Thursday, March 7, 2013

What makes for a beautiful problem in science?

In his paper with the title, What makes for a beautiful problem in Science? (Journal of Political Economy, Vol. 78, No. 6, 1970),  Paul Samuelson writes:

What is the shortest distance between two points? A straight line. Can you prove it?

What is the longest distance between two points? Surely, no answer is possible. But consider two points a mile apart on a horizontal line in the plane. Suppose that the admissible paths cannot have an absolute slope exceeding one million. Then it is not hard to envisage that the longest distance is not (sic) a bit over a million miles. But it takes the methods of Pontryagin and not those of the classical theory to handle such a problem in which the control variables are constrained within a closed set.

You might like to see if you can use Pontryagin's maximum principle to prove what Samuelson claims. You must start deciding what he means by an admissible path. I expect he is thinking about a curve between $(0,0)$ and $(1,0)$ that is a graph $y(x)$ determined by $y'(x)=u(x)$, $0\leq x \leq 1$. I have added (sic) (for sic erat scriptum) because I think the word "not" should be deleted. He  is trying to say that the maximum distance is a bit over a million miles, in fact $\sqrt{10^{12}+1}$. Samuelson goes on:

A scientific problem gains in aesthetic interest if you can explain it to your neighbor at a dinner party. 

That no map requires more than four colors is such a problem. Can the turnpikes of Professor Chakravarty pass this test? In a system in which everything produces everything, a critical set of proportions at which balanced growth is most rapid seems reasonable. So the general notion of the von Neumann turnpike is conveyed. But suppose we begin away from this highway, and also are to end up away from it. Still, if the journey is to be a sufficiently long one, as seen we shall do well to move in the beginning toward that fast highway; catch a fast ride along it, staying so long there as to leave behind in all directions any rival who sticks to any slower path; then, toward the end of our journey, we can swing off the turnpike to our final rendezvous.

We see this in today's lecture (the turnpike of economic growth, Section 15.6).

I cannot resist one more excerpt from Samuelson's paper, in which he muses on the way in which an optimal path may sometimes seem strange.

Begin with durable hammers and robots that can make new hammers or robots with the same symmetrical input requirements for the one as for the other. Each input is subject to familiar diminishing returns; but increasing both inputs proportionally leads to constant returns to scale. I begin with 10 robots and 5 hammers and must end up in minimum time with (at least) 1,000 robots and 5,000 hammers. How should I proceed? Surely, I begin by producing only hammers, since the redundant robots are subject to diminishing returns. When I reach 10 of each input, I shift gears to produce equal amounts of both, proceeding along what is known as a von Neumann-DOSSO turnpike. You might think I go along it until 1,000 of each are attained, thereafter producing only the 4,000 more hammers. And you might be right. But you might be wrong. Depending upon the exact technology, it might pay to produce more of both along the turnpike, ceasing to produce more robots only after they are somewhere between 1,000 and 5,000 in number. We end up with more than we needed of robots. Irrational, since we don't want them and they cost something? Not necessarily, since they may have been worthwhile for their help in producing the extra hammers we do want.