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Airy was, by all accounts, an uninspiring but meticulous man. He recorded his every thought and expenditure from the day he went up to Cambridge University to more or less the day he died, throwing no note away, delighting in doing his own double-entry bookkeeping. He applied a similar thoroughness to his stewardship over the Royal Greenwich Observatory, bringing to its workings little interest in theory or discovery but a profound concern for order, which meant that the production of tables for the Admiralty (the core of the observatory’s job) was accomplished with mechanical accuracy. He looked at the heavens and the earth with precision, not wonder, and though he had his fancies, they were fancies in a similar vein – ecstasies of exactitude such as calculating the date of the Roman invasion of Britain from Caesar’s account of the timing of the tides, or meticulously celebrating the geographical accuracy of Sir Walter Scott’s poem ‘The Lady of the Lake’. This was a man whose love of a world where everything was in its place would lead him to devote his own time to sticking labels saying ‘empty’ on empty boxes rather than disturb the smooth efficiency of the observatory by taking an underling from his allotted labours to do so for him. After more than forty-five years of such service Airy eventually retired 200 yards across the park to the White House on Crooms Hill, where he died a decade later.
It’s a little sad that the White House doesn’t carry a blue circular plaque to commemorate Airy’s part in the happiness brought to humanity by a single agreed-upon meridian, but surely there are monuments elsewhere. Maybe Ipswich has an Airy Street; he grew up there and remained fond of the place, arranging for his great transit circle to be made at an Ipswich workshop. There must be a bust of him in the Royal Astronomical Society. Or a portrait in some Cambridge common room. And even if there are none of these things, there is something far grander. Wherever else astronomers go when they die, those who have shown even the faintest interest in the place are welcomed on to the planet Mars, at least in name. By international agreement, craters on Mars are named after people who have studied the planet or evoked it in their creative work – which mostly makes Mars a mausoleum for astronomers, with a few science fiction writers thrown in for spice. In the decades since the craters of Mars were first discovered by space probes, hundreds of astronomers have been thus immortalised. But none of them has a crater more fitting than Airy’s.
A Point of Warlike Light (#ulink_fc42b324-8bd9-5580-b925-edf6203ddeea)
‘I’ve never been to Mars, but I imagine it to be quite lovely.’
Cosmo Kramer, in Seinfeld
(‘The Pilot (I)’, written by Larry David)
Mars had an internationally agreed prime meridian before the earth did. In 1830 the German astronomers Wilhelm Beer and Johann von Mädler, famous now mostly for their maps of the moon, turned their telescope in Berlin’s Tiergarten to Mars. The planet had been observed before. Its polar caps were known, and so was its changeability; the face of Mars varies from minute to minute, due to the earth’s distorting atmosphere, and from season to season, due to quite different atmospheric effects on Mars itself. There are, though, some features that can be counted on to stick around from minute to minute and season to season, the most notable being the dark region now called Syrtis Major, then known as the Hourglass Sea. To calculate the length of the Martian day, Mädler (Beer owned the telescope – Mädler did most of the work) chose another, smaller dark region, precisely timing its reappearance night after night. He got a figure of 24 hours 37 minutes and 9.9 seconds, 12.76 seconds less than the currently accepted figure. That this length of time is so similar to the length of an earthly day is complete coincidence, one of three coincidental similarities between the earth and Mars. The second coincidence is that the obliquity of Mars – the angle that its axis of rotation makes with a notional line perpendicular to the plane of its orbit – is, at 25.2°, very similar to the obliquity of the earth. The third is that though Mars is considerably smaller than the earth – a little more than half its radius, a little more than a tenth its mass – its surface area, at roughly a third of the earth’s, is quite similar to that of the earth’s continents.
When Mädler came to compile his observations into a chart in 1840, mathematically transforming his sketches of the disc of Mars into a rectangular Mercator projection, he declined to name the features he recorded, but did single out the small dark region he had used to time the Martian day as the site of his prime meridian, centring his map on it. Future astronomers followed him in the matter of the meridian while eagerly making good his oversight in the matter of names. Father Angelo Secchi, a Jesuit at the Vatican observatory, turned the light and dark patches into continents and seas, respectively, as astronomers had done for the moon, and gave the resulting geographic features the names of famous explorers – save for the Hourglass Sea, which he renamed the ‘Atlantic Canale’, seeing it as a division between Mars’s old world and its new. In 1867 Richard Proctor, an Englishman who wrote popular astronomy books, produced a nomenclature based on astronomers, rather than explorers, and gave astronomers associated with Mars pride of place. His map has a Mädler Land and a Beer Sea, along with a Secchi Continent. Observations made by the Astronomer Royal in the 1840s – he was interested in making more precise measurements of the planet’s diameter – were commemorated by the Airy Sea. Pride of place went to the Rev. William Rutter Dawes, a Mars observer of ferociously keen eyesight, perceiving, for example, that the dark patch Mädler had used to mark the prime meridian had two prongs. (Dawes’s far-field acuity was allegedly compensated by a visual deficit closer to home; it is said he could pass his wife in the street without recognising her.) So great was Dawes’s influence on Proctor – or so small was the number of astronomers associated with Mars – that his name was given not just to the biggest ocean but also to a Continent, a Sea, a Strait, an Isle and, marking the meridian, his very own Forked Bay.
