising through interstellar space, in all three 
  cases you'll be weightless.  In all three cases, you're following a geodesic.  So 
  acceleration means moving along a world line that is not a geodesic.  This is true in 
  either flat or curved spacetime, but to compute acceleration in curved spacetime you need 
  to work out the change in an object's 4-velocity from moment to moment by using 
  parallel transport to carry its earlier 4-velocity forward along its world line for 
  comparison with the later value.  This is known as taking the covariant derivative of 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.5
  
  the vector u, in the direction u,which we write as ∇uu.  So a=∇uu, and for a geodesic 
  ∇uu=0.
  In the previous article, we used the symbol ∇ to write the changes in coordinate 
  vectors relative to their parallel-transported versions, e.g. on the surface of the Earth, 
  using longitude and latitude as x and y coordinates, ∇x∂x=(sin y cos y) ∂y.  This 
  means that as you travel east (take a covariant derivative in the x-direction, ∇x) in the 
  northern hemisphere (where sin y cos y is positive), the local direction east (∂x) “veers 
  north” (in the direction of ∂y) relative to a gyroscope bearing or a great-circle geodesic 
  that was pointing east when you first set out.  But you can take covariant derivatives in 
  any direction, not just coordinate directions, and you can take covariant derivatives of any 
  vector, not just the coordinate vectors.  All you have to do is ask how the vector changes 
  relative to a parallel-transported copy of its initial value, as you travel in the specified 
  direction.
  Energy and Momentum
  Another powerful concept from classical physics is the momentum vector for an object, 
  which is just its velocity vector multiplied by its mass:  p=mv.  This quantifies the 
  intuitive notion that a 1-gram bullet travelling at 1 kilometre per second, and a 1-kilogram 
  bowling ball travelling at 1 metre per second, have something in common.  Since force is 
  defined as mass times acceleration, and acceleration is the rate of change of velocity, 
  force can equally well be defined as the rate of change of momentum.  This tells us just 
  what it is that the bullet and the bowling ball have in common:  to bring them to a halt in 
  one second, to reduce their momentum to zero, you'd need to apply exactly the same 
  force, 1 Newton, in either case.
  Momentum turns out to be conserved:  for a collection of objects — maybe 
  interacting among themselves, but subject to no external force — the total momentum 
  never changes.  Why not?  When the objects aren't interacting, they're subject to no 
  forces at all, so they'll simply keep moving with whatever constant velocities they 
  happened to possess.  When two of the objects do interact, they'll exert equal and 
  opposite forces on each other, and whatever change in momentum one of them 
  experiences as a result, the other will experience an equal and opposite change.  The total 
  momentum vector remains constant.
  A closely related idea is that of kinetic energy, K, which is a number rather 
  than a vector.  Energy in general can be defined as the capacity to “do work,” in the 
  technical sense of moving a load some distance against a resisting force — it's no 
  coincidence that this idea developed most rapidly in the age of steam engines.  Suppose 
  you extract energy from a moving object of mass m and speed v by making it drive a 
  piston that resists its motion with a constant force, bringing it to rest in a time t.  The 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.6
  
  object's average velocity over that period will be v/2, so it will travel a distance of vt/2.  
  Its deceleration will be v/t, and the force needed to produce this will be mv/t.  So the 
  “work done” by the object will be the force applied, mv/t, times the distance moved, vt/2, 
  which comes to mv2/2.  This is the classical formula for kinetic energy:  K=mv2/2.  
  Although the bullet and the bowling ball mentioned earlier have the same momentum, the 
  kinetic energy of the bullet is a thousand times greater:  both can be stopped in 1 second 
  by a force of 1 Newton, but the bullet will travel 500 metres in that time (averaging half 
  its initial speed of 1 km/sec, as the force gradually decelerates it), the bowling ball a mere 
  half a metre.
  Energy in general turns out to be conserved, like momentum, but kinetic energy is 
  often converted into other forms when objects interact.  Sometimes these forms are really 
  just kinetic energy “in disguise”:  the frictional heating or sound produced by most 
  objects colliding is mainly just a transfer of kinetic energy from the colliding objects to 
  individual molecules.  But kinetic energy can also be converted into various kinds of 
  potential energy:  when you release a plucked guitar string, its energy cycles back and 
  forth between the kinetic energy of motion and the potential energy stored by the material 
  of the string when it's stretched — though of course it all eventually leaks away as 
  sound, and a tiny amount of heat.  Like kinetic energy, changes in potential energy can 
  sometimes be “disguised” because they're happening down at the level of individual 
  molecules.  When a meteor hits the Earth, most of its kinetic energy ends up as heat, 
  some of which goes to drive chemical reactions in the surrounding rock — 
  rearrangements of atoms which change their overall electrostatic potential energy.
  Because the momentum vector mv and the kinetic energy mv2/2 depend on the 
  ordinary velocity of objects, they depend on the coordinate system you're using.  In 
  Newtonian physics that's not a problem:  if people are playing pool on a train, a 
  Newtonian analysis in either pool-table coordinates or coordinates fixed to a point on the 
  ground beside the track will show energy and momentum being conserved (if absolutely 
  everything, from chemical energy in the players' muscles to the sound of every collision 
  is taken into account).  In ground-based coordinates everything on the train will be 
  moving much faster, but that will be equally true before and after each shot.
  However, since the classical law of conservation of momentum is phrased in 
  terms of vectors in space, not vectors in spacetime, it shouldn't really come as a surprise 
  that it needs to be modified in order to work in relativistic physics.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.7
  
  If we examine a simple case where the old formulation goes wrong, it's not hard 
  to see what changes need to be made.  Figure 2 is a spacetime diagram showing two 
  objects of equal mass, m, pushed apart by coiled springs.  One ends up travelling left 
  with a speed of v, and the other travelling right with the same speed.  The initial 
  momentum of the system, which we'll call pbefore, is obviously zero.  The ordinary 
  velocities of the objects after the springs push them apart are v1=–v∂x and v2=v∂x, so 
  their momenta are p1=–mv∂x and p2=mv∂x.  The total momentum of the system, 
  pafter=p1+p2, is still zero.
  Now we re-analyse these events in coordinates which are moving to the right with 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.8
  
  a speed of v, relative to our previous choice — coordinates which follow one of the 
  moving objects after the springs have uncoiled.  We'll call these coordinates λ and τ; 
  Figure 3 is a spacetime diagram in which ∂λ and ∂τ are drawn as perpendicular.  In 
  classical physics, we could convert all the ordinary velocities to the new coordinates just 
  by subtracting the vector v∂x from them; that's known as a Gallilean coordinate 
  transformation, and it would be appropriate for comparing the two perspectives on our 
  rail-car pool game.  But if we're assuming that v is a significant fraction of lightspeed, 
  we need to treat the shift in coordinates as a rotation in spacetime.
  To transform all the ordinary velocities, we first need to write the objects' 4-
  velocities in the original coordinates.  Making use of Equation (3a), these are:
  u0
  =
  ∂t
  (5a)
  u1
  =
  (–v∂x + ∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (5b)
  u2
  =
  (v∂x + ∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (5c)
  Having done this, we can apply a Lorentz transformation, which converts the coordinate 
  vectors to the new system:
  ∂x
  =
  (∂λ – v∂τ) / √(1 – v2)
  (6a)
  ∂t
  =
  (–v∂λ + ∂τ) / √(1 – v2)
  (6b)
   Substituting these expressions into Equations (5) gives:
  u0
  =
  (–v∂λ + ∂τ) / √(1 – v2)
  (7a)
  u1
  =
  (–2v∂λ + (1+v2)∂τ) / (1 – v2)
  (7b)
  u2
  =
  ∂τ
  (7c)
  We can now compute the ordinary velocities in the new coordinates, by dividing uλ by uτ 
  in each case:
  v0
  =
  –v∂λ
  (8a)
  v1
  =
  (–2v/(1+v2))∂λ
  (8b)
  v2
  =
  0
  (8c)
  Equation (8b) illustrates an important phenomenon:  the relativistic addition of ordinary 
  velocities.  You might have been wondering how to reconcile the fact that speeds greater 
  than lightspeed are impossible, with the idea of two spaceships heading away from Earth 
  at, say, 75% of lightspeed in opposite directions.  Wouldn't each ship think of the other 
  as moving at 150% of lightspeed?  Equation (8b) shows that the speed they'd actually 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.9
  
