Broca's Brain

by Carl Sagan

  In recent years the entire NASA budget has been well below one percent of the federal budget. The funds spent on planetary exploration have been less than 15 percent of that. Requests by the planetary science community for new missions have been repeatedly rejected—as one senator explained to me, the public has not, despite Star Wars and Star Trek, written to Congress in support of planetary missions, and scientists do not constitute a powerful lobby. And yet, there are a set of missions on the horizon that combine extraordinary scientific opportunity with remarkable popular appeal:

  Solar Sailing and Comet Rendezvous. In ordinary interplanetary missions, spacecraft are obliged to follow trajectories that require a minimum expenditure of energy. The rockets burn for short periods of time in the vicinity of Earth, and the spacecraft mainly coast for the rest of the journey. We have done as well as we have not because of enormous booster capability, but because of great skill with severely constrained systems. As a result, we must accept small payloads, long mission times and little choice of departure or arrival dates. But just as on Earth we are considering moving from fossil fuels to solar power, so it is in space. Sunlight exerts a small but palpable force called radiation pressure. A sail-like structure with a very large area for its mass can use radiation pressure for propulsion. By positioning the sail properly, we can be carried by sunlight both inwards toward and outwards away from the Sun. With a square sail about half a mile on each side, but thinner than the thinnest Mylar, interplanetary missions can be accomplished more efficiently than with conventional rocket propulsion. The sail would be launched into Earth orbit by the manned Shuttle craft, unfurled and strutted. It would be an extraordinary sight, easily visible to the naked eye as a bright point of light. With a pair of binoculars, detail on such a sail could be made out—perhaps even what on seventeenth-century sailing ships was called the “device,” some appropriate graphic symbol, perhaps a representation of the planet Earth. Attached to the sail would be a scientific spacecraft designed for a particular application.

  One of the first and most exciting applications being discussed is a comet-rendezvous mission, perhaps a rendezvous with Halley’s comet in 1986. Comets spend most of their time in interstellar space and should provide major clues on the early history of the solar system and the nature of the matter between the stars. Solar sailing to Halley’s comet might not only provide close-up pictures of the interior of a comet—about which we now know close to nothing—but also, astonishingly, return a piece of a comet to the planet Earth. The practical advantages and the romance of solar sailing are both evident in this example, and it is clear that it represents not just a new mission but a new interplanetary technology. Because the development of solar-sailing technology is behind that of ion propulsion, it is the latter that may propel us on our first missions to the comets. Both propulsion mechanisms have their place in future interplanetary travel. But in the long term I believe solar sailing will make the greater impact. Perhaps by the early twenty-first century there will be interplanetary regattas competing for the fastest time from Earth to Mars.

  Mars Rovers. Before the Viking mission, no terrestrial spacecraft had successfully landed on Mars. There had been several Soviet failures, including at least one which was quite mysterious and possibly attributable to the hazardous nature of the Martian landscape. Thus, both Viking 1 and Viking 2 were, after painstaking efforts, successfully landed in two of the dullest places we could find on the Martian surface. The lander stereo cameras showed distant valleys and other inaccessible vistas. The orbital cameras showed an extraordinarily varied and geologically exuberant landscape which we could not examine close up with the stationary Viking lander. Further Martian exploration, both geological and biological, cries out for roving vehicles capable of landing in the safe but dull places and wandering hundreds or thousands of kilometers to the exciting places. Such a rover would be able to wander to its own horizon every day and produce a continuous stream of photographs of new landscapes, new phenomena and very likely major surprises on Mars. Its importance would be improved still further if it operated in tandem with a Mars polar orbiter which would geochemically map the planet, or with an unmanned Martian aircraft which would photograph the surface from very low altitudes.

