Professional Documents
Culture Documents
Download pdf Earth In Human Hands Shaping Our Planet S Future First Edition Grinspoon ebook full chapter
Download pdf Earth In Human Hands Shaping Our Planet S Future First Edition Grinspoon ebook full chapter
https://textbookfull.com/product/when-we-are-no-more-how-digital-
memory-is-shaping-our-future-first-edition-rumsey/
https://textbookfull.com/product/our-psychiatric-future-nikolas-
s-rose/
https://textbookfull.com/product/a-human-s-guide-to-machine-
intelligence-how-algorithms-are-shaping-our-lives-and-how-we-can-
stay-in-control-kartik-hosanagar/
https://textbookfull.com/product/seeing-our-planet-whole-a-
cultural-and-ethical-view-of-earth-observation-1st-edition-harry-
eyres-auth/
Future Energy: Improved, Sustainable and Clean Options
for Our Planet 3rd Edition Trevor M. Letcher (Editor)
https://textbookfull.com/product/future-energy-improved-
sustainable-and-clean-options-for-our-planet-3rd-edition-trevor-
m-letcher-editor/
https://textbookfull.com/product/earth-portrait-of-a-planet-6th-
edition-stephen-marshak/
https://textbookfull.com/product/with-stones-in-our-hands-
writings-on-muslims-racism-and-empire-1st-edition-sohail-
daulatzai/
https://textbookfull.com/product/infectious-diseases-and-our-
planet-5th-edition-rolf-torstendahl/
https://textbookfull.com/product/earth-materials-components-of-a-
diverse-planet-1st-edition-dexter-perkins/
Copyright
Hachette Book Group supports the right to free expression and the
value of copyright. The purpose of copyright is to encourage writers
and artists to produce the creative works that enrich our culture. The
scanning, uploading, and distribution of this book without permission
is a theft of the author’s intellectual property. If you would like
permission to use material from the book (other than for review
purposes), please contact permissions@hbgusa.com. Thank you for
your support of the author’s rights.
Grand Central Publishing
Hachette Book Group
1290 Avenue of the Americas, New York, NY 10104
grandcentralpublishing.com
twitter.com/grandcentralpub
The publisher is not responsible for websites (or their content) that
are not owned by the publisher.
ISBN 978-1-4555-8913-5
E3-20161018-JV-NF
Contents
Cover
Title Page
Copyright
Dedication
Epigraph
Introduction
Photos
Acknowledgments
About the Author
Also by David Grinspoon
Art Credits
Notes
Newsletters
For Jennifer, who always makes me feel that
I am in good hands.
With all the will in the world
Diving for dear life
When we could be diving for pearls.
—Elvis Costello, “Shipbuilding”
Introduction
And you may ask yourself, well, how did I get here?
—Talking Heads, “Once in a Lifetime”
Sidewalk Wisdom
For the past two years I’ve been living in a carriage house on Capitol
Hill, seven minutes’ walk from my office in the Library of Congress.
It’s a leafy, gentrified neighborhood of colorfully painted restored
Victorian brick houses, and on sunny weekend days you can score all
manner of quality household items on the wide cobbled sidewalks,
choice stuff left free for the taking by residents too generous or busy
to dispose of them otherwise. The boxes of books that appear
weekly along East Capitol Street (a stack of used baby manuals, a
pile of tomes on population dynamics from a year at an NGO,
discarded cookbooks from someone’s vegan phase) provide
irresistible glimpses of the lives in these handsome Washington
homes, and occasional serendipitous enlightenment.
Once, on Seventh Street, I spotted a sky-blue book lying on the
redbrick curb. Upon approach, I saw it was Anatomy of the Sacred:
An Introduction to Religion (sixth edition), by James C. Livingston,
conspicuously folded open to a specific page. A message of some
sort? I brushed off the dirt and read:
Whatever the cause of our unease and strife, few thoughtful persons would
deny that we humans have, over the millennia, sensed a tragic flaw, a
falling short of our potential, a missing the mark of life as it was meant to
be or should be. Something, we feel, is “out of joint.”
cells can drown their individuality and abandon their free-living abilities in
order to form a multicellular organism, which may be as simple as a
flatworm, or as complicated as a giant sequoia, a whale or a man.