  measure for each other would be (–1.5/(1+.752)), which is 96% of lightspeed.  Compare 
  this with the following situation:  you're walking due north, a trail on your left runs 
  slightly north of north-west (4 metres north for every 3 metres west, to be precise), and a 
  trail on your right runs slightly north of north-east (4 metres north for every 3 metres 
  east).  Both these trails are moving 3 metres further away from you, sideways, for every 
  4 metres you advance northwards.  Now, suppose you were walking on the left-hand 
  trail.  Would you expect the right-hand trail to grow precisely 6 metres further away to 
  your right, for every 4 metres you advanced in the direction you're now walking?  Of 
  course not:  the trails will separate “sideways” much faster than that, because your idea of 
  “sideways” slices through them very differently now.  In the case of the ships, because 
  we're dealing with spacetime geometry, their world lines will separate more slowly in the 
  direction one of them would consider to be “space” than you'd predict by adding up two 
  velocities based on Earth's idea of the direction of “space.”
  If we use Equations (8) to compute the total momentum of the system before and 
  after the springs uncoil, pbefore=2mv0=–2mv∂λ, since the combined objects have mass 
  2m, and pafter=mv1=(–2mv/(1+v2))∂λ, since the second object is stationary and 
  contributes no momentum.  These are obviously not the same!  Under a Gallilean 
  transformation of velocities, v1 would just be –2v∂λ and the two values would agree, but 
  the Lorentz transformation “spoils” everything.
  What we've shown is that different observers won't even agree as to whether or 
  not the classically-defined momentum vector has been conserved!  Fortunately, there's a 
  closely related spacetime vector that is conserved — and since it's a spacetime vector, 
  this is a claim that has nothing to do with any particular observer or coordinate system.
  The 4-momentum vector P is defined as the 4-velocity u multiplied by the rest 
  mass of the object:  P=mu.  The “rest mass” of an object is just the inertial mass as 
  we've already defined it, with the proviso that you measure it at a nice low velocity, 
  much smaller than the speed of light; we'll soon see why this is important.  Since every 
  object's 4-velocity in its own coordinates is just u=∂τ, every object's 4-momentum in the 
  same coordinates is P=m∂τ.  In coordinates x and t in which the object has a speed of v, 
  Equations (3) yield:
  P
  =
  m(v∂x + ∂t) / √(1 – v2)
  (9a)
  Px
  =
  mv / √(1 – v2)
  (9b)
  Pt
  =
  m / √(1 – v2)
  (9c)
  Just as every object's 4-velocity has a length of 1, every object's 4-momentum 
  has a length of m, its rest mass.  This is obvious when we write P=m∂τ, and though it's 
  a little harder to see when we look at a description in someone else's coordinates, the fact 
  remains that everyone will agree on the length of a spacetime vector, so everyone will 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.10
  
  agree on an object's rest mass.
  Examining Equation (9b), we see that the component of the 4-momentum in the 
  spatial direction looks like the ordinary momentum of an object with mass m/√(1–v2), 
  moving with a speed of v.  This means, for example, that Px for any object moving at 
  80% of lightspeed will be (1/√(1–.82) )=1.67 times greater than the ordinary momentum 
  px for an object with the same mass and speed.  What are we to make of the “extra” 
  momentum?  This effect is sometimes described by saying that moving objects “gain 
  mass” — though like the idea that moving clocks “run slow,” it isn't really describing 
  any change in the object itself, just a change in your relationship with it.  If you apply a 
  force to a particle moving through your laboratory at 80% of lightspeed, and a clock on 
  the wall tells you that the interaction lasted for a nanosecond, a clock moving alongside 
  the particle would only record √(1–.82)=.6 nanoseconds of proper time.  If you 
  overestimate how long you've applied the force, you'll expect more acceleration than you 
  actually get, and blame the difference on increased mass.  It's the rate of change of 4-
  velocity with proper time that measures an object's true acceleration, and if you stick 
  rigorously to that spacetime view, you never need use any other mass than the rest mass.
  Still, objects moving at relativistic speeds are effectively harder to push around 
  than their rest mass and velocity alone would suggest — and we already have a name 
  from classical physics for what they've gained:  kinetic energy.  Taking that point of 
  view, what Equation (9b) is telling us is that kinetic energy, just like matter, possesses 
  inertia.
  This can be made clearer if we subtract out the rest mass of the object and see 
  what remains.  It can be shown that 1/√(1–v2) – 1 is approximately equal to v2/2 for 
  values of v much smaller than 1.  (It would be too much of a detour to explain the 
  mathematics behind this claim, but if you doubt it just grab a calculator and work out the 
  two expressions for v=.001, .002, .003 and see how close they are in all cases.)  The 
  extra mass that a moving object seems to possess, m/√(1–v2) – m, is then 
  approximately equal to mv2/2, which is the classical formula for kinetic energy.  The 
  exact, relativistic formula for kinetic energy is K=m/√(1–v2) – m.
  Equation (9c) shows that the time coordinate of the 4-momentum is equal to 
  m/√(1–v2), the kinetic energy plus the rest mass, or total energy, E, of the object.  You 
  can think of an object's total energy as that part of its momentum that's pointing in the 
  time direction (for some particular observer's definition of time), rather than any spatial 
  direction, making it “momentum standing still” (also known as “inertia”) — or you can 
  think of spatial momentum as energy that looks as if it's moving through space, because 
  the observer is moving relative to the object.  From the point of view of the object itself, 
  all its momentum is just rest mass moving through time, P=m∂τ.  But however you look 
  at it, the 4-momentum encapsulates both the ordinary momentum and the energy of an 
  object — for this reason it's sometimes referred to as the energy-momentum vector — 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.11
  
  and there's no need for a separate law of conservation of energy:  conservation of 4-
  momentum does it all.
  But if kinetic energy is handled automatically by the spacetime geometry of the 4-
  momentum vector, how do we account for potential energy?  Going back to our spring-
  loaded projectiles of Figure 2, it turns out that the only way to make the time coordinates 
  of the before and after 4-momenta match up is by realising that the mass of the combined 
  objects with coiled springs has to be greater by a factor of 1/√(1–v2), due to the potential 
  energy in the springs, than it would be if the springs were slack and the objects were at 
  rest.  Potential energy must have inertia too.
  Measuring the extra mass of a compressed spring is probably a lost cause, but the 
  same effect shows up very starkly in nuclear physics.  The different arrangements of 
  protons and neutrons that form atomic nuclei have different potential energy, and if you 
  compare the mass of a given nucleus with the mass of an equal number of separated 
  protons and neutrons, there's a significant difference, known as the mass defect.  Both 
  nuclear fission and nuclear fusion rearrange nuclei into new combinations with less 
  potential energy than the starting ingredients, extracting the difference as kinetic energy.
  What's more, just as kinetic and potential energy can be converted into each 
  other, it's now well known that matter itself can be converted into energy, and vice versa.  
  A particle of matter and a particle of antimatter can combine and annihilate each other; the 
  immediate result is usually two photons, which are particles with zero rest mass — all 
  their energy is kinetic energy.  How much mass translates into how much energy?  In 
  units where c is equal to 1, energy is measured in exactly the same units as mass, so 
  Einstein's famous “E=mc2” hasn't appeared in any of our calculations.  If we'd been 
  using more conventional (but less convenient) units, “mc2” would have popped up all 
  over the place instead of “m.”
  The usual definition of 4-momentum, P=mu, doesn't apply to particles with zero 
  rest mass.  Rather, a photon's 4-momentum is the null spacetime vector (a vector with an 
  overall length of zero, also known, appropriately, as a lightlike vector) whose time 
  coordinate for a given observer is equal to the energy, E, that the observer considers the 
  photon to possess, and whose spatial component points in the direction of the photon's 
  motion.  There's a simple relationship between the 4-momentum, based on energy, and 
  the propagation vector, based on wavelength (which we used in the article on special 
  relativity when deriving the Doppler shift).  In units where c=1, a photon's 4-momentum 
  is equal to Planck's constant times the propagation vector.
  The Stress-Energy Tensor
  All forms of energy have inertia, and everything with inertia must contribute to the 
  curvature of spacetime.  So the 4-momentum vector, which keeps track of all forms of 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.12
  
