by Mike Brown
• • •
The week back on campus was filled with people congratulating me. In the middle of the week, the chair of my department stuck his head in my office and invited me out for a walk. He had known Diane years longer than I had, so I was expecting some sort of congratulations followed by a lecture on how to treat her. “Congratulations,” he started, but surprised me instead with “you now have tenure.”
“Oh,” I remember saying. “Um. Thanks.”
“Thanks? Usually people are a bit more excited to hear this news.”
“Well, it’s only the second-most-exciting news of the week.”
Remarkably, receiving tenure at Caltech turned out to be only the third-most-exciting thing that happened that week. A day after my conversation with the chair of my department, Chad stuck his head in my office, looking no less relaxed than ever (perhaps having just come from surfing across town at Malibu), and said, “We just found something bigger than Pluto in the pictures from last night.”
Bigger than Pluto! This one I remember. Not as calm as Chad, I rushed across the hallway to see the pictures on the computer screen. The night before, the telescope had photographed an anonymous patch of the sky near the Milky Way galaxy, and there amid the thousands of stars was one tiny dot slowly inching across the sky. Chad had determined how far away it was (almost 50 percent farther from us than Pluto), and from that and from the brightness had guessed that the object was probably bigger than Pluto itself. It was certainly the largest new thing that anyone had found in the solar system for more than seventy years. This is what we had been hoping for. Only a dozen people in human history had ever discovered anything bigger going around the sun. It was the second-best thing that had happened to me that week.
Chapter Five
AN ICY NAIL
There is a critical tension in science between the very human desire to announce discoveries immediately (both because you are excited about them and because you don’t want to be scooped by someone else) and the very important need to carefully and systematically check and document your results. In some cases this documentation can take additional years of work. In the case of the new discovery that Chad had told me about, we were quite worried that someone else might stumble upon it in months or even weeks, so we put together a plan to try to learn everything we could about it in as short a time as possible, and we set ourselves a deadline of only four months to make an announcement, complete with a full scientific account of the discovery and anything else we could learn. For me, those months of trying not to tell anyone about our discovery was harder, even, than not telling Diane that I had had a ring in my pocket all along.
During this time, we decided that rather than repeating “the object that we just discovered,” we should give it a temporary name. We settled on Object X. “X” was for Planet X, for unknown, and, perhaps, for tenth planet.
As scientists, we were eager to know everything about Object X, but the first question on our minds, the one that would put everything else into context, was: What sort of orbit did Object X have? Did it go in a circle around the sun like the planets, or did it have an elongated orbit like Pluto and the other objects in the Kuiper belt? To answer this, we would have to track the object through its orbit and learn where it went. This would take time and patience. Pluto, after all, takes 255 years to go around the sun. Object X, farther away, would take even longer. But time and patience were two things we could not afford. Fortunately, though, we didn’t need to wait hundreds of years. We don’t actually have to follow an object all the way around its orbit to know where it is going to go (a good thing, since we’ve still watched Pluto for only a little more than a quarter of its orbit). If something is moving under the influence of gravity alone, we need only to know precisely where the object is, precisely how fast it is going, and precisely what direction it is moving in to know where it was at all times in the past and where it will be in the future.
Even if you don’t know how to work out the math yourself, your brain certainly does. Try this experiment. Stand in a field and have someone thirty feet away throw a ball in your direction (using a foam ball would be a good idea, as will become obvious). The second you see the throw, close your eyes and see if you can figure out where and when the ball is going to hit the ground. Chances are you’ll do pretty well. Your brain is instinctively trained to quickly estimate the three key things—where, how fast, which direction—and predict where a projectile is going to go. But chances are you will not be precisely correct. The ball will probably land a little to the side, or a little later than you predict. That will be because you looked at the ball for only an instant, and your brain could not discern the speed or direction or location as accurately as you needed. Watching the ball a little longer before you close your eyes would improve your predictions. In the end, closing your eyes is never a good way to actually catch the ball, because at that point you want your estimate of where the ball is going to land to be accurate to a few inches, but if you just want a good indication of the ball’s general movement, those first few moments of observing will suffice.
Object X is just like that ball being thrown. It is affected only by the force of gravity (the earth’s gravity for the ball, the sun’s gravity for Object X), so once we know where it is, how fast it is going, and the direction of motion, we know everything we need to know to be able to follow its orbit forever. Those first three hours that we had already seen, however, were like the very instant that someone threw a ball. If that’s all you get to see, your estimate of where the ball is going will not be very accurate. We needed to keep our eye on the ball for a little more time before we knew the actual orbit of Object X.
In general, to understand the orbit of something so far away takes about a year’s worth of precise observations. We couldn’t wait a year. While we tried hard not to lose sleep at night thinking about someone else discovering Object X while we were still studying it, I would pick up the newspaper almost every morning with dread in my stomach. We were determined to wait long enough to write an accurate and thorough scientific paper on Object X, but we wanted to wait not a minute longer, for fear of being scooped. Wait until next year? No way.