He points out, however, that the hierarchy does not end there. A
multicellular organism by itself is often useless. It needs others to
survive and propagate. All but the simplest reproduce sexually. Many
are dependent for their survival on more complex social
arrangements: a herd, a school, a flock, or, in our case, a tribe or
society. Some (for example, the social insects) have such tight
interdependence with other individuals that they form what might be
called superorganisms, and in those cases, it may legitimately be
questioned whether individuality resides in the organism or the hive.
Just as we individual humans are multicellular organisms, each an
exquisite arrangement of forty trillion cells, with the whole being
greater than the sum of its parts, so we cannot fully manifest our
humanity, or survive for long, without joining together to form larger
associations. Asimov sums it up:
A Curious Anti-Accretion
The birth of Earth was fast and rough. In thirty million years, tops,
nearly every bit of our planet came crashing down from space,
falling together in a violent coalescence we call accretion.
In that same brief flurry, all the planets of our solar system self-
assembled, congealing out of the dusty, spinning disk swaddling the
infant Sun. In the surrounding blackness the swirling hot mess
radiated and cooled. The temperature plummeted, and it started to
snow. Sticky flakes of ice, rock, and metal clumped together into
dirty snowballs. These grew slowly and randomly, until they were big
enough to feel one another’s presence. With the encouragement of
gravity, the growth quickened. Pebbles gathered into cobbles, then
boulders, then “planetesimals,” little planets up to a thousand
kilometers across. As these more massive bodies threw their weight
around, the smash-ups gathered speed. Ever more furious collisions
annihilated most planetary contenders and added their remains to
the few survivors. Soon only a handful of new worlds were left,
traumatized, orbiting the Sun amid a dwindling swarm of leftover
debris.
With the accretionary scrum seemingly complete, four rocky
worlds remained in the “habitable zone,” the band of space favorable
to surface water, where the Sun is close enough to melt ice but far
enough away not to boil oceans. Of these final four, two were Venus-
size and two Mars-size. Yet the orbits were not entirely settled, and
there was still to be one very nasty encounter. With a furious,
glancing blow, one of the smaller, Mars-size orbs smashed into one
of the larger, Venus-size ones. Earth was made in this last
apocalyptic collision, which spat an incandescent shower of melted
and vaporized rock into an orbiting ring of fire that soon condensed
into our freakishly large and close moon. After this final calamity,
there remained Venus, Earth, and Mars, three newborn planets
where oceans might gather and linger.
Largely molten from their fiery formation, thoroughly pocked with
craters, and blanketed with hot steam, these newborn sibling worlds
began to solidify and cool. The inner solar system was largely
cleared of planet-forming bodies, but for another half billion years a
diminishing fusillade of late hits would randomly trigger relapses to
the primordial, molten state. In the calmer interregnums, various
worldly activities commenced. Volcanoes erupted, storms raged,
rivers flowed, and oceans filled. For a time, each of these three
planets enjoyed a nearly identical childhood, with warm water
lapping promising chemicals onto virgin rocks under the light of a
faint young sun. Yet each would soon suffer a catastrophic change
and head down its own unique path.
And on this one world, the one in the middle with the looming
oversized moon, organic molecules at play along the shores and
vents of the new oceans stumbled into configurations that could
replicate themselves. That replication changed everything. These
carbon copies enabled chemical memory, so that good designs
persisted and better ones prevailed. This planet enmeshed itself in
an evolving sequence of changing forms, enfolding and transmuting
the entire surface and atmosphere. This planet came to life.
Eventually, four billion years later, again came something
completely new: novel, stark, inorganic geometries began quickly
remaking the surface. Suddenly, the nightside lit up in bright,
spreading webs. Then there was a curious anti-accretion: some
pieces of Earth, in seeming defiance of the laws of gravity, started
launching themselves back out into the surrounding space from
whence everything had once quickly fallen.