  Titan Lander. Titan is the largest moon of Saturn and the largest satellite in the solar system (see Chapter 13). It is remarkable for having an atmosphere denser than that of Mars and is probably covered with a layer of brownish clouds composed of organic molecules. Unlike Jupiter and Saturn, it has a surface on which we can land, and its deep atmosphere is not so hot as to destroy the organic molecules. A Titan entry-probe and lander mission would probably be part of a Saturn orbital mission, which might also include a Saturn entry probe.

  Venus Orbital Imaging Radar. The Soviet Venera 9 and 10 missions have returned the first close-up photographs of the surface of Venus. Because of the permanent cloud pall, the surface features of Venus are not visible through Earth-bound optical telescopes. However, Earth-based radar and the radar system aboard the small Pioneer Venus orbiter have now begun to map Venus surface features, and have revealed mountains and craters and volcanoes as well as stranger morphology. A proposed Venus orbital imaging radar would provide pole-to-pole radar pictures of Venus with much higher detail than can be achieved from the surface of the Earth, and would permit a preliminary reconnaissance of the Venus surface comparable to that achieved for Mars in 1971-72 by Mariner 9.

  Solar Probe. The Sun is the nearest star, the only one we are likely to be able to examine close up, at least for many decades. A near approach to the Sun would be of great interest, would help in understanding its influence on Earth, and would also provide vital additional tests of such theories of gravitation as Einstein’s General Theory of Relativity. A solar probe mission is difficult for two reasons: the energy required to undo the Earth’s (and the probe’s) motion around the Sun so it can fall into the Sun, and the intolerable heating as the probe approaches the Sun. The first problem can be solved by launching the spacecraft out to Jupiter and then using Jupiter’s gravitation to fling it into the Sun. Since there are many asteroids interior to Jupiter’s orbit, this might possibly be a useful mission for studying asteroids as well. An approach to the second problem, at first sight remarkable for its naïveté, is to fly into the Sun at night. On Earth, nighttime is of course merely the interposition of the solid body of the Earth between us and the Sun. Likewise for a solar probe. There are some asteroids that come rather close to the Sun. A solar probe would approach the Sun in the shadow of a Sun-grazing asteroid (meanwhile making observations of the asteroid as well). Near the point of closest approach of the asteroid to the Sun, the probe would emerge from the asteroidal shadow and plunge, filled with a fluid that resists heating, as deeply into the atmosphere of the Sun as it could until it melted and vaporized—atoms from the Earth added to the nearest star.

  Manned Missions. As a rule of thumb, a manned mission costs from fifty to a hundred times more than a comparable unmanned mission. Thus, for scientific exploration alone, unmanned missions, employing machine intelligence, are preferred. However, there may well be reasons other than scientific for exploring space—social, economic, political, cultural or historical. The manned missions most frequently talked about are space stations orbiting the Earth (and perhaps devoted to harvesting sunlight and transmitting it in microwave beams down to an energy-starved Earth), and a permanent lunar base. Also being discussed are rather grand schemes for the construction of permanent space cities in Earth orbit, constructed from lunar or asteroidal materials. The cost of transporting materials from such low-gravity worlds as the Moon or an asteroid to Earth orbit is much less than transporting the same materials from our high-gravity planet. Such space cities might ultimately be self-propagating—new ones constructed by older ones. The costs of these large manned stations have not yet been estimated reliably, but it seems likely that all of them—as well as a manned mission to Mars—would cost in the $100 billion t
o $200 billion range. Perhaps such schemes will one day be implemented; there is much that is far-reaching and historically significant in them. But those of us who have fought for years to organize space ventures costing less than one percent as much may be forgiven for wondering whether the required funds will be allocated, and whether such expenditures are socially responsible.