Luckily, we didn’t actually have to wait a year in the future. We could, instead, go back a year in the past. Many astronomers have taken many pictures of the sky over time, and perhaps we could find Object X there; by now, there were even online repositories of many of these images. Chad and I set to work in our separate offices across the hall from each other, probably looking at the exact same online pictures. I’ve heard stories of different parts of the same scientific team working in parallel on the same problem as a way of double-checking an important result, but I must admit, the fact that Chad and I were doing the same thing at the same time had nothing to do with double-checking. Looking back through the archive photos was simply so much fun that we both wanted to do it.
Here’s how it worked, at least on my side of the hallway. First, I did the best calculation of where Object X was going and predicted where it should have been on a particular date a few months earlier. I then searched the archive for images at that position. Not surprisingly, there were none taken on the particular date I was looking for, but there were some taken a few weeks earlier. I went back and calculated the position of Object X for a few weeks earlier, and luckily, the position was right on that image. I downloaded the image from the archive and displayed it on my computer. The picture was full of indistinguishable stars. How could I know which was Object X? The only way to distinguish our discovery from the many, many stars in the sky was to see it move. But there was only one picture from that night, so there was no way to see it move. I could, however, go back to the archive and find a picture of that part of the sky taken a year earlier. Object X was moving, so a year earlier it would have been somewhere else entirely. I compared the pictures from the night when Object X was supposed to be there to the earlier pictures. It’s easy on the computer; you just line the pictur
es up, press a few buttons, and the two pictures blink back and forth like a very short and repetitive movie. The two pictures were nearly identical. The stars and the galaxies had not changed at all over the year. But there, in the middle of the more recent picture, was a new starlike object that hadn’t been there the year before.
That was what I was looking for; I still couldn’t tell for sure that it was an object that was moving, but it certainly was one that hadn’t been visible a year earlier. There are many things in the sky that can appear where they weren’t seen before—stars that get brighter, stars that explode—so I didn’t know for sure if this was our Object X or not. But if I assumed it was, I could calculate a little better where the object was going. With this more refined calculation, I could figure out where Object X should have been yet another full year earlier. I then restarted the whole process. Look for a picture in the right place; realize it is not quite the right time; revise the time; find the place; find an earlier comparison; look for something new. There it was! Right where I had predicted! I ran across the hall to tell Chad I had found Object X from a year earlier. He had found it a few minutes before me and was already looking for pictures from two years earlier. We were racing down the right trail.
We quickly followed Object X back for about three years, which was the limit of the data we could find online in the archive. While we were sitting in my office pondering what we might do next, Chad wondered aloud if perhaps Object X might be found on Charlie Kowal’s plates. Ah yes. Charlie Kowal’s plates.
Most of us have a blind spot, something we can’t see even though it is right in front of us. Charlie Kowal’s plates were directly in my blind spot. I knew about them but preferred not to think about them. Why? Kowal had, years earlier, proved that there were no planets out past Pluto. Since this information did not fit well into my view of the solar system, I chose not to think about it.
Charlie Kowal was an astronomer who had worked at Palomar Observatory in the 1970s and 1980s. He had decided to do something that no one had ever tried before: use the Palomar 48-inch Schmidt Telescope to find a planet beyond Pluto. At the time, Planet X was generally expected to exist (this was the 1970s, before the alleged evidence for the influence of Planet X on the outer planets had been thoroughly discredited), the 48-inch Schmidt was designed to cover large areas of the sky, and no one had mounted a serious search since Clyde Tombaugh. Thirty years later I would tell other astronomers about my search for planets, and they would frequently look at me critically and say, “Charlie Kowal did that thirty years ago, and he showed there was nothing there.”
I had reasons for ignoring the critical astronomers. Kowal had, indeed, done almost exactly the same thing, but thirty years earlier he hadn’t had computers around to do all of the searching for him. He had to look at each pair of photographic plates by eye and slowly search for anything that looked as though it moved from one night to the next. This was the job that I had calculated would have taken me forty years to accomplish, yet Kowal had done it all in something like a decade and in his spare time. I was banking on the fact that the only way Kowal could have looked at so much sky was if he went very quickly and paid attention to only the brightest objects on his photos. The fainter objects might actually be on his photos, but they would have slipped through his net. Many of my fellow astronomers weren’t convinced by this argument and thought instead that I was off on a wishful-thinking fantasy chase. Chad’s discovery of Object X made it clear that they were wrong in principle, and we now had a chance to see if they were wrong in practice. From published records, we found that Kowal had pointed the telescope directly at the predicted position of Object X on the nights of May 17 and 18, 1983. If we could find Object X in those pictures, we would have a twenty-year-old position for Object X, and we would then know its full orbit exquisitely.
