The second kind of impossible The extraordinary quest for a new form of matter

Review by Choice Review

In addition to being an engaging and accessible example of the scientific method in process in a great many of its modes (theory, experiment, collaboration, labwork, and fieldwork), this is also an important example of how even in the 21st century, scientists aren't locked into one pursuit for their entire career. Steinhardt (Princeton) was previously known to this reviewer for his involvement in the inflationary cosmology model, which is rather different from solid-state physics. Yet Steinhardt did not abandon cosmology to study quasicrystals, as the narrative makes clear; he continued to work in both fields, alternating as need and opportunity arose. As a newcomer to many of the related fields he had to pursue in the quest for quasicrystals, Steinhardt is well positioned to offer a clear layperson's view of them to the reader. Occasionally the terminology gets dense, especially regarding the many varieties of minerals, but these rough patches never last long. The text sometimes gives the impression that it was assembled from previously written essays, but the occasional repetition and recap help make this a casual and accessible reading experience. Summing Up: Highly recommended. All readers. --David John Van Domelen, Amarillo College

Copyright American Library Association, used with permission.

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Review by Booklist Review

Two centuries after the French priest René-Just Haüy launched the science of crystallography, Steinhardt and a resourceful support team retrieved from the tundra of Kamchatka astonishing meteorite samples compelling researchers to rethink the fundamental principles of that science. As Steinhardt explains, the samples he helped discover reveal that in the astral fires of the Big Bang, nature created strange quasicrystals manifesting symmetries long thought to be utterly impossible. Readers see the culmination of years of arduous labors conceptual, professional, legal, and logistic as they learn how Steinhardt and a savvy research assistant transgressed the limits of the possible by imagining the radical structure of hypothetical quasicrystals, how Japanese researchers actually synthesized such quasicrystals in the laboratory, how an Italian scientist triggered an international debate by identifying a museum sample as a naturally occurring quasicrystal, and, finally, how that Italian scientist joined Steinhardt and other intrepid scientists to visit one of the planet's remotest regions, there to verify their hypotheses about such quasicrystals and their origins. Cutting-edge science as high adventure.--Bryce Christensen Copyright 2018 Booklist

From Booklist, Copyright (c) American Library Association. Used with permission.

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Review by Publisher's Weekly Review

In an intriguing blend of science and international adventure, Steinhardt (Endless Universe, coauthor), a Princeton professor of physics and astrophysics, takes readers on a wild ride in search of a new kind of matter. The author's hunt for a rare crystal structure once thought impossible begins in the early 1980s, when he proposed the existence of "quasicrystals" with a unique property called "five-fold symmetry." Months of making paper models and Styrofoam-and-pipe cleaner "arts-and-craft" projects showed how minerals might form such crystals, and despite scoffing from luminaries such as Nobel laureate Linus Pauling, one scientist managed to grow a quasicrystal in 1987. But could quasicrystals exist in nature? The quest takes Steinhardt from Princeton University to Florence, Italy, and ultimately to a remote mountain range in the rugged, bear- and mosquito-infested wilds of Russia's Kamchatka Peninsula. The author's opening discussion of crystallography basics, "cubatic matter," and Penrose tiling demands close attention, but the second half of the book is full of intrigue and adventure, culminating with the epic Kamchatka journey. As a result, a general audience can and should enjoy this original, suspenseful true-life thriller of science investigation and discovery. Agent: Katinka Matson, Brockman. (Jan.) © Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved.

(c) Copyright PWxyz, LLC. All rights reserved

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Review by Kirkus Book Review

An admirable popular account of the quasicrystal, an oddball arrangement of atoms that seems to contradict scientific laws.Steinhardt (Physics and Astrophysical Sciences/Princeton Univ.; co-author: Endless Universe: Beyond the Big Bang, 2006), a pioneer in the field and a fine writer, makes a mighty effort to describe a complex chemical phenomenon; he mostly succeeds. Readers should carefully read his explanation of how pure substances such as minerals form periodic, symmetric arrangements of atoms called crystals, which must fit together with no gaps into which other atoms can squeeze. Only three forms qualify: the tetrahedron, the triangular prism, and the parallelepiped (six-sided box). Popular writers use the tiling analogy. To install a bathroom floor, only square, triangular, or hexagonal tiles fit perfectly. Just as you can't fit pentagonal or octagonal tiles into the floor, no crystal can have five or eight or any larger-sided symmetry. This was the rulenot really a formal lawuntil Roger Penrose invented Penrose tiles in the 1970s. These can fill any room despite having bizarre shapes. Intrigued, scientists began producing five, eight, and other many-sided "quasicrystals" by heating and rapidly cooling metals in the laboratory. Thankfully, Steinhardt turns his attention from crystal theory to chronicle a gripping scientific quest. He and his colleagues searched the world's mineralogical collections, drawing a blank until minuscule specks from Italy showed promise. Proof required finding similar pieces in a natural location, an exhaustive 10-year process that began with frustrating detective work to discover the specimen's source, followed by an expedition to Siberia and success in 2009. Scientists figured out that natural quasicrystals form through temperatures and pressures that don't exist on Earth; they're found in meteorite fragments.The research continues, and it will hopefully produce technological marvels (or maybe not). Meanwhile, readers will enjoy this enthusiastic introduction to a weird but genuine new form of matter. Copyright Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

Copyright (c) Kirkus Reviews, used with permission.

