The Future of Humanity

by Michio Kaku

  The main challenge was figuring out how to carefully control the sequence of small detonations so that the starship could safely ride the wave of nuclear blasts without being destroyed in the process. Different designs for a range of speeds were drawn up. The largest model would be a quarter of a mile in diameter, would weigh eight million metric tons, and would be propelled by 1,080 bombs. On paper, it could attain a velocity of 10 percent of the speed of light and reach Alpha Centauri in forty years. Despite the immense size of this ship, calculations showed that it might just work.

  Critics converged on the idea, however, pointing out that nuclear pulse starships would unleash radioactive fallout. Taylor countered that fallout is created when dirt and the metallic bomb casing become radioactive after the bomb is set off, so it could be avoided if the starship only fired its engine in outer space. But the Test Ban Treaty of 1963 also made it difficult to experiment with miniature atomic bombs. The Orion starship ultimately wound up as a curiosity relegated to old science books.

  DRAWBACKS TO NUCLEAR ROCKETS

  Another reason the project came to a close was that Ted Taylor himself lost interest. I once asked him why he withdrew his support for the effort, since it seemed like a natural use for his talent. He explained to me that to create the Orion would be to produce a new type of nuclear bomb. Although he spent most of his life designing uranium fission bombs, he realized that one day the Orion spacecraft might use powerful, specially designed H-bombs as well.

  These bombs, which release the greatest amount of energy known to science, have gone through three stages of development. The first H-bombs of the 1950s were gigantic devices that required large ships to transport them. For all practical purposes, they would have been useless in a nuclear war. Second-generation nuclear bombs are the small, portable MIRVs, or multiple independently targetable reentry vehicles, that make up the backbone of the U.S. and Russian nuclear arsenals. You can pack ten of them into the nose cone of an intercontinental ballistic missile.

  Third-generation nuclear bombs, sometimes called “designer nuclear bombs,” are, at the moment, still a concept. They could be easily concealed and custom-made for specific battlefields—for example, the desert, the forest, the Arctic, or outer space. Taylor told me that he had become disillusioned with the project and feared that terrorists could get hold of them. It would be an unspeakable nightmare for him if his bombs fell into the wrong hands and destroyed an American city. He reflected candidly on the irony of his about-face. He had contributed to a field in which scientists would put pins, each representing a nuclear bomb, in a map of Moscow. But when faced with the possibility that third-generation weapons could put pins in an American city, he suddenly decided to oppose the development of advanced nuclear weapons.

  James Benford informed me that although Taylor’s nuclear pulse rocket never made it off the drawing board, the government actually did produce a series of nuclear rockets. Instead of exploding mini atomic bombs, these rockets used an old-fashioned uranium reactor to generate the necessary heat. (The reactor was used to heat up a liquid, such as liquid hydrogen, to a high temperature, and then shoot it out a nozzle in the back, creating thrust.) Several versions were built and tested in the desert. These reactors were quite radioactive and there was always the danger of a meltdown during the launch phase, which would have been disastrous. Due to an assortment of technical problems as well as growing anti-nuclear sentiment among the public, these nuclear rockets were mothballed.

  FUSION ROCKETS

  The scheme to employ nuclear bombs to propel starships died in the 1960s, but in the wings was another possibility. In 1978, the British Interplanetary Society initiated Project Daedalus. Instead of using uranium fission bombs, Daedalus would use mini H-bombs, which Taylor himself looked at but never developed. (The mini H-bombs of Daedalus are actually small second-generation bombs, not the true third-generation bombs that Taylor had so feared.)

  There are several ways in which to release the power of fusion peacefully. One process, called magnetic confinement, involves placing hydrogen gas in a large magnetic field the shape of a doughnut and then heating it up to millions of degrees. Hydrogen nuclei smash into one another and are fused into helium nuclei, releasing bursts of nuclear energy. The fusion reactor can be used to heat up a liquid, which is then released through a nozzle, thereby propelling the rocket.