Kowal’s photographic plates—and all of the other plates from fifty years of historic photographic work at Palomar Observatory—should have been stored in the airtight humidity-controlled halon-protected vault in the basement of the astronomy building next door to me on the Caltech campus. I went down to the vault, opened the lock, and peered inside, not sure exactly how I was going to find the specific photographic plates I needed among the thousands that were in there. The vault was in general disarray—no one had really used the photographic plates for a long while—but after letting my eyes adapt to the dim lights I could see that the place was laid out like library stacks, with the photographic plates in large manila envelopes arranged like books on the shelves, but by date rather than by author. I excitedly walked down the rows until I found 1983, and then I ducked into the aisle and looked up to where May should be, anxiously wondering what condition the plates would be in. But there were no plates. There was nothing. May of 1983—and several months before and after—were blank spots on the shelves, with little more than years-old dust. If the plates were misfiled, or perhaps had never been filed, the chances of my randomly coming across them in the vast vault were essentially zero.
That night I called Jean Mueller at Palomar. Jean had been involved with the 48-inch Schmidt Telescope for so long that I thought she might remember the Kowal plates and might know if they had ever been stored. She told me that, by chance, she was going to be down in Pasadena the very next day and would be happy to take a look. That day, the two of us went down to the vault, opened the door, and let our eyes adjust.
“I was down here a while ago, and I think I came across them,” she said as she moved down the stacks. She quickly passed 1983.
“That’s where they’re supposed to be,” I pointed out.
She ignored me, kept walking, and four or five rows later, turned left into an aisle between shelves crammed with manila envelopes full of photographic plates. She walked ten feet, turned right, reached up to the second-to-top shelf, pulled down an envelope, and said, “I think they might be around here someplace.”
She wasn’t quite right. She had put her finger on the plates from May 3, 1983—two weeks earlier than I needed. Our plates were about twenty-two inches to the right.
“How are you going to look at them?” Jean asked.
“Um, well, I was just going to look.”
“You won’t see a thing. Here, you’ll want this.” And she led me back to the front, where some decrepit equipment lay in disarray from decades of neglect. She handed me a light box—an ancient wooden tabletop enclosure with a slightly unsafe-looking power cord that, when plugged in, illuminated a photographic plate placed on top of it so that someone could examine it.
“We used to have a blink comparator”—the same sort of device Clyde Tombaugh had used to discover Pluto—Jean said. “Kowal would have used it on these plates himself. But I think that disappeared twenty years ago. You’ll have to just look back and forth between the two plates and see what you see.”
I put the envelopes containing the plates and the light box on an unstable rolling cart and brought them back to my office, almost knocking them down only once, when I had to push them over the lip and onto the carpeting in my building. I set the box on my table, gingerly plugged it in (carefully moving anything flammable from the vicinity), and flipped the lights on.
The plates were initially deceptive. They are rather heavy fourteen-inch-square pieces of glass kept inside large paper envelopes. When I pulled the first plate out of its envelope, I could see nothing at all except a few little marks apparently made by Kowal himself twenty years earlier, perhaps indicating candidate Planet Xs that he wanted to double-check.
Had the plates turned black with time? Was something wrong?
No, when I put the plate on the light box, I could suddenly see hundreds of stars, with large blank patches between them. I leaned over, my eye a foot away, and realized that each little patch of the sky that had looked blank itself contained hundreds of stars. And when I leaned all the way down and put my eye right up to the plate, I could see, it seemed, the whole universe in a single square inch, with countless tiny sta
rs like glints from diamonds and myriads of swirling galaxies. And on this whole expanse of photographic plate, one of those countless tiny stars was, I believed, not a star, but was Object X and was moving from one night to the next.
I laid the plates from May 17 and 18 next to each other. On the two plates were countless stars, in precisely the same spots from one night to the next. Hiding amid them I was looking for one faint blip—Object X!—that jumped slightly between the nights. Only then, looking at the plates, did I truly realize the enormity of what Clyde Tombaugh had accomplished seventy-two years earlier by picking out Pluto from the stars. My job was easier. I knew roughly where to look on the photographic plate. I compared some of the bright stars to a modern star map, zeroed in on the approximate location, and boxed the area on both nights in felt-tip pen (very erasable from the glass surface). I then pulled out a hand-sized magnifier that was designed to ride over the top of the plates, and I started looking. I would look at one field of stars from the first night and try to memorize where everything was before looking at the second night. Was that star in a different place? Oops, no, I had just not noticed it before. How about that? Nope. Just a scratch on the plate. It took me thirty minutes to search one square inch of the photographic plates—about one-third of 1 percent of the total area—before I finally saw it. A tiny star was there one night but missing the next. And a second tiny star appeared the second night in a place where there was nothing the first night. I let out a scream, and then I forced anyone who walked down the hallway in my building for the next half hour to come in to look at the two spots on the photographic plates and see Object X as it had appeared in 1983.
It really was not surprising that Charlie Kowal had missed this one in 1983. It was a barely visible smudge that had taken me half an hour to find when I knew where to look and knew that there was something there to be found.