In the long run, these—more than any of the “practical” justifications considered earlier—may be the reasons we will go to Mars and other worlds. In the meantime, the most important step we can take toward Mars is to make significant progress on Earth. Even modest improvements in the social, economic, and political problems that our global civilization now faces could release enormous resources, both material and human, for other goals.
There’s plenty of housework to be done here on Earth, and our commitment to it must be steadfast. But we’re the kind of species that needs a frontier—for fundamental biological reasons.
Every time humanity stretches itself and turns a new corner, it receives a jolt of productive vitality that can carry it for centuries.
There’s a new world next door. And we know how to get there.
Chapter 17.
Routine Interplanetary Violence
It is a law of nature that Earth and all other bodies should remain in their proper places and be moved from them only by violence.
There was something funny about Saturn. When, in 1610, Galileo used the world’s first astronomical telescope to view the planet—then the most distant world known—he found two appendages, one on either side. He likened them to “handles.” Other astronomers called them “ears.” The Cosmos holds many wonders, but a planet with jug ears is dismaying. Galileo went to his grave with this bizarre matter unresolved.
As the years passed, observers found the ears… Well, waxing and waning. Eventually, it became clear that what Galileo had discovered was an extremely thin ring that surrounds Saturn at its equator but touches it nowhere. In some years, because of the changing orbital positions of Earth and Saturn, the ring had been seen edge-on and, because of its thinness, it seemed to disappear. In other years, it had been viewed more face-oil, and the “ears” grew bigger. But what does it mean that there’s a ring around Saturn? A thin, flat, solid plate with a hole cut out for the planet to fit into? Where does that come from?
This line of inquiry will shortly take us to world-shattering collisions, to two quite different perils for our species, and to a reason—beyond those already described—that we must, for our very survival, be out there among the planets.
We now know that the rings (emphatically plural) of Saturn are a vast horde of tiny ice worlds, each on its separate orbit, each bound to Saturn by the giant planet’s gravity. In size, these worldlets range from particles of fine dust to houses. None is big enough to photograph even from close flybys. Spaced out in an exquisite set of fine concentric circles, something like the grooves on a phonograph record (which in reality make, of course,a spiral), the rings were first revealed in their true majesty by the two Voyager spacecraft in their 1980/81 flybys. In our century, the Art Deco rings of Saturn have become an icon of the future.
At a scientific meeting in the late 1960s, I was asked to summarize the outstanding problems in planetary science. One, I suggested, was the question of why, of all the planets, only Saturn had rings. This, Voyager discovered, is a nonquestion. All four giant planets in our Solar System—Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune—in fact have rings. But no one knew it then.
Each ring system has distinctive features. Jupiter’s is tenuous and made mainly of dark, very small particles. The bright rings of Saturn are composed mainly of frozen water; there are thousands of separate rings here, some twisted, with strange, dusky, spoke-like markings forming and dissipating. The dark rings of Uranus seem to be composed of elemental carbon and organic molecules—something like charcoal or chimney soot; Uranus has nine main rings, a few of which sometime seem to “breathe,” expanding and contracting. Neptune’s rings are the most tenuous of all, varying so much in thickness that, when detected from Earth, they appear only as arcs and incomplete circles. A number of rings seem to be maintained by the gravitational tugs of two shepherd moons, one a little nearer and the other a little farther from the planet than the ring. Each ring system displays its own, appropriately unearthly, beauty.
How do rings form? One possibility is tides: If an errant world passes close to a planet, the interloper’s near side is gravitationally pulled toward the planet more than its far side; if it comes close enough, if its internal cohesion is low enough, it can be literally torn to pieces. Occasionally we see this happening to comets as they pass too close to Jupiter, or the Sun. Another possibility, emerging from the Voyager reconnaissance of the outer Solar System, is this: Rings are made when worlds collide and moons are smashed to smithereens. Both mechanisms may have played a role.
The space between the planets is traversed by an odd collection of rogue worldlets, each in orbit about the Sun. A few are as big as a county or even a state; many more have surface areas like those of a village or a town. More little ones are found than big ones, and they range in size down to particles of dust. Some of them travel on long, stretched-out elliptical paths, which make them periodically cross the orbit of one or more planets.
Occasionally, unluckily, there’s a world in the way. The collision can shatter and pulverize both the interloper and the moon that’s hit (or at least the region around ground zero). The resulting debris—ejected from the moon but not so fast-moving as to escape from the planet’s gravity—may form, for a time, a new ring. It’s made of whatever the colliding bodies were made of, but usually more of the target moon than the rogue impactor. If the colliding worlds are icy, the net result will be rings of ice particles; if they’re made of organic molecules, the result will be rings of organic particles (which will slowly be processed by radiation into carbon). All the mass in the rings of Saturn is no more than ‘would result from the complete impact pulverization of a single icy moon. The disintegration of small moons can likewise account for the ring systems of the three other giant planets.
Unless it’s very close to its planet, a shattered moon gradually reaccumulates (or at least a fair fraction of it does). The pieces, big and small, still in approximately the same orbit as the moon was before the impact, fall together helter-skelter. What used to be a piece of the core is now at the surface, and vice versa. The resulting hodgepodge surfaces might seem very odd. Miranda, one of the moons of Uranus, looks disconcertingly jumbled and may have had such an origin.
The American planetary geologist Eugene Shoemaker proposes that many moons in the outer Solar System have been annihilated and reformed—not just once but several times each over the 4.5 billion years since the Sun and the planets condensed out of interstellar gas and dust. The picture emerging from the Voyager reconnaissance of the outer Solar System is of worlds whose placid and lonely vigils are spasmodically troubled by interlopers from space; of world-shattering collisions; and of moons re-forming from debris, reconstituting themselves like phoenixes from their own ashes.
But a moon that lives very close to a planet cannot re-form if it is pulverized—the gravitational tides of the nearby planet prevent it. The resulting debris, once spread out into a ring system, might be very long-lived—at least by the standard of a human lifetime. Perhaps many of the small, inconspicuous moons now orbiting the giant planets will one day blossom forth into vast and lovely rings.