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The Second Kind of Impossible PREFACE MIDDLE OF NOWHERE, KAMCHATKA PENINSULA, JULY 22, 2011: I held my breath as the blue behemoth lurched its way down the steep incline. It was my first day in the mad contraption, a weird-looking vehicle with what looked like a Russian army tank on bottom and a beat-up moving van on top. To my amazement, our driver, Viktor, managed to make it all the way down the hill without toppling over. He hit the brakes, and our truck shuddered and shook to a halt at the edge of a riverbed. He turned off the ignition, and muttered a few words in Russian. "Viktor says this is a good place to stop," our translator announced. I peered out the front window, but could not for the life of me see what was so good about it. Climbing out of the cab, I stood atop the enormous tank treads to get a better view. It was a cool summer evening, approaching midnight. But it was still light out, a reminder of how far I was from home. The summer sky never gets very dark so close to the Arctic Circle. The earthy, pungent smell of decaying vegetation filled the air, the unmistakable smell of the Kamchatka tundra. I jumped off the tank treads into the thick, spongy muck to stretch my legs when, suddenly, I was attacked from all sides. Millions and millions of ravenous mosquitoes were springing up from the muck, drawn to the carbon dioxide I was exhaling. I swiped frantically with my arms and turned this way and that to escape them. Nothing helped. I had been warned about the tundra and its perils. Bears, insect swarms, unpredictable storms, endless miles of muddy swells and ruts. But these weren't just stories anymore. This had become all too real. My critics were right, I realized. I had no business leading this expedition. I was neither a geologist nor an outdoorsman. I was a theoretical physicist who belonged back home in Princeton. I should be working on calculations, with notebook in hand, not trying to lead a team of Russian, Italian, and American scientists on what was probably a hopeless quest in search of a rare mineral that had traveled billions of years through space. How could this have happened? I asked, as I struggled against the ever-growing swarm. Unfortunately, I knew the answer: The crazy expedition had been my idea, the fulfillment of a scientific fantasy that had been occupying my mind for nearly three decades. The seed was planted in the early 1980s when my student and I developed a theory showing how to create novel forms of matter long thought to be "impossible," atomic formations explicitly forbidden by venerable scientific principles. I had learned early on to pay close attention whenever an idea is dismissed as "impossible." Most of the time, scientists are referring to something that is truly out of the question, like violating the conservation of energy or creating a perpetual motion machine. It never makes sense to pursue those kinds of ideas. But sometimes, an idea is judged to be "impossible" based on assumptions that could be violated under certain circumstances that have never been considered before. I call that the second kind of impossible.   If one can expose the underlying assumptions and find a long-overlooked loophole, the second kind of impossible is a potential gold mine that can offer a scientist the rare opportunity, perhaps a once-in-a-lifetime opportunity, to make a transformational discovery. In the early 1980s, my student and I discovered a scientific loophole in one of the most well-established laws of science and, exploiting that, realized it was possible to create new forms of matter. In a remarkable coincidence, just as our theory was being developed, an example of the material was accidentally discovered in a nearby laboratory. And soon, a new field of science was born. But there was one question that kept bothering me: Why hadn't this discovery been made long ago? Surely nature had made these forms of matter thousands, or millions, or perhaps even billions of years before we had dreamed them up. I could not stop myself from wondering where the natural versions of our material were being hidden and what secrets they might hold. I did not realize at the time that this question would lead me down the road to Kamchatka, an almost thirty-year-long detective story with a dizzying array of improbable twists and turns along the way. So many seemingly insurmountable barriers had to be conquered that it sometimes felt like an unseen force was guiding me and my team step by step toward this exotic land. Our entire investigation had been so . . . impossible. Now we were in the middle of nowhere, with everything we had achieved up to this point at risk. Success would depend on whether we were lucky enough and skillful enough to conquer all of the unexpected obstacles, some of them terrifying, that we were about to confront. Excerpted from The Second Kind of Impossible: The Extraordinary Quest for a New Form of Matter by Paul Steinhardt All rights reserved by the original copyright owners. Excerpts are provided for display purposes only and may not be reproduced, reprinted or distributed without the written permission of the publisher.

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