To Distant Climes
I don’t know if space junkies are born or made, but my timing was
good. Humans have, for fifty-three years at this writing, been
launching small probes packed with instruments to investigate the
other planets of our solar system. My life fits neatly into this new
age of exploration. Space travel and planets were my obsessions
from a very young age. Mariner 2, the first successful interplanetary
spacecraft, arrived at Venus a week before I turned three, in
December 1962. I don’t remember that, but I sure remember Uncle
Carl (Sagan) showing up at our house when I was nine with glossy
eight-by-tens of the new pictures sent back from Mars by Mariner 6
and 7, depicting abundant craters and none of the fabled canals.
And I recall, from when I was eleven, the saga of Mariner 9, in
which the true, haunting, faded glory of Mars was finally revealed.
I don’t believe our destinies are written in the stars or planets,
but these early exposures to interplanetary mysteries had a strong
effect on me. Despite the occasional temptation to put aside
scientific instruments for musical ones, I was irresistibly lured by the
siren songs of Titan, Iapetus, and Aphrodite, and I followed them
from childhood fixation to adult profession as a comparative
planetologist. It is a young field, a by-product (more than we like to
admit) of the Cold War development of launch vehicles that allowed
us to start lobbing scientific instruments toward the other planets in
the 1960s.
Before we actually visited our neighboring worlds, prevailing
viewpoints held that their climates were not so different from that of
Earth. Many scientists argued that Venus was a water world, that the
thick clouds enshrouded a lush, tropical, and possibly verdant planet.
Mars was believed to be somewhat colder than Earth, with a thinner
atmosphere, but pre–space age descriptions of the Red Planet often
hinted or stated that the seasonally shifting surface features seen
through telescopes were signs of vegetation.
Spacecraft data woke us rudely from these sweet dreams of
almost-home. Early results from other planets carried sobering hints
about the extremes that climate change can take. The very first
thing we learned from any spacecraft at another planet, the first
result from Mariner 2 at Venus, was that Earth’s sister is absurdly
hot. Venus was radiating a frightening amount of heat from its
surface. It took years, and several more missions, before we realized
the true extremity of the Venusian climate. The Soviet Union had a
remarkable string of fruitful Venus missions in the 1970s, including
the only successful landings on that planet (still, to date), which left
no doubt that Venus is an oven world, with a surface where no liquid
water or living matter could exist. Heat is the enemy of complex
organic molecules, and the stuff we’re made of doesn’t stand a
chance anywhere within twenty-five miles of that searing surface.
Yet early spacecraft results also hinted that Venus is a planet with a
past, one that was likely cooler and wetter. We began to see Venus
as a place where planetary climate had started off like Earth’s but
had gone completely off the rails, into the hot zone.
In July 1965, Mariner 4 became the first Earth craft to fly by
Mars. The pictures showed a lunar-like, barren landscape of craters
and—not much else, just craters. Again, naïve expectations of a
place where our kind of life could thrive were found wanting. The
exploration continued, and after several flyby missions that only
snapped pictures of small areas, Mariner 9 was launched to Mars in
1971 with a promise to become the first spacecraft to orbit another
planet, allowing us systematically to photograph the entire surface.
Mariner 9 made it there and entered orbit successfully—a bold
new feat. Its global view had long been eagerly anticipated. So
when the camera was finally turned on and the first images beamed
down to Earth, scientists were amazed to see… absolutely nothing:
just a bland, featureless, fuzzy disk.
There was nothing wrong with the camera. Rather, Mars was in
the throes of a global dust storm. Every Martian year, when it is
Southern Hemisphere summer, large storms erupt. Afternoon winds
stir up thick clouds of dust, much as they do in Arizona. Dust
absorbs sunlight, which further heats the summer air, driving faster
winds, which whip up more dust. A Martian dust storm can quickly
grow into a vast regional tempest, visible from orbit or even from
Earth. Once in a while, every few years, a storm grows and grows
until it becomes a planet-shrouding monster, engulfing and
obscuring all of Mars.