  The leading fusion reactor using magnetic confinement at present is called the International Thermonuclear Experimental Reactor (ITER), located in southern France. It is a monstrous machine, ten times bigger than its closest competitor. It weighs 5,110 tons, stands thirty-seven feet tall and sixty-four feet in diameter, and has cost more than $14 billion so far. It is expected to attain fusion by 2035 and ultimately produce five hundred megawatts of heat energy (compared to one thousand megawatts of electricity in a standard uranium nuclear power plant). It is hoped that it will be the first fusion reactor to generate more energy than it consumes. Despite a series of delays and cost overruns, physicists I have talked to are betting that the ITER reactor will make history. We will have our answer before too long. As Nobel laureate Pierre-Gilles de Gennes once said, “We say that we will put the sun into a box. The idea is pretty. The problem is we don’t know how to make the box.”

  Another variation of the Daedalus rocket might be fueled by laser fusion, in which giant laser beams compress a pellet of hydrogen-rich material. This process is called inertial confinement. The National Ignition Facility (NIF), based at the Livermore National Laboratory in California, exemplifies this process. Its battery of laser beams—192 gigantic beams in 4,900-foot-long tubes—is the largest in the world. When the laser beams are focused on a tiny sample of hydrogen-rich lithium deuteride, their energy incinerates the surface of the material, resulting in a mini explosion that causes the pellet to collapse and raises its temperature to one hundred million degrees Celsius. This creates a fusion reaction that unleashes five hundred trillion watts of power in a few trillionths of a second.

  I saw a demonstration of the NIF while hosting a Discovery/Science Channel documentary. Visitors must first pass a series of national security checks, because the U.S. nuclear arsenal is designed at the Livermore Laboratory. When I finally entered, it was overwhelming. A five-story apartment building could easily fit in the main chamber where the laser beams converge.

  One version of Project Daedalus exploits a process similar to laser fusion. Instead of a laser beam, it uses a large bank of electron beams to heat the hydrogen-rich pellet. If 250 pellets are detonated per second, enough energy could conceivably be generated for a starship to reach a fraction of the speed of light. However, this design would require a fusion rocket of truly immense size. One version of the Daedalus rocket would weigh fifty-four thousand metric tons and would be about 625 feet long, with a maximum velocity of 12 percent of the speed of light. It is so big it would have to be constructed in outer space.

  The nuclear fusion rocket is conceptually sound, but fusion power has not yet been demonstrated. Furthermore, the sheer size and complexity of these projected rockets cast doubt on their feasibility, at least in this century. Still, alongside the light sail, the fusion rocket holds the most promise.

  This image shows the comparative size of the Daedalus fusion starship with the Saturn V rocket. Because of its enormous size, it would most likely have to be assembled in space by robots.  Credit 4

  ANTIMATTER STARSHIPS

  Fifth wave technologies (which include antimatter engines, light sails, fusion engines, and nanoships) may open up exhilarating new horizons for starship design. Antimatter engines, as in Star Trek, may become a reality. They would utilize the greatest energy source in the universe, the direct conversion of matter into energy through matter and antimatter collisions.

  Antimatter is the opposite of matter, meaning that it has the opposite charge. An anti-electron has a positive charge, while an anti-proton has a negative charge. (I tried to investigate antimatter in high school by pla
cing a capsule of sodium-22, which emits anti-electrons, in a cloud chamber and photographing the beautiful tracks left by the antimatter. Then I constructed a 2.3-million-electron volt betatron particle accelerator in the hope of analyzing antimatter’s properties.)

  When matter and antimatter collide, both are annihilated into pure energy, so the reaction releases energy with 100 percent efficiency. A nuclear weapon, by contrast, is only 1 percent efficient; most of the energy inside a hydrogen bomb is wasted.

  An antimatter rocket would be rather simple in design. The antimatter would be stored in secure containers and fed into a chamber in steady streams. It would combine explosively with ordinary matter in the chamber and result in a burst of gamma rays and X-rays. The energy would then be shot through an opening in the exhaust chamber to create thrust.