  energy, must play a crucial role in describing the source of the curvature of spacetime.
  Something's missing, though.  The Earth has a certain 4-momentum, which 
  reflects its rest mass and its path through spacetime.  If we crushed the Earth down to the 
  size of a boulder, that super-dense, Earth-mass boulder would have exactly the same 4-
  momentum as the Earth itself.  But the boulder would only have the same effect on 
  spacetime as the Earth up to the point where the surface of the planet had once been:  
  satellites would still orbit an Earth-mass boulder in exactly the same way (give or take 
  some tiny deviations caused by the planet's actual lumpiness), but the gravitational field 
  near the centre of the boulder would be very different from the field near the centre of the 
  Earth.
  What's missing from the 4-momentum is any notion of density.  Ordinarily, we 
  think of density as mass per unit volume, say kilograms per cubic metre, and there's no 
  reason why the inertial mass due to various forms of energy can't be included in this — 
  or to put it another way, why we can't look at the total energy density in spacetime, 
  counting rest mass as a form of energy, along with kinetic and potential energy.
  The total energy of an object is equal to the time coordinate of its 4-momentum, 
  so it depends on whose idea of “time” you're using.  The volume of the object also 
  depends on a choice of direction for time, since this determines precisely which directions 
  in spacetime count as “space.”  There's a phenomenon similar to time dilation, known as 
  “length contraction”:  if a spaceship flew past the Earth at 80% of lightspeed, we'd 
  measure the distance between the world lines for its frontmost and hindmost points along 
  a different direction in spacetime than the people on board, and conclude that the ship was 
  only 60% the length they considered it to be.  Like proper time and rest mass, the 
  astronauts' own measurement of their ship's length would be more sensible than ours, 
  but that doesn't change the fact that the ship's energy density would seem greater to us, 
  both from the kinetic energy added to its rest mass, and the way the total energy seemed 
  to be packed into 60% the volume.
  So the notion of energy density is very much observer-dependent, but there's still 
  a way to  keep our description of it nice and universal.  What we need is a vector or 
  tensor that can be used to calculate the energy density of a system according to any 
  observer, just as the 4-momentum vector P can be used to calculate the total energy.
  Suppose the system we're trying to describe is simply an object of rest mass m, 
  with a 4-velocity of u, and hence a 4-momentum of P=mu.  Let's call the 4-velocity of 
  the observer w, to distinguish it from that of the object.  Then the total energy of the 
  system is just the time coordinate, in the observer's frame, of the object's 4-momentum:  
  E=–g(P,w)=–m g(u,w), where we're using the spacetime metric, g, to “project out” 
  the component of P in the direction of the unit timelike vector w.
  To find the volume that the observer would measure the system as having, we 
  take the proper volume V — the volume we'd measure if we were at rest with respect 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.13
  
  to the system — and divide it by –g(u,w).  Why?  The “length contraction factor” needed 
  to adjust the volume of, say, the spaceship mentioned earlier, comes from comparing 
  Earth-based and ship-based spacelike vectors that run along the axis of the ship.  But the 
  angle in spacetime between those two vectors is exactly the same as the angle between u 
  and w — just like the identical angles between ∂t and ∂τ and between ∂x and ∂λ in Figure 
  1 — so we can obtain this factor by applying the metric to u and w, rather than going to 
  the trouble of calculating the spacelike vectors themselves.  All we need is a minus sign to 
  correct for the fact that we've used timelike vectors, not spacelike ones.
  Combining these results, we find that the energy density an observer with 4-
  velocity w will measure for the system is:
  energy density
  =
  –m g(u,w)/(V/–g(u,w))
   
   
  =
  ρ g(u,w) g(u,w)
  (10)
  where we've introduced the symbol ρ (the Greek letter rho, which is traditionally used 
  for density) for m/V, the rest mass of the system divided by its proper volume, or the 
  proper density of the system.
  To go any further, we need to introduce some new terminology.  If you're 
  working on a manifold with a metric, g, you can uniquely identify a 1-form f with any 
  vector v, and vice versa, by imposing the requirement that g(v,w)=<f,w> for any other 
  vector w.  How are f and v related geometrically?  The contours of f must be 
  perpendicular to v, so that if w is also perpendicular to v, i.e. g(v,w)=0, motion in the 
  w direction won't cross the contours of f at all, yielding <f,w>=0.  The coordinates of f 
  are easy to find:  for example, fx=<f,∂x>=g(v,∂x).
  Nice as it would be if the coordinate 1-forms (such as dx) and the coordinate 
  vectors (such as ∂x) were equivalent in this sense, that's only true when the coordinate 
  vectors are all mutually perpendicular spacelike unit vectors.  This holds for rectangular 
  coordinates in space, but not for Minkowskian spacetime coordinates, the one hitch being 
  that it's –dt, not dt, that's equivalent to ∂t, because g(∂t,∂t)=–1, whereas <dt,∂t>=1.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.14
  
  Given this ability to use the metric to convert back and forth between vectors and 
  1-forms, we can convert any tensor of rank (r,s) into another tensor of the same total 
  rank r+s, but which acts on a different  combination of vectors and 1-forms, e.g. a tensor 
  of rank (r–1,s+1) or (r+1,s–1).  This process is known as raising and lowering 
  indices, because the coordinates of tensors are written with subscripts for any 1-forms 
  in the tensor product and superscripts for any vectors.
  For example, suppose we define a tensor T of rank (2,0) with the equation:
  T
  =
  ρ u⊗u
  (11)
  We can “lower both indices” of this tensor to produce another “version” of T, of rank 
  (0,2), by replacing u with an equivalent 1-form f for which <f,w>=g(u,w) for any 
  vector w.  We could give this new version another name, but it's common practice to use 
  a single name for all the versions of a tensor, because it's really just another way of 
  describing the same thing.
  T
  =
  ρ f⊗ f
  (12)
  We can now use this tensor to describe the energy density we calculated in Equation (10):
  energy density
  =
  ρ g(u,w) g(u,w)
   
   
  =
  ρ <f,w><f,w>
   
   
  =
  T(w,w)
   
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.15
  
  The tensor T defined by Equation (11) is known as the stress-energy tensor for the 
  system.  The values of T throughout a region of spacetime can be thought of as 
  describing a “current” of 4-momentum, P, giving both the density of P and the direction 
  in which it's moving.  For a particle, the 4-momentum “flows” in the same direction as it 
  points:  along the particle's world line.  But in more complicated systems, such as those 
  with “shear stress” which we'll describe shortly, momentum can be transported in a 
  direction other than that in which it points.
  To see how the stress-energy tensor works, let's check that we can recover the 
  object's energy density in its own coordinates.  
  T(u,u)
  =
  ρ g(u,u) g(u,u)
   