We didn’t know about this when Mariner 9 showed up at the peak
of one of these events, much to the astonishment of the mission
scientists. They watched in wonderment and relief as, over a period
of several weeks, the dust settled, revealing first the tops of a few
giant volcanoes and, gradually, the rest of the Martian surface. This
episode demonstrated dramatically that weather and climate on
other worlds can be complex and changeable. As we’ll see, the study
of dust storms on Mars soon proved invaluable for understanding
some big mysteries of Earth history as well as some troubling
changes that human technology might yet cause on our planet.
Mariner 9’s orbital mapping mission revealed a much more storied
and mysterious world than earlier missions had suggested. Seen in
its global fullness, Mars is varied, wind-whipped, ice-capped, and
carved by ancient dried-up river channels, giant extinct volcanoes,
and vast antediluvian eroded canyons. These all spoke of a long and
dramatic evolutionary history, and hinted at ancient oases, wet and
fertile, lost across the red sands of time, a promising but vanished
Martian past that, half a century later, we are still seeking.
We began to understand that Mars, like Venus, had suffered
through a climate catastrophe that long ago turned a once-more-
Earth-like planet into an entirely different and more forbidding kind
of place.
In comparison, Earth emerges as the true oddball of local space.
Forested continents, rippling streams, and a flagrantly oxygenated
atmosphere are, we have learned, far beyond the norm in this solar
system. What happened here?
A New Science
Suddenly the planets were no longer just wandering lights in the sky,
but diverse and mysterious locales. They were not just pixels but
places, and the information was pouring in. This data explosion
created a problem. Who was going to interpret it and figure out
what it all means? Who was going to do the science? Nobody had
ever studied other planets up close. It was not something
astronomers did. They were good at using telescopes and studying
stars and galaxies. Interpreting ancient Martian rivers or Venusian
clouds would require—what? Geology? Meteorology? Chemistry?
Geologists didn’t think about Venus and Mars. Nobody was trained to
work on these questions.
Making matters worse, science in the twentieth century had
exploded and splintered into a heap of separate fields, each with its
own specialized knowledge, techniques, culture, and language. Yet
here was a task that required minds ready to bridge these
conceptual fences. This challenge (and the new funding available
from NASA) attracted a small group of intellectually adventurous,
broadly educated young scientists. Gradually the new hybrid field
developed a unified identity and took on a lasting name: planetary
science.
It was still a young field in the early 1980s when I showed up in
Tucson, one of the early hotbeds, to start work on my doctorate.
Arizona’s clear, dry, star-studded skies had drawn Dutch astronomer
Gerard Kuiper, the founder of modern planetary astronomy and one
of Carl Sagan’s mentors, to establish his Lunar and Planetary
Laboratory there, where in 1973 the University of Arizona started the
first Department of Planetary Sciences in the United States.
None of my professors there had degrees in planetary science.
They were the first generation: chemists, physicists, meteorologists,
and geologists; veterans of Apollo and the audacious first missions
to the planets. They were still figuring out what planetary science
was. Now, a generation later, most professionals in the field have
planetary science degrees, so it seems to have become a real thing.
Arizona was a magical place to study planets. In addition to those
profoundly deep skies, the geology is endlessly rich. A highlight of
grad school was the weekend geological field trips spent camping
out in the volcanic fields, steeply faulted mountains, and vast
erosional canyons; learning to connect the outcrops, debris flows,
and cliffs along which we hiked with the bigger, hidden picture of
underground structures, geological maps, rock types, and planetary
Another random document with
no related content on Scribd:
may be possible, it ought to be a certainty, that we will hear
something about the “when” and the “how,” after 1907, we are
supposed to have lost our status as free men and citizens of
America.
CHAPTER XXI
BRIEFS IGNORE THE AMERICAN CITIZEN