  As James Benford remarked to me, antimatter rockets are a favorite concept among science fiction fans, but there are serious problems with building them. For one, antimatter is naturally occurring, but only in relatively small quantities, so we would have to manufacture large amounts of it for use in engines. The first anti-hydrogen atom, with an anti-electron circling around an anti-proton, was created in 1995 at the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) in Geneva, Switzerland. A beam of ordinary protons was produced and shot through a target made of ordinary matter. That collision resulted in a few particles of anti-protons. Huge magnetic fields separated the protons from the anti-protons by driving them in different directions—one bending to the right, the other to the left. The anti-protons were then slowed down and stored in a magnetic trap, where they were combined with anti-electrons to form anti-hydrogen. In 2016, physicists at CERN took anti-hydrogen and analyzed the anti-electron shells that orbit the anti-proton. As expected, they found an exact correspondence between the energy levels of anti-hydrogen and ordinary hydrogen.

  CERN scientists have announced, “If we could assemble all the antimatter we’ve ever made at CERN and annihilate it with matter, we would have enough energy to light a single electric light bulb for a few minutes.” A whole lot more would be needed for a rocket. Also, antimatter is the most expensive form of matter in the world. At today’s prices, a gram would go for about $70 trillion. Currently, it can only be created (in very small amounts) with particle accelerators, which are extremely costly to construct and operate. The Large Hadron Collider (LHC) at CERN is the most powerful particle accelerator in the world and cost more than $10 billion to set up, but it can only produce a very thin beam of antimatter. It would bankrupt the United States to accumulate enough to fuel a starship.

  The giant atom smashers of today are all-purpose machines, used purely as research tools, and are highly inefficient in their production of antimatter. One partial solution might be to establish factories specifically designed to churn it out. In that case, Harold Gerrish of NASA believes that the cost of antimatter could go down to $5 billion per gram.

  Storage presents another difficulty and expense. If you put antimatter in a bottle, sooner or later, it would hit the walls of the bottle and annihilate the container. Penning traps would be needed to enclose it properly. These traps would use magnetic fields to hold atoms of antimatter in suspension and prevent them from coming into contact with the vessel.

  In science fiction, issues of cost and storage are sometimes eliminated by the discovery of a deus ex machina—an anti-asteroid that enables us to mine antimatter cheaply. But this hypothetical scenario raises a complicated question: Where does antimatter come from, anyway?

  Everywhere we look in outer space with our instruments, we see matter, not antimatter. We know this because the collision of one electron with an anti-electron releases a minimum energy of 1.02 million electron volts. This is the fingerprint of an antimatter collision. But when we examine the universe, we detect very little of this type of radiation. Most of the universe we see around us is made of the same ordinary matter we are made of.

  Physicists believe that at the instant of the Big Bang, the universe was in perfect symmetry and there was an equal amount of matter and antimatter. If so, the annihilation between the two would have been perfect and complete, and the universe should be made of pure radiation. Yet here we are, made of matter, which should not be around anymore. Our very existence defies modern physics.

  We have not yet figured out why there is more matter than antimatter in the universe. Only one ten-billionth of the original matter in the early universe survived this explosion, and we are part of it. The leading theory is that something violated the perfect symmetry between matter and antimatter at the Big Bang, but we don’t know what it is. There is a Nobel Prize waiting for the enterprising individual who can solve this problem.

  Antimatter engines are on the short list of priorities for anyone who wants to build a starship. But the properties of antimatter are still almost totally unexplored. It is not known, for example, whether it falls up or down. Modern physics predicts that it should fall down, like ordinary matter. If so, then antigravity would probably not be possible. However, this, along with so much else, has never been tested. Based on cost and our limited understanding, antimatter rockets will probably remain a dream for the next century, unless we happen upon an anti-asteroid drifting in space.