   
  =
  ρ (-1)(-1)
   
   
  =
  ρ
   
  In general, we can define the stress-energy tensor, T, of any system, by the requirement 
  that T(u,u) is the total energy density of the system according to an observer with 4-
  velocity u.
  Equation (11) tells us how to construct T for a single object, such as an asteroid, 
  from its proper density and 4-velocity.  T has different values from point to point in 
  spacetime:  in the vacuum around the asteroid T is zero, whereas inside the asteroid 
  T=ρ u⊗u, and if the density ρ varies from point to point because of the presence of 
  different minerals, T will reflect that variation.
  For more complicated systems, it takes more work to construct the stress-energy 
  tensor.  Using Minkowskian x, y, z and t coordinates for our observer, it turns out that 
  the requirement we've used to define T — that T(∂t,∂t) is the total energy density — also 
  demands that T(∂x,∂t), T(∂x,∂x), T(∂y,∂x) and so on, tell us something analogous.  In 
  effect, if T is to work for absolutely any observer, the geometry has to make sense even 
  when we substitute unit spacelike vectors in place of the observer's 4-velocity.
  Actually, the completely general case is easier to describe if we talk about the 
  (2,0) version of T, which accepts two unit 1-forms, say i and j, rather than two vectors.  
  In that case, T(i,j) is the density of the i coordinate of the 4-momentum, in a 
  spacetime region that lies in the contours of j.  If j is dt for some observer, the 
  contours of j will lie in what that observer considers to be “space,” and if i is also dt, the 
  density of the t coordinate of the 4-momentum is the energy density according to that 
  observer, the result we've already described.  But if i is a spacelike 1-form instead, say 
  dx, then T(dx,dt) will be the density of the x coordinate of momentum.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.16
  
  The situation is slightly trickier to interpret if j is spacelike, e.g. dx.  First, 
  suppose that i is spacelike too.  The region in question has two of its dimensions in space 
  and one in time, since the vectors ∂y, ∂z and ∂t all lie in the contours of dx.  (In Figure 5, 
  we've left out the z direction, because we can only draw three dimensions at once, so the 
  three-dimensional “dx” region is drawn here as a square.)  How do we interpret the 
  “density of momentum” in a region like that:  a two-dimensional area in the yz plane, 
  swept through an interval of time?
  Density is usually the measure of something “per volume,” which is “per length, 
  per length, per length” for each of the dimensions defining that volume.  What we have 
  here is a density that is “per length, per length, per time,” or “per area, per time.”  In fact, 
  we have a density that is “momentum per area, per time,” or equally well, “momentum 
  per time, per area.”  As Figure 5 illustrates, particles that contribute to the density of 
  momentum in this region of spacetime cross the two-dimensional area of space during the 
  time under consideration, and so they contribute to the rate of transfer of momentum from 
  one side to the other.  The rate of change of momentum per time is force, and force per 
  area is pressure.  When i and j are spacelike, T(i,j) measures pressure!
  Actually, the term “pressure” is usually reserved for the case where the force is 
  perpendicular to the area involved, as in most gases or liquids:  if you're deep in the 
  ocean, the water pushes directly against every exposed surface with exactly the same 
  pressure, and there's no significant sideways force.  T(dx,dx) gives you the pressure of 
  such a fluid, and it will be the same as T(dy,dy) and T(dz,dz).  Only in viscous fluids, or 
  solids (such as the Earth's mantle and crust) is it possible to have “shear stresses,” 
  sideways forces that are trying to deform the material rather than just compress it.  These 
  show up in the stress-energy tensor as values for T(dx,dy), T(dx,dz), etc.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.17
  
  In the case of the Earth, the effect on the gravitational field of pressure and shear 
  stresses is infinitesimal, and so long as you get the density of rest mass right, you'll be 
  able to calculate spacetime curvature in and around the planet with great precision.  
  However, if you're an astronomer studying white dwarves or neutron stars, the pressure 
  in the interiors of such highly compressed objects can be great enough to have a 
  significant effect on their gravitational field.
  The last combination to consider is a spacelike j with a timelike i.  Again, the 
  contours of j define an area followed over an interval of time, so the “density” we get is 
  again a rate of change with time, per unit area — in this case, of the timelike i-coordinate 
  of momentum, i.e. of energy.  For example, T(dt,dx) measures the energy flux across 
  the yz plane.  This might record something like the flow of energy from sunlight — 
  though of course rest mass counts as energy too, so a flying brick would be an equally 
  good example.
  Conservation of 4-momentum in Curved Spacetime
  In relativistic physics, the 4-momentum P takes over the role of classical energy and 
  momentum as the quantity that is conserved for any isolated system:  so long as no 
  external forces are applied, the total 4-momentum of the system won't change.  For a 
  lone object cruising through space along a geodesic, we can write conservation of 4-
  momentum in a very straightforward way:  ∇uP=∇u(mu)=m∇uu=0.  This is both a 
  “global law” where we can make comparisons between times that are far apart — it's 
  meaningful to talk about P at time t=0 being equal to P at time t=1000, since the object's 
  world line provides an obvious path to use to parallel-transport the earlier 4-momentum 
  forward for comparison — and a “local law” that applies from instant to instant to dictate 
  the shape of the world line:  conservation of 4-momentum, ∇uP=0, is easily seen to be 
  equivalent to the statement that the world line is a geodesic, ∇uu=0.
  However, for a complicated system spread over a large volume of space, there 
  might not be any obvious way to add up all the P vectors at two different times, and then 
  compare them.  In general, it's easier to concentrate on a local statement of the 
  conservation law, and it turns out that there's a way to do this that applies absolutely 
  everywhere.  In any small region of spacetime, the 4-momentum that flows in must 
  equal the 4-momentum that flows out.  This is true even when the region isn't isolated 
  from external forces, because we can take account of those forces by treating them as a 
  flow of momentum across the boundaries of the region, just as we did when considering 
  the role of pressure in the stress-energy tensor.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.18
  
  Suppose you decide to observe the conservation of 4-momentum in a region of 
  spacetime that is a certain cubic metre of your back yard, over a time of one minute, from 
  noon until 12:01.  4-momentum can “flow into” the region in either of two ways:  in the 
  time direction — just by being in the right place already, like the rocks and ants that were 
  in the chosen space at noon — or in a spatial direction, like the insects that crawl or fly in 
  during the chosen period.  Similarly, 4-momentum can “flow out” either by still being 
  there at 12:01, like the rocks and some of the insects, or by sneaking out earlier.  
  Everything that was there initially, plus everything that entered, minus everything that 
  exited, minus everything that was still there at the end … leaves you with nothing.  What 
  we want is a mathematical version of this statement, a measure of the combined inflow 
  and outflow of 4-momentum that we know will be equal to zero.
  The only trouble with analysing a cubic metre of garden is that the density of 4-
  momentum varies enormously from place to place (there's much more energy density in 
  rock than in air, for example).  So let's consider instead a region of spacetime so small 
  that the stress-energy tensor, T, is almost constant, and its rate of change in any 
  direction can be considered constant.
  What exactly do we mean by the rate of change of the stress-energy tensor in a 
  given direction?  It should be clear by now that in curved spacetime, the only standard 
  against which things can be judged to have changed is parallel transport, so what we need 
  is a definition of parallel transport for a tensor.  This turns out to be especially easy for a 
  tensor of the form a⊗b, where a and b are vectors: you just parallel-transport the vectors 
  separately, then take the tensor product.  For example, since parallel transport of the 4-
  velocity u of a free-falling object along that object's geodesic world line always produces 
  a reference copy of u that exactly matches the actual 4-velocity at each point, a free-falling 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.19
  
