Localisation — the series
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Two ears, and the whole of the difference is 655 microseconds
Direction is computed from two numbers — when a sound reaches each ear and how loud it is at each — and which of the two is usable is decided by the wavelength against the width of a head. The changeover frequency is not a design choice. It falls out of 343 metres a second and 17.5 centimetres, and it is why the mechanism of hearing where something is changes halfway up the piano.
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The first wavefront wins
A room sends a hundred copies of every note to a listener from a hundred directions, and the listener hears one note in one place. The mechanism that does it is brutal and simple: for the first few tens of milliseconds after a sound arrives, everything that follows is denied a vote on where it came from — even when it is louder than the original.
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The beat that is not in the air
Every sound this site synthesises reaches both ears identically, and that is the assumption none of its figures ever varied. Put 500 hertz in one ear and 504 in the other and nothing sums anywhere: each eardrum sees a steady sinusoid with no modulation on it at all. A listener still hears a four-per-second beat, which means the arithmetic is being done behind the ears rather than in the room. And it stops working above about a kilohertz — not where phase locking gives out at five, but where a head 17.5 centimetres across stops being able to name a direction, which is 762 hertz.
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Where the two ears stop agreeing
A room sends both ears versions of the same sound, alike at low frequencies and increasingly unlike at high ones. Where they stop resembling each other is 980 hertz, and it is set by the 17.5 centimetres between the ears rather than by anything about the room — which is within a quarter of a frequency found earlier for a completely different reason. One minus that correlation is spaciousness, and it is computable from a room's own reverberation.
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A room with directions in it
Every room until now has been a reservoir of energy that drains at a rate. That model has no directions in it at all, so it cannot say the one thing every published measure of spaciousness is about: how much of what arrives comes from the side. Mirror the source in six walls and every reflection acquires an angle and a time — and the answer to why a concert hall is narrow falls out at eighteen metres.
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An echo is prevented by the crowd around it
The echogram says when every reflection arrives and how loud it is; the published echo threshold says when a reflection that late and that quiet is heard separately. Put one against the other and the rear wall of every hall anybody builds is past the threshold — a 45-metre hall puts it 210 milliseconds late and 25 decibels down against a threshold of 114. It is not heard as an echo, and what saves it is not the geometry. It is everything else arriving at the same time.
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A position and a width
Sorting a hall's arrivals into echoes and everything else settled that fusion is not a yes or a no. Everything else is not nothing: a reflection too early to be heard separately still moves the apparent source, widens it and colours it. All three come out of the same list of times, levels and angles, and none of them needed a new input.
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The hall through a head
Every direction computed so far is a vector from a seat to an image source, and a listener has no vectors. Run the echogram through the head computed six essays ago and two things happen: the position and width become microseconds, and a third of the room disappears — because both cues fold at ninety degrees and a reflection from behind is identical to one in front.
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The turn is half the angle
A stationary head cannot tell a sound in front from the same sound behind, and an earlier essay said so at length. The turn that breaks the confusion is 0.84 degrees — exactly half the angle a source would have to move for the same listener to notice it moving, and half for a reason. In a hall the same turn does something else: the source swings at 8.9 microseconds a degree and the room swings at 2.7, so a listener who moves is separating the soloist from the reverberation as well as the front from the back.
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A smaller head in the same hall
Ten earlier essays draw one head. Every parameter belonging to the room has been varied by some figure and the one belonging to the listener never has, and it is the only one whose change the detection threshold does not follow: a six-year-old in the same seat receives the same fifty-four reflections at the same instants and reads them onto an axis with seventy distinguishable positions instead of eighty-seven. The speed of sound, swept over every temperature a hall is ever at, changes nothing at all — and the reason it cannot is the reason head size can.
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Where a wrong head gives itself away
Every claim so far maps a delay to a direction through one fixed geometry, and the listener acquires that map while the geometry grows under them by seventy per cent. So the map can be wrong — and the essay before this one said the error would be largest on the median plane, where the delay curve is steepest. It is exactly zero there. The steepness is in the error and in the threshold and cancels between them, which leaves a listener whose internal head is 1.3 millimetres out with one place to catch it: hard to the side, where nobody localises well.
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The error that moves straight ahead
The essay before this one found that a listener whose internal head is the wrong size makes no error at all on the median plane, and has to look hard to the side to catch it. Every head drawn here has its ears at equal radii, which makes the delay curve odd and every error a factor — and a factor cannot move a zero. Real heads are not symmetric. A constant offset of twenty microseconds displaces a listener's straight ahead by two and a quarter degrees, and it displaces every other direction by the same number of just-noticeable steps, exactly.