  However, for substantially less money, an important expedition that is preparatory for each of these manned ventures could be mustered—an expedition to an Earth-crossing carbonaceous asteroid. The asteroids occur mostly between the orbits of Mars and Jupiter. A small fraction of them have trajectories that carry them across Earth’s orbit and occasionally within a few million miles of the Earth. Many asteroids are mainly carbonaceous—with large quantities of organic materials and chemically bound water. The organic matter is thought to have condensed in the very earliest stages of the formation of the solar system from interstellar gas and dust, some 4.6 billion years ago, and their study and comparison with cometary samples would be of extraordinary scientific interest. I do not think that materials from a carbonaceous asteroid are likely to be criticized in the same way that the Apollo returned lunar samples were—as being “only” rocks. Moreover, a manned landing on such an object would be an excellent preparation for the eventual exploitation of resources in space. And finally, landing on such an object would be fun: because the gravity field is so low, it would be possible for an astronaut to do a standing high jump of about ten kilometers. These Earth-crossing objects, which are being discovered at a rapidly increasing pace, are called—by a name selected long before manned spaceflight—the Apollo objects. They may or may not be the dead husks of comets. But whatever their origin, they are of great interest. Some of them are the easiest objects in space for humans to get to, using only the Shuttle technology, which will be available in another few years.

  THE SORTS of missions I have outlined are well within our technological capability and require a NASA budget not much larger than the present one. They combine scientific and public interest, which very often share coincident objectives. Were such a program carried out, we would have made a preliminary reconnaissance of all the planets and most of the moons from Mercury to Uranus, made a representative sampling of asteroids and comets, and discovered the boundaries and contents of our local swimming hole in space. As the finding of rings around Uranus reminds us, major and unexpected discoveries are waiting for us. Such a program would also have made the first halting steps in the utilization of the solar system by our species, tapping the resources on other worlds, arranging for human habitation in space, and ultimately reworking or terraforming the environments of other planets so that human beings can live there with minimal inconvenience. Human beings will have become a multi-planet species.

  The transitional character of these few decades is evident. Unless we destroy ourselves, it is clear that humanity will never again be restricted to a single world. Indeed, the ultimate existence of cities in space and the presence of human colonies on other worlds will make it far more difficult for the human species to self-destruct. It is clear that we have entered, almost without noticing it, a golden age of planetary exploration. As in many comparable cases in human history, the opening of horizons through exploration is accompanied by an opening of artistic and cultural horizons. I do not imagine that many people in the fifteenth century ever wondered if they were living in the Italian Renaissance. But the hopefulness, the exhilaration, the opening of new ways of thought, the technological developments, the goods from abroad, and the deprovincialization of that age were then apparent to thoughtful men and women. We have the ability and the means and—I very much hope—the will for a comparable endeavor today. For the first time in human history, it is within the power of this generation to extend the human presence to the other worlds of the solar system—with awe for their wonders, and a thirst for what they have to teach us.

  PART IV

  THE FUTURE

  CHAPTER 17

  “WILL YOU WALK

  A LITTLE FASTER?”

  “Will you walk a little faster?” said a whiting to

  a snail,

  “There’s a porpoise close behind us,

  and he’s treading on my tail.”

  LEWIS CARROLL,

  Alice in Wonderland

  FOR MUCH OF human history we could travel only as fast as our legs would take us—for any sustained journey, only a few miles an hour. Great journeys were undertaken, but very slowly. For example, 20,000 or 30,000 years ago, human beings crossed the Bering Strait and for the first time entered the Americas, gradually working their way down to the southernmost tip of South America, in Tierra del Fuego, where Charles Darwin encountered them on the memorable voyage of H.M.S. Beagle. A concerted and single-minded effort of a dedicated band to walk from the straits between Asia and Alaska to Tierra del Fuego might have succeeded in a matter of years; in fact, it probably took thousands of years for diffusion of the human population to carry it so far south.

  The original motivation for traveling fast must have been, as the whiting’s plaint reminds us, to escape from enemies and predators, or else to seek enemies and prey. A few thousand years ago a remarkable discovery was made: the horse can be domesticated and ridden. The idea is a very peculiar one, the horse not having been evolved for humans to ride. If looked at objectively, it is only a little less silly than, say, an octopus riding a grouper. But it worked and—especially after the invention of the wheel and the chariot—horseback or horse-drawn vehicles represented for millennia the most advanced transportation technology available to the human species. One can travel as much as 10 or perhaps even 20 miles an hour with horse technology.