  object whose proper density is unchanging will also have a stress-energy tensor, as 
  defined by Equation (11), in agreement everywhere with a parallel-transported reference 
  copy.  The covariant derivative of the stress-energy tensor along the world line — the rate 
  of change between the tensor itself and a reference copy of an earlier version — will thus 
  be zero:  ∇uT=0.
  Returning to our tiny spacetime region, assume for the sake of simplicity that 
  we've chosen units such that the dimensions of the region in both space and time are all 
  equal to one.  Focus on the coordinate of the 4-momentum in some direction i.  The 
  amount of i-coordinate present initially in the region is T(i,dt) evaluated at t=0, and the 
  amount present finally is T(i,dt) evaluated at t=1.  So the net outflow from the spacetime 
  region in the time direction is equal to the rate of change of T in the time direction, 
  ∇tT(i,dt), multiplied by the length of time being considered, 1.
  Similarly, the amount of i-coordinate flowing in through the x=0 side of the cube 
  is T(i,dx) evaluated at x=0, and the amount flowing out through the x=1 side of the cube 
  is T(i,dx) evaluated at x=1.  So the net outflow is ∇xT(i,dx).  Identical results hold for 
  the y and z sides of the cube.  So in order for the net outflow in all directions to come to 
  zero, we must have:
  0
  =
  ∇xT(i,dx)+∇yT(i,dy)+∇zT(i,dz)+∇tT(i,dt)
  (13)
  An expression like this, where the rate of change is taken in the same direction as one of 
  the coordinate 1-forms fed into a tensor, and the results added up for all possible 
  coordinate directions, is known as the divergence of the tensor, div T.  Since there's 
  one “slot” into which we can still feed any 1-form, i, div T here is defining a rank (1,0) 
  tensor — which is really just a vector.  So our local law of conservation of 4-momentum 
  can be written as:
  div T
  =
  0
  (14)
  and interpreted as saying that the amount of 4-momentum being conjured up out of thin 
  air in every unit 4-volume of spacetime is zero.  A tensor that has a divergence of zero is 
  described as being divergence free.
  There's one form of energy from classical physics that we've deliberately left out 
  of the stress-energy tensor:  “gravitational potential energy.”  The reason we've left it out, 
  and the reason we're putting it in quotes, is because, like “gravitational force,” there's no 
  need for such a thing in general relativity.  According to Newtonian physics, when you 
  toss a ball into the air, its kinetic energy is converted into gravitational potential energy as 
  it rises above the ground.  In general relativity, once the ball leaves your hand it simply 
  follows a geodesic, and there's no need to worry about potential energy — the curved 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.20
  
  geometry of spacetime accounts for everything.  By using the covariant derivative in 
  Equation (13) and, implicitly, Equation (14), measuring all changes against the standard 
  of parallel transport and geodesics, we're putting the burden that used to be carried by 
  “gravitational potential energy” entirely on the geometry, where it belongs.
  The Einstein Tensor
  The stress-energy tensor T is all we need to describe the presence of matter and energy, 
  but there are still two problems standing in the way of equating T with spacetime 
  curvature.  The first is that the Riemann curvature tensor R is a tensor of rank (1,3):  you 
  can feed it a 1-form and three vectors to get a number, or feed it three vectors and leave 
  the first slot “unfed” to get a vector, but however you look at it, it's something quite 
  different from T, which we've defined as having rank (2,0) or (0,2).  Raising and 
  lowering indices won't help:  R has a total rank of four, and T has a total rank of two.
  The other problem is that spacetime can be curved even in a vacuum, where T=0.  
  The reason the Earth orbits the sun is because of spacetime curvature due to the sun, 
  whereas the only thing contributing to T at the Earth is the Earth itself.  The Earth's own 
  density has nothing to do with the orbit it's following; a piece of styrofoam placed the 
  same distance from the sun, with the same velocity, would follow the same orbit.
  Fortunately, each of these problems sheds light on the other.  We can't set R 
  equal to T, because the tensors are the wrong rank — but that would be a bad idea 
  anyway, because it would imply that spacetime was flat wherever there was a vacuum.  
  So T must be equated with some aspect, or “part,” of spacetime curvature that we've yet 
  to identify, something that can be zero in a vacuum without making R itself zero.
  How can we find the appropriate aspect of curvature?  Newtonian gravity comes 
  to the rescue:  it turns out that there's a very simple classical calculation we can do, 
  relating the density of matter to the coming together of objects in free fall, which 
  points to the need for a similar relationship in general relativity.  Suppose the Earth 
  suddenly gave way beneath our feet and began to collapse under its own gravity — all the 
  forces within the rock below that prop it up having magically vanished.  The instant that 
  happened, the surface of the Earth would still be stationary, so if you asked “how fast is 
  the Earth shrinking?” the answer would be “not at all, right now.”  However, it wouldn't 
  be stationary for long, so you could ask instead “at what rate is the Earth's volume 
  ‘accelerating’ towards a smaller value?”
  In Newtonian physics, the acceleration due to gravity at a distance r from a mass 
  of m is given by a=κM/r2, where κ is the “universal gravitational constant.”  (You're 
  probably used to seeing this written as G, not κ.  Annoyingly, in general relativity G has 
  come to be used for the Einstein tensor, which we'll describe shortly, so the gravitational 
  constant is written as κ instead.)  The surface area of a sphere is 4πr2, and multiplying  
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.21
  
  this by the acceleration downwards shows that the volume of the Earth will be 
  “accelerating” at a rate of –4πκM.  As a proportion of the total volume of the Earth, V, 
  this is just –4πκ(M/V)=–4πκρ, where ρ is the average density of the Earth.
  What we've been calling the “acceleration” of the volume is the rate of change 
  (with time) of the rate of change (with time) of volume, so we can write this result as:
  (∂t∂tV)/V
  =
  –4πκρ
  (15)
  We've only shown this for one particular situation, but it turns out that any small 
  collection of particles in free fall through a region where the density is ρ will have a 
  volume V that changes according to Equation (15).  In a vacuum, where ρ=0, a volume 
  that starts out unchanging will never change.  Imagine a small cloud of space junk, 
  initially motionless with respect to the Earth, high above the atmosphere.  If this junk 
  then falls straight down, the shape of the cloud will change:  it will grow narrower in all 
  horizontal directions, as individual particles fall straight towards the centre of the Earth, 
  while growing longer vertically, as particles that were initially closer to the Earth 
  experience a slightly greater gravitational acceleration (in the Newtonian view) than 
  particles that were higher up, and so increase their head start even more.  But these two 
  changes cancel out exactly, and the overall volume of the cloud won't change.
  In general relativity, T(∂t,∂t) measures density, so Equation (15) suggests that we 
  should look for a tensor, let's call it C, such that C(∂t,∂t) is the second rate of change 
  with time of a unit volume bounded by geodesics, since geodesics are the world lines of 
  particles in free fall.  We could then try to relate C to T in an analogous relativistic 
  equation.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.22
  
  It's not hard to find the second rate of change of the separation between individual 
  geodesics; this is known as geodesic deviation.  Figure 7 shows two nearby 
  geodesics, PS and QR, that both start out pointing in the direction u, and are separated 
  initially by a unit vector n.  (We're dealing with a small enough region of spacetime that 
  it's meaningful to compare vectors at different points, and to describe the separation 
  between points with a vector.)  If we parallel-transport u from one geodesic to another (P 
  to Q), forward a unit distance along the second geodesic (Q to R), back to the first 
  geodesic (R to S), and finally back to its starting point (S to P), then it will return with a 
  small change, δu, which we can compute with the Riemann curvature tensor.  Since the 
  plane of the loop we've moved u around is defined by the vectors u and n, and the vector 
  we're transporting is u, we have:
  δu
  =
  –R(u,n,u)
   