  RAMJET FUSION STARSHIPS

  The ramjet fusion rocket is another enticing concept. It would look like a giant ice cream cone and would scoop up hydrogen gas in interstellar space, then concentrate it in a fusion reactor to generate energy. Like a jet or a cruise missile, the ramjet rocket would be quite economical. Because jets gulp ordinary air, they do not have to carry their own oxidizer, which reduces cost. Since there is an unlimited amount of hydrogen gas in space for fuel, the spaceship should be able to accelerate forever. As with the solar sail, the engine’s specific impulse is infinite.

  The famous novel Tau Zero by Poul Anderson is about a ramjet fusion rocket that suffers a malfunction and cannot shut down. As it accelerates toward the speed of light, bizarre relativistic distortions begin to occur. Time slows down within the rocket, but the universe around it ages as usual. The faster it goes, the slower time beats inside it. To someone on the starship, however, things seem perfectly normal inside, while the universe outside ages rapidly. Eventually, the starship goes so fast that millions of years pass outside the ship as the crew members watch helplessly. After traveling uncounted billions of years into the future, the crew realizes that the universe is no longer expanding but is actually shrinking. The expansion of the universe is finally reversing. The temperature soars as the galaxies begin to come together toward the final Big Crunch. At the end of the story, just as all the stars are collapsing, the rocket ship manages to skim past the cosmic fireball and witness a Big Bang as a new universe is born. As fantastic as this tale may be, its foundations do conform to Einstein’s theory of relativity.

  This image shows a ramjet fusion starship, which scoops up hydrogen from interstellar space and burns it in a fusion reactor.  Credit 5

  Apocalyptic narratives aside, the ramjet fusion engine at first might seem too good to be true. But over the years, a number of possible criticisms have been leveled at it. The scoop might have to be hundreds of miles across, which would be both impractically large and prohibitively costly. The rate of fusion might not produce enough energy to sustain a starship. Dr. James Benson also pointed out to me that our sector of the solar system does not contain enough hydrogen to feed the engines, though perhaps other areas of the galaxy might. Others claim that the drag on a ramjet engine as it moves in the solar wind would exceed its thrust, so it could never reach relativistic velocities. Physicists have tried to modify the design to rectify these disadvantages, but we have a long way to go before ramjet rockets become a realistic option.

  PROBLEMS WITH STARSHIPS

  It should be emphasized that all the starships mentioned so far face other problems associated with traveling near light speed. Asteroid collisions would present a major risk, and even tiny asteroids could pie
rce the hull of the ship. As we mentioned, the space shuttle suffered small nicks and scars from cosmic debris, which probably hit the spacecraft near orbiting velocity, or eighteen thousand miles per hour. Near light speed, however, impacts will take place at many times that velocity, potentially pulverizing the starship.

  In the movies, this hazard is eliminated by powerful force fields that conveniently repel all these micrometeorites—but those unfortunately only exist in the minds of science fiction writers. In reality, electric and magnetic force fields can indeed be generated, but even household objects that are not charged, such as plastic, wood, and plaster, could easily penetrate them. In outer space, tiny micrometeorites, because they are uncharged, cannot be deflected by electric and magnetic fields. And gravitational fields are attractive and extremely weak, so they would not be suitable for the repulsive force fields we would need.

  Braking is another challenge. If you’re zipping through space at a velocity approaching light speed, how do you slow down when you reach your destination? Solar and laser sails depend on the energy of the sun or banks of laser beams, which cannot be used to decelerate the starship. So they may be useful mainly in flyby missions.

  Perhaps the best way to brake nuclear rockets is to turn them around 180 degrees so the thrust is in the opposite direction. However, this strategy would consume roughly half the mission’s thrust to reach the targeted velocity and the other half to slow the rocket down. For solar sails, perhaps the sail can be reversed so that light from the star at the destination can be used to slow down the spacecraft.

  Another issue is that most of these starships capable of carrying astronauts would be hefty and could only be assembled in outer space. Scores of space missions would be required to send the building materials into orbit, and still more to assemble the pieces. To avoid insurmountable expenses, a more economical method of launching missions into space must be devised. That is where the space elevator may come in.