Things were simpler in the pre-Enlightenment days when we only five planets to keep track of. But Haley realized that comets could have orbits, Herschel discovered Uranus, and Galle (with Le Verrier’s guidance) found Neptune. Then a host of other astronomers detected Ceres and a host of other asteroids, and Tombaugh observed Pluto in 1930.
Astronomers relished the proliferation — every new-found object up there was a new test case for challenging one or another competing theory.
Here’s the currently accepted narrative… Long ago but quite close-by, there was a cloud of dust in the Milky Way galaxy. Random motion within it produced a swirl that grew into a vortex dozens of lightyears long.
Consider one dust particle (we’ll call it Isaac) afloat in a slice perpendicular to the vortex. Assume for the moment that the vortex is perfectly straight, the dust is evenly spread across it, and all particles have the same mass. Isaac is subject to two influences — gravitational and rotational.

out of balance and giving rise
to a solar system.
Gravity pulls Isaac towards towards every other particle in the slice. Except for very near the slice’s center there are generally more particles (and thus more mass) toward and beyond the center than back toward the edge behind him. Furthermore, there will generally be as many particles to Isaac’s left as to his right. Gravity’s net effect is to pull Isaac toward the vortex center.
But the vortex spins. Isaac and his cohorts have angular momentum, which is like straight-line momentum except you’re rotating about a center. Both of them are conserved quantities — you can only get rid of either kind of momentum by passing it along to something else. Angular momentum keeps Isaac rotating within the plane of his slice.
An object’s angular momentum is its linear momentum multiplied by its distance from the center. If Isaac drifts towards the slice’s center (radial distance decreases), either he speeds up to compensate or he transfers angular momentum to other particles by colliding with them.
But vortices are rarely perfectly straight. Moreover, the galactic-cloud kind are generally lumpy and composed of different-sized particles. Suppose our vortex gets kinked by passing a star or a magnetic field or even another vortex. Between-slice gravity near the kink shifts mass kinkward and unbalances the slices to form a lump (see the diagram). The lump’s concentrated mass in turn attracts particles from adjacent slices in a viscous cycle (pun intended).
After a while the lumpward drift depletes the whole neighborhood near the kink. The vortex becomes host to a solar nebula, a concentrated disk of dust whirling about its center because even when you come in from a different slice, you’ve still got your angular momentum. When gravity smacks together Isaac and a few billion other particles, the whole ball of whacks inherits the angular momentum that each of its stuck-together components had. Any particle or planetoid that tries to make a break for it up- or down-vortex gets pulled back into the disk by gravity.
That theory does a pretty good job on the conventional Solar System — four rocky Inner Planets, four gas giant Outer Planets, plus that host of asteroids and such, all tightly held in the Plane of The Ecliptic.
How then to explain out-of-plane objects like Pluto and Eris, not to mention long-period comets with orbits at all angles?
We now know that the Solar System holds more than we used to believe. Who’s in is still “objects whose motion is dominated by the Sun’s gravitational field,” but the Sun’s net spreads far further than we’d thought. Astronomers now hypothesize that after its creation in the vortex, the Sun accumulated an Oort cloud — a 100-billion-mile spherical shell containing a trillion objects, pebbles to planet-sized.
At the shell’s average distance from the Sun (see how tiny Neptune’s path is in the diagram) Solar gravity is a millionth of its strength at Earth’s orbit. The gravity of a passing star or even a conjunction of our own gas giants is enough to start an Oort-cloud object on an inward journey.
These trans-Neptunian objects are small and hard to see, but they’re revolutionizing planetary astronomy.
~~ Rich Olcott








But there are other accelerations that aren’t so easily accounted for. Ever ride in a car going around a curve and find yourself almost flung out of your seat? This little guy wasn’t wearing his seat belt and look what happened. The car accelerated because changing direction is an acceleration due to a lateral force. But the guy followed Newton’s First Law and just kept going in a straight line. Did he accelerate?
Suppose you’re investigating an object’s motion that appears to arise from a new force you’d like to dub “heterofugal.” If you can find a different frame of reference (one not attached to the object) or otherwise explain the motion without invoking the “new force,” then heterofugalism is a fictitious force.



Sure enough, that’s a straight line (see the chart). Reminds me of how Newton’s Law of Gravity is valid 

Gargh, proto-humanity’s foremost physicist 2.5 million years ago, opened a practical investigation into how motion works. “I throw rock, hit food beast, beast fall down yes. Beast stay down no. Need better rock.” For the next couple million years, we put quite a lot of effort into making better rocks and better ways to throw them. Less effort went into understanding throwing.
Aristotle wasn’t satisfied with anything so unsystematic. He was just full of theories, many of which got in each other’s way. One theory was that things want to go where they’re comfortable because of what they’re made of — stones, for instance, are made of earth so naturally they try to get back home and that’s why we see them fall downwards (no concrete linkage, so it’s still AAAD).



I was only 10 years old but already had Space Fever thanks to Chesley Bonestell’s artwork in Collier’s and Life magazines. I eagerly joined the the movie theater ticket line to see George Pal’s Destination Moon. I loved the Woody Woodpecker cartoon (it’s 12 minutes into the 

A wave happens in a system when a driving force and a restoring force take turns overshooting an equilibrium point AND the away-from-equilibrium-ness gets communicated around the system. The system could be a bunch of springs tied together in a squeaky old bedframe, or labor and capital in an economic system, or the network of water molecules forming the ocean surface, or the fibers in the fabric of space (whatever those turn out to be).
An isolated black hole is surrounded by an intense gravitational field and a corresponding compression of spacetime. A pair of black holes orbiting each other sends out an alternating series of tensions, first high, then extremely high, then high…
Newton definitely didn’t see that one coming. He has an excuse, though. No-one in in the 17th Century even realized that electricity is a thing, much less that the electrostatic force follows the same inverse-square law that gravity does. So there’s no way poor Isaac would have come up with quantum mechanics.
If Newton loved anything (and that question has been discussed at length), he loved an argument. His battle with Leibniz is legendary. He even fought with Descartes, who was a decade dead when Newton entered Cambridge.
in his Les Miz role of Inspector Javert, 
And then there’s 
Newton was essentially a geometer. These illustrations (from Book 1 of the Principia) will give you an idea of his style. He’d set himself a problem then solve it by constructing sometimes elaborate diagrams by which he could prove that certain components were equal or in strict proportion.
For instance, in the first diagram (Proposition II, Theorem II), we see an initial glimpse of his technique of successive approximation. He defines a sequence of triangles which as they proliferate get closer and closer to the curve he wants to characterize.
The third diagram is particularly relevant to the point I’ll finally get to when I get around to it. In Prop XLIV, Theorem XIV he demonstrates something weird. Suppose two objects A and B are orbiting around attractive center C, but B is moving twice as fast as A. If C exerts an additional force on B that is inversely dependent on the cube of the B-C distance, then A‘s orbit will be a perfect circle (yawn) but B‘s will be an ellipse that rotates around C, even though no external force pushes it laterally.