  But u doesn't change relative to the geodesics as it's parallel-transported along them, 
  between Q and R and between S and P — that's the definition of geodesics — so we can 
  attribute this entire discrepancy, δu, to the difference in direction of the geodesics at S 
  and R.  Since the two geodesics start out parallel, the first rate of change of their 
  separation n is zero.  But since they nonetheless manage to acquire a relative “tilt” of δu, 
  after we follow them a unit distance in the u direction, the second rate of change of their 
  separation is δu, which is –R(u,n,u).  In other words:
  ∇u∇un
  =
  –R(u,n,u)
  (16)
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.23
  
  To compute the second rate of change in the volume between the geodesics of a whole 
  cluster of particles (which we'll assume for simplicity to have an initial volume of 1), we 
  need to take the second rate of change of the distance between them in each of the three 
  dimensions perpendicular to u, and add up the results.  But we might just as well do this 
  over all four coordinate directions instead, because any contribution parallel to u will 
  always be zero.  We can write this most succinctly by defining a new tensor, known as 
  the Ricci tensor, extracting the second rate of change of distance in each of the 
  coordinate directions by feeding a coordinate 1-form into the very first slot of R (the one 
  that we usually leave “unfed” in order to get a vector, rather than a number, as the final 
  result) while setting n, the initial separation between geodesics, to the corresponding 
  coordinate vector.
  Ricci(v,w)
  =
  R(dx,v,∂x,w) + R(dy,v,∂y,w) +
   
   
  R(dz,v,∂z,w) + R(dt,v,∂t,w)
  (17)
  (∂u∂uV)/V
  =
  –Ricci(u,u)
   
  A tensor defined this way — by slotting coordinate 1-forms and vectors into another 
  tensor and adding up over all the coordinate directions — is called a contraction of the 
  original tensor.  We say that the Ricci tensor is “the contraction of the Riemann tensor on 
  its first and third slots.”  You can form a contraction over any two slots of a tensor, but if 
  they both take vectors or both take 1-forms, you must lower or raise one index first, so 
  you can feed coordinate vectors to one, and coordinate 1-forms to the other.  If you 
  don't, the result isn't coordinate independent.
  The negative of the Ricci tensor gives the proportional second rate of change of 
  the volume between geodesics, which we'd like to relate somehow to the stress-energy 
  tensor T.  In analogy to Equation (15), a reasonable first guess would be:
  Ricci
  =
  4πκ T (maybe?)
   
  There's a problem, though:  if you calculate div Ricci, the divergence of the Ricci 
  tensor, it's not zero.  This means the equation we've just written is incompatible with 
  div T = 0, the conservation of 4-momentum!
  Luckily, it turns out that we can use the Ricci tensor to construct another tensor 
  that is divergence free.  First, define a contraction known as the Ricci scalar, which is 
  normally written as R (not in bold face, since it's a number, not a tensor).  Because the 
  Ricci tensor as we initially defined it had rank (2,0), we have to perform the contraction 
  on a version which has had one index lowered, to become rank (1,1).
  R
  =
  Ricci(dx,∂x) + Ricci(dy,∂y) +
   
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.24
  
   
  Ricci(dz,∂z) + Ricci(dt,∂t)
  (18)
  There's a certain combination of the Ricci tensor, the metric g, and the Ricci scalar that's 
  divergence free.  This is known as the Einstein tensor, and it's always written as G.
  G
  =
  Ricci – (R/2)g
  (19)
  In the next section we'll say a bit about why this tensor is divergence free, but before 
  doing that let's write the equation connecting G to the stress-energy tensor.  First, note 
  that in Minkowskian coordinates:
  G(∂t,∂t)
  =
  Ricci(∂t,∂t) – (R/2)g(∂t,∂t)
   
   
  =
  –(∂t∂tV)/V + (R/2)
   
  using Equation (17), and the fact that the Minkowskian metric gives g(∂t,∂t)=–1.  Now, 
  in spacetime that isn't very strongly curved, the Ricci scalar, R, turns out to be 
  “dominated” by the last term in Equation (18), Ricci(dt,∂t).  Because we're using 
  Minkowskian coordinates, the equivalent expression for the (0,2) tensor is 
  –Ricci(∂t,∂t), which in turn is equal to (∂t∂tV)/V.  So G(∂t,∂t) is approximately equal to 
  (–∂t∂tV)/2V — half the value we'd get from the Ricci tensor — and to be compatible with 
  Equation (15), we must have:
  G
  =
  8πκ T
  (20)
  This, at last, is the Einstein equation, linking spacetime curvature with the density of 
  matter and energy!
  This equation is not unique in meeting the requirement that div T = 0.  Because 
  of the compatibility of the metric with parallel transport, all covariant derivatives of the 
  metric are zero, and hence the divergence of any constant multiple of the metric is also 
  zero.  So there's no fundamental reason why the true equation for spacetime curvature 
  might not be:
  G  + Λg
  =
  8πκ T
  (21)
  The symbol Λ (this is a Greek letter, the capital lambda) stands for a number called the 
  cosmological constant, and its value is still very much a matter of debate.  A negative 
  Λ would cause empty spacetime to be curved as if it contained energy; a positive Λ would 
  cause it to be curved as if it contained “negative energy,” in the sense that it would cause 
  geodesics to move apart rather than come together.  When Einstein first developed 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.25
  
  general relativity, he chose a small positive value for Λ that would balance the curvature 
  caused by the overall density of matter in the universe, keeping everything static, because 
  at the time there was little observational evidence to support what is now common 
  knowledge:  the universe is expanding.  When Einstein learnt of this, he declared the 
  cosmological constant to be the greatest mistake of his life, and decided that the true value 
  was exactly zero.  However, recent astronomical observations suggest a positive value, 
  sufficient not only to overcome the mutual attraction of matter, but to cause the universe 
  to expand ever more rapidly in the future.  Whether or not this is the final verdict, there's 
  still plenty of scope for quantum mechanical treatments of the vacuum, and of gravity 
  itself, to shed more light on the issue of why Λ takes whatever value it actually has.
  Although Λ is immensely important in cosmology, on any “small” scale — at 
  least up to the size of clusters of galaxies! — it's definitely insignificant, and for the 
  remainder of this article we'll simply assume that Λ=0, and use Equation (20).
  The Bianchi Identity
  Figure 8 shows a path that leads from a point, P, around a small cube whose edges are all 
  one unit long, and point in the directions u, v and w.  This path traverses every face of 
  the cube exactly once, but it traverses every edge an even number of times, backwards as 
  many times as forwards.
  If you parallel-transport a vector b around this path, it will come back unchanged, 
  because every step you travel along an edge in one direction, you eventually travel again 
  in reverse, undoing the effect.  However, we can write this overall lack of change as a 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.26
  