  We have emerged from horse technology only very recently—as, for example, our use of the term “horsepower” to rate automobile engines clearly shows. An engine rated at 375 horsepower has very roughly the pulling capacity of 375 horses. A team of 375 horses would make a very interesting sight. Arrayed in ranks of five horses each, the team would extend for about two-tenths of a mile in length and would be astonishingly unwieldy. On many roads the front rank of horse would be out of sight of the driver. And, of course, 375 horses do not travel 375 times as fast as one horse. Even with enormous teams of horses the speed of transportation was only ten or so times faster than when we could depend upon only our legs.

  Thus the changes of the last century in transportation technology are striking. We humans have relied on legs for millions of years; horses for thousands; the internal-combustion engine for less than a hundred; and rockets for transportation for a few decades. But these products of human inventive genius have enabled us to travel on the land and on the surface of the waters a hundred times faster than we can walk, in the air a thousand times faster, and in space more than ten thousand times faster.

  It used to be that the speed of communication was the same as the speed of transportation. There were a few fast communication methods earlier in our history—for example, signal flags or smoke signals or even one or two attempts at arrays of signal towers with mirrors employed to reflect sunlight or moonlight from one to another. News of the recapture of the Fortress of Györ by Hungarian commandos from the Turks was apparently conveyed to the Hapsburg Emperor Rudolf II through such a device: the “moonbeam telegraph,” invented by the English astrologer John Dee, which apparently consisted of ten relay stations placed at intervals of forty kilometers between Györ and Prague. But with only a few exceptions, these methods proved impractical, and communications proceeded no faster than a man or a horse. This is no longer true. Communication by telephone and radio is now at the velocity of light—186,000 miles per second, or about two-thirds of a billion miles per hour. This is not simply the latest advance: it is the last advance. So far as we know, from Einstein’s Special Theory of Relativity, the universe is constructed in such a way (at least around here) that no material object and no information can be transmitted faster than the velocity of light. This is not an
engineering barrier like the so-called sound barrier, but a fundamental cosmic speed limit built deeply into the fabric of nature. Still, two-thirds of a billion miles per hour is fast enough for most practical purposes.

  What is remarkable is that in communications technology we have already reached this ultimate limit and have adapted to it so well. There are few people who emerge breathless and palpitating from a routine longdistance telephone call, astounded at the speed of transmission. We take this almost instantaneous means of communication for granted. Yet in transportation technology, while we have not achieved speeds at all approaching the velocity of light, we find ourselves colliding with other limits, physiological and technological:

  Our planet turns. When it is midday at one spot on the Earth, it is the dead of night on the other side. The Earth has therefore been conveniently arranged into twenty-four time zones of more or less equal width, making strips of longitude around the planet. If we fly very fast, we create situations our minds can accommodate but our bodies can abide only with great difficulty. It is a commonplace today to fly in relatively short trips westward and arrive before we leave—for example, when we take less than an hour to fly between two points separated by one time zone. When I take a 9 P.M. flight to London, it is already tomorrow at my destination. When I arrive, after a five- or six-hour flight, it is late at night for me but the beginning of the business day at my destination. My body senses something wrong, my circadian rhythms go awry, and it takes a few days to get adjusted to English time. A flight from New York to New Delhi is, in this respect, even more vexing.

  I find it very interesting that two of the most gifted and inventive science-fiction writers of the twentieth century—Isaac Asimov and Ray Bradbury—both refuse to fly. Their minds have come to grips with interplanetary and interstellar spaceflight, but their bodies rebel at a DC-3. The rate of change in transportation technology has simply been too great for many of us to accommodate conveniently.