  sum of the changes we get from parallel transport around six simple loops:  in each of 
  three planes defined by pairs of the three vectors (e.g. u and v), we do one loop for the 
  face of the cube that's closest to P, and another for the opposite face, which is displaced 
  one unit in the direction of the remaining vector (e.g. w).  For the loop around the 
  opposite face we have to get there and back from P along an edge of the cube, but since 
  we use the same edge for both trips, the effect of that part of the path cancels out.
  We move around opposite faces in opposite directions; for example, as we travel 
  around the closest face to P in the u-v plane, the change in b is δb=–R(b,u,v), but for 
  the opposite face it's δb=–R(b,v,u)=R(b,u,v).  However, these two terms might not 
  cancel each other out, because R can be different on the two faces.  Different by how 
  much?  By the length of the distance between the faces, which is one unit, times the rate 
  of change of R in the direction w, which is ∇wR.  So the change in b due to these two 
  loops is ∇wR(b,u,v).  Combining this for all three planes, and equating it to the overall 
  result of zero change that we know we must get, yields:
  0
  =
  ∇wR(b,u,v)+∇uR(b,v,w)+∇vR(b,w,u)
  (22)
  This equation is known as the Bianchi identity, and it's the reason that G is 
  divergence free.  We won't go through the proof that div G = 0, but basically it 
  consists of a bit of algebraic rearrangement of Equation (22).  So you can ultimately trace 
  the fact that div G = 0 back to Figure 8, and what it says about the way changes in 
  curvature must fit together over any volume of spacetime.
  There are two ways to interpret this.  One is to take div G = 0 as merely a 
  handy clue that G is the correct choice of tensor to equate with T, since we already know 
  that div T = 0.  Another is to consider Einstein's equation as explaining conservation 
  of 4-momentum.  Given Einstein's equation, 4-momentum must be conserved, because 
  div G = 0 isn't an additional, physical hypothesis that might or might not hold, it's a 
  geometrical tautology:  the undeniable fact that every edge in the cube in Figure 8 is 
  traversed in opposite directions an equal number of times.
  The Schwarzschild Solution
  In empty space, T=0, so Einstein's equation becomes G=0, and since most of the 
  universe is near enough to vacuum, metrics whose curvature satisfies the “vacuum 
  Einstein equation” are enormously important.  One obvious vacuum solution is flat 
  Minkowskian spacetime:  if the Riemann curvature tensor R is zero, Ricci and G are 
  also zero.  This is a pretty good description of small regions of interstellar and 
  intergalactic space — though not of the galaxy, or the universe, as a whole.
  A more interesting vacuum solution is that which allows the moon to orbit the 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.27
  
  Earth, and planets to orbit the sun.  To analyse the spacetime geometry around a star or a 
  planet, we'll assume that the geometry is spherically symmetrical.  It turns out that 
  there's only one possible “class” of solutions that meet this criterion, all with the same 
  general shape.  The sole freedom left is to plug in a number that lets you set the scale — 
  and by comparison with Newtonian gravity it's easy to identify that number with the 
  mass of the star or planet that lies at the centre of the vacuum geometry.
  This class of solutions is known collectively as the Schwarzschild solution, 
  and the metric is given by Equation (23).  M here stands for the mass of the star, and 
  we've chosen units where not only is the speed of light, c, equal to 1, but the 
  gravitational constant κ is also 1.  This makes all the algebra much simpler, and though 
  it's a pain to convert to and from conventional units, the less cluttered equations in 
  between are generally worth it.  In geometric units, as this system is called, everything 
  is measured in distances — we'll use metres.  Time is measured in metres (the time it 
  takes light to travel 1 metre, 3.3 nanoseconds), and mass is measured in metres (the mass 
  that Newtonian gravity predicts would cause an acceleration, at a distance of 1 metre, of 1 
  metre per metre squared; this is 1.35 x 1027 kilograms, making the mass of the sun, 2 x 
  1030 kilograms, equivalent to about 1480 metres).
  g
  =
  –(1–2M/r) dt⊗dt + 1/(1–2M/r) dr⊗dr +
   
   
  r2(cos θ)2 dφ⊗dφ + r2 dθ⊗dθ
  (23)
  The spacetime coordinates used for the Schwarzschild metric are called r, φ, θ and t.  If 
  you picture a sphere centred on the star, φ can be thought of as the longitude and θ the 
  latitude of any point on the surface of that sphere.  (It doesn't matter where you put the 
  “equatorial plane” and which hemisphere you call “north,” because the geometry is 
  spherically symmetrical.)  If you compare the part of the metric involving φ and θ with 
  the metric we derived in the previous article for the surface of the Earth, you'll see that 
  it's identical; we've just changed the names of the coordinates from x and y, and the 
  radius of the sphere from E to r.
  So we can imagine the star surrounded by spheres like onion layers, each with a 
  different r coordinate, and each with the same geometry as the surface of a sphere in 
  Euclidean space with a radius of r.  The surface area of each onion layer is 4πr2, and 
  since you can measure this without going any nearer to the star, this offers the simplest 
  way to interpret r.  But is the r coordinate actually the distance to the centre of each 
  sphere?  No.  Distance is defined by the metric, and assuming that you're stationary 
  relative to the star, so that ∂r is your idea of a purely spatial direction, |∂r|=√g(∂r,∂r) is 
  equal to 1/√(1–2M/r).  For r greater than 2M, this will be greater than 1, which means 
  that distances measured radially are going to be greater than changes in the r coordinate.  
  There are “more onion layers” packed in here than there would be in Euclidean space.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.28
  
  That tells us a bit about the geometry of space according to stationary observers, 
  but what about the passage of time?  It's sometimes said that “clocks run slow” in a 
  strong gravitational field, and there are a number of works of science fiction where the 
  protagonists deliberately travel close to a massive object (such as a black hole, of which 
  we'll have more to say shortly) in order to experience additional time dilation, aging even 
  less compared to Earth-bound people than they would from the effects of travelling 
  through flat spacetime at the same velocity.  This effect is certainly real, but the statement 
  about clocks “running slow” needs to be treated as cautiously as the same statement about 
  moving clocks.  No clock ever truly runs slow unless it's broken — and blaming the 
  “flow of time” is as misleading as blaming the “flow of distance” if you happen to travel 
  from one town to another by a longer route than someone else.  Some paths through 
  spacetime from A to B are simply shorter than others, and while curvature complicates 
  this whole business, clocks are no more “slowed down” by gravity than your odometer is 
  “sped up” when you drive over a mountain and register more kilometres from one side to 
  the other than someone who took a road tunnel instead.
  It's straightforward in principle to use the metric of Equation (23) to find the 
  proper time along any world line, but the detailed calculations for a complete journey to 
  and from the vicinity of a massive object are a bit too messy to present here.  Fortunately, 
  there's a much easier way to quantify gravitational “time dilation” that also tells us 
  something about the view of the stars from near such an object.  Suppose you follow the 
  world line of a photon, as it travels from a point in space far from the object and strikes 
  the eye of someone who is stationary relative to the object.  That is, someone whose 
  world line is a line of constant r, φ and θ, and hence whose 4-velocity will be pointing 
  solely in the direction of ∂t.  Everyone's 4-velocity u must satisfy g(u,u)=–1, so if 
  u=ut∂t:
  –1
  =
  g(u,u)
   
   
  =
  (ut)2 g(∂t,∂t)
   
   
  =
  –(ut)2 (1–2M/r)
   
  ut
  =
  1/√(1–2M/r)
   
  u
  =
  1/√(1–2M/r) ∂t
  (24)
  This tells us, incidentally, that the t coordinate isn't a measure of proper time for our 
  observer, any more than the r coordinate is a measure of proper distance.  The proper 
  time that elapses along this observer's world line will be less than any change in the t 
  coordinate, because ∂τt — that is, the rate of change of t with respect to proper time τ — 
  is equal to u(t)=1/√(1–2M/r), which is greater than 1.
  The t coordinate is useful, though:  because it doesn't appear directly in the 
  metric, Equation (23), the geometry of spacetime is independent of the value of t.  You 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.29
  
  can think of the whole of Schwarzschild spacetime as being made up of lots of slices with 
  different values for t, all piled one on top of the other, with the pile stretching from the 
  past into the future.  Unlike the onion layers of different r coordinates, which each have 
  the geometry of a different-sized sphere, all these t-slices are identical.  In fact, you can 
  take any shape “drawn” on spacetime and increase the t-coordinate of every point by the 
  same amount, and the new version will be identical to the original.
  Ways of moving things that preserve their size and shape in this way are called 
  isometries (Greek for “same distance”), and the vectors that produce them, such as ∂t, 
  are known as Killing vectors (after the mathematician Wilhelm Killing).  For example, 
  adding thirty degrees to the longitude of every point on the coastline of Africa would just 
  rotate the continent around the Earth, leaving its size and shape unchanged, whereas 
  adding thirty degrees to the latitude of every point would distort the shape enormously.  
  The longitude coordinate vector is a Killing vector, the latitude coordinate vector isn't.
  Though we won't prove it, the projection of a Killing vector onto the tangent to a 
  geodesic is the same everywhere along that geodesic.  (If you want to test this claim with 
  a simple example, consider the projection of the longitude coordinate vector onto the 
  tangent to a great circle.)  In the Schwarzschild geometry, since ∂t is a Killing vector and 
  the world line of an astronaut in free fall is a geodesic, g(∂t,w) is constant for the 
  astronaut's 4-velocity w.  A photon's world line is also a geodesic, but in that case we 
  have to use the photon's 4-momentum, P, as the tangent.  (The 4-velocity of a photon is 
  a meaningless idea, because the 4-velocity must have a length of 1, but any lightlike 
  vector has a length of zero.)  The energy that an observer with 4-velocity u measures for 
  a photon is g(u,P), so using the value of u from Equation (24) we have:
  E
  =
  g(u,P)
   
   
  =
  g(1/√(1–2M/r) ∂t, P)
   
   
  =
  1/√(1–2M/r) g(∂t, P)
  (25)
  Since P is the tangent to a geodesic, and ∂t is a Killing vector, g(∂t,P) must be constant 
  along the photon's entire path.  Let's call this constant value E∞, since for very large 
  values of r, 1/√(1–2M/r) gets so close to 1 that it might as well be 1, and hence the 
  energy someone far away would measure for the photon is just g(∂t,P).  This lets us 
  write:
  E
  =
  1/√(1–2M/r) E∞
  (26)
  This equation is known as the gravitational blue shift, since it describes how the 
  energy of a photon looks greater — pushing it towards the blue end of the spectrum — to 
  someone deeper in a gravitational field.  For example, at a distance of r=5.55M, 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.30
  
  E=1.25E∞, so an observer would see all the stars in the sky as being 25% “bluer” than 
  someone far away in space.
  Because the energy of light is proportional to its frequency — the number of 
  complete oscillations the light wave performs in a second — this immediately tells us 
  something about time as well.  By measuring a greater energy for the photon, our 
  observer is also using the light as a signal to compare his or her local clock with a clock 
  far away, and by this method, local time seems to be “running slower” by 25%.  This is 
  not to say that the frequency of distant stars represents some kind of absolute standard 
  for time.  Like the comparison between two clocks in relative motion that we made in the 
  article on special relativity, this is just a way of drawing a connection between two 
  different observers — both of whom are correctly measuring proper time along their 
  respective world lines.
  However, it does offer a useful way to get an approximate idea of the effect on 
  relative aging of going near a massive object.  If you start out in a mother ship far from 
  the object, descend in a scout ship to a certain r coordinate, and then return, you will have 
  been struck (at some point) by every single wavefront of light from the stars as the people 
  who stayed behind.  But at each r value, Equation (26) implies that the time you would 
  have measured between wavefronts was different by a factor of √(1–2M/r) from that 
  measured on the mother ship.  If you spent a large part of your journey hovering at, say, 
  r=3.125M, to a good approximation you'll have experienced a total elapsed time only 
  60% as much as the other travellers.
  For values of r smaller than 2M, g(∂r,∂r) is negative, meaning that the coordinate 
  vector ∂r has switched from being spacelike to being timelike!  Similarly, g(∂t,∂t) is 
  positive, showing that ∂t has become spacelike.  The distance 2M in geometric units is 
  known as the Schwarzschild radius for a given mass, and an object that becomes 
  compressed to within its Schwarzschild radius collapses into a black hole.  You don't 
  need to know the “distance to the centre” of such an object:  because r is defined in terms 
  of surface area, any non-rotating spherically symmetric object whose surface area is less 
  than or equal to 16πM2 is doomed to become a black hole.
  Why is this unavoidable?  The fact that ∂r becomes timelike for r less than 2M 
  means that “motion” in the r direction becomes the same as motion in any other timelike 
  direction.  We have no choice about the fact that our world lines run into the future, so 
  any object that crosses the onion layer at r=2M, the event horizon, must have a world 
  line that runs in the direction of decreasing r.  That's the definition of “the future” within 
  the event horizon.
  Couldn't you change the direction of the future by changing your velocity?  Yes, 
  but not enough.  Figure 9 shows the light cones in the spacetime around a black hole, the 
  cones traced out by all the light rays that could be sent, in every possible direction, from 
  various events.  Your world line can't cross the light cones — that would mean travelling 
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.31
  
  faster than light.  Once you touch the horizon, the light cones all lead inwards.  There is 
  no escape.
  In Figure 9, we've adopted a new coordinate, t*, to take the place of t.  If you 
  follow the grid lines of constant t inwards, they never actually cross the horizon; this 
  makes t useless for labelling any event that lies on the horizon.  The new coordinate t* is 
  described in Equation (27) in terms of r and t, and the metric is restated in terms of r, φ, θ 
  and t* in Equation (28).
  t*
  =
  t + 2M ln |r/2M – 1|
  (27)
  g
  =
  –(1–2M/r) dt*⊗dt* + (2M/r) (dr⊗dt* + dt*⊗dr)
   
   
   
  + (1+2M/r) dr⊗dr +
   
   
   
  + r2(cos θ)2 dφ⊗dφ + r2 dθ⊗dθ
  (28)
  Equation (28) describes exactly the same geometry as Equation (23); it just does so in 
  terms of different coordinate lines “painted onto” spacetime.  The coordinate  t* has been 
  chosen so that incoming light rays appear at 45° in Figure 9; in other words, it makes 
  P=E(–∂r+∂t*) a null vector, as you can easily check by feeding this into Equation (28) to 
  find g(P,P).  But every choice of coordinates in curved spacetime is something of a 
  compromise, just like every map projection showing the curved surface of the Earth on 
  flat paper.  Though r and t* are drawn at right angles in Figure 9, g(∂r,∂t*) is not zero, so 
  the two directions aren't really perpendicular.
  Though we've been taking the Schwarzschild geometry as fixed, unaffected by 
  whatever's travelling through it, it turns out that it's only stable outside the event horizon.  
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.32
  
  The presence of even a small amount of matter falling into a black hole would alter the 
  geometry inside the horizon — though this would probably only make the whole 
  experience of being there even more violent.  There was once considerable speculation 
  about black holes forming various kinds of wormholes connected to other regions of 
  space, but most relativists now consider this impossible.  Everything that crosses the 
  horizon will eventually be torn apart — crushed in two directions and stretched in the 
  third, like the falling cloud of space junk we considered earlier — then the remnants will 
  hit the singularity at r=0.  General relativity predicts infinite spacetime curvature there, 
  but the true nature of the singularity will depend on the details of quantum gravity, a 
  discipline still in its infancy.
  Further reading:  Spacetime Physics by E.F. Taylor and J.A. Wheeler (W.H. 
  Freeman, 1966) is an excellent introduction to special relativity.  Gravitation by C.W. 
  Misner, K.S. Thorne and J.A. Wheeler (W.H. Freeman, 1970) is the Bible of general 
  relativity, with a detailed treatment of almost every aspect of the subject.  Black Holes 
  and Timewarps:  Einstein's Outrageous Legacy by Kip Thorne (Macmillan, 1995) is a 
  non-mathematical account of general relativity, with a wealth of fascinating biographical 
  and historical detail on the subject's development.
  Egan: "Foundations 3"/p.33
  
SOURCE: textdata/thevault/Vault2.0.-.Fiction-and-audiobooks/Books/E/Egan, Greg/Foundations/Egan, Greg - Foundations 3 - Black Holes.pdf