Proctor’s names had two drawbacks, one immediately obvious, one revealed a decade later. The obvious drawback was that an unhealthy number of the people commemorated on Mars were now British. When the French astronomer Camille Flammarion revised Proctor’s nomenclature for his own map of 1876, various continentals – Kepler, Tycho, Galileo – were given grander markings. One continental on whom Proctor had looked with favour, though, was thrown off: perhaps influenced by the Franco-Prussian war, Flammarion resisted having the most prominent dark patch on the planet called the Kaiser Sea, even if Proctor had named it such in honour of Frederik Kaiser of the Leyden Observatory. The Hourglass Sea became an hourglass again, though this time in French: Mer du Sablier.
Proctor’s other problem was more fundamental. The features he had marked on his map, whatever their names, did not match what other people saw through their telescopes. In 1877, Mars was in the best possible position for observation; it was at its nearest to the sun (a situation called perihelion) and at its nearest to the earth (a situation called opposition), just 56 million kilometres away. Impressive new telescopes all over the world were turned to Mars and revealed its features in more detail than ever before. The maps based on observations made that year were almost all better than Proctor’s; and the map made by Giovanni Schiaparelli, a Milanese astronomer, on the basis of these observations, provided a new nomenclature that overturned all others.
Schiaparelli was not interested in celebrating his peers and forebears; he wanted to give Mars the high cultural tone of the classics. In the words of Percival Lowell, an American astronomer who was to make Mars his life work, it was an ‘at once appropriate and beautiful scheme, in which Clio [muse of poetry and history] does ancillary duty to Urania [muse of astronomy]’. To the west were the lands beyond the pillars of Hercules, such as Tharsis, an Iberian source of silver mentioned by Herodotus, and Elysium, the home of the blessed at the far end of the earth. Beneath them, part of the complex dark girdle strung around Mars below its equator, were the sea of sirens, Mare Sirenum, and Mare Cimmerium, the sea that Homer put next to Hades, ‘wrapped in mist and cloud’. Then we come to the Mediterranean regions: the Tyrrhenian Sea and the Gulf of Sidra (Syrtis Major, the long-observed hourglass) dividing bright Hellas and Arabia. Along the far side of Arabia sits the Sinus Sabeus, a gulf on the fragrant coast of Araby, home to the Queen of Sheba. Beyond Arabia begins the Orient, with Margaritifer Sinus, the bay of pearls on the southern coast of India, and the striking bright lands of Argyre (Burma) and Chryse (Thailand). Finally, in the dark region others had called the eye of Mars, Schiaparelli placed Solis Lacus, the lake of the sun, from which all dawns begin.
Do not think for a moment that this means a good classical education will help you find your way around Mars. For a start, due to the way telescopes invert images, everything is flipped around: Greece is south of Libya, Burma west of Arabia. What’s more, Schiaparelli’s geography was often more allusive than topographical. His planet is 360° of free association. Thus Solis Lacus is surrounded by areas named for others associated with the sun; Phoenix, Daedalus and Icarus. The sea of the sirens borders on the sea of the muses, presumably because Schiaparelli wanted to provide opportunity for their earthly feud to continue. Elysium leads to utopia.
For the most part he did not explain his nominal reasoning very exactly, but there are exceptions, most notably right in the middle of the map, at the point where dark Sinus Sabeus gives way to Sinus Margaritifer, somewhere between Arabia and the Indies, a place he called Fastigium Aryn. ‘As Mädler,’ Schiaparelli wrote, ‘I have taken the zero-point of the areographic longitudes there, and following this idea I have given it the name of Aryn-peak or Aryn-dome, an imaginary point in the Arabian sea – which was long assumed by the Arabic geographers and astronomers as the origin of the terrestrian longitudes.’
By the time he was through with Mars, Schiaparelli had given 304 names to features on its surface and though there was a Proctorite resistance – ‘Dawes’ Forked Bay it will ever be to me, and I trust to all who respect his memory,’ wrote Nathaniel Green, who painted a lovely map of Mars after observing the planet from Madeira during the opposition of 1877 – it foundered. Schiaparelli’s proper names were triumphant and have in large part lasted until today. It was his common nouns that caused the problems. Schiaparelli saw a large number of linear features on the face of the planet and called them ‘canali’ – channels. Schiaparelli claimed to be agnostic as to the nature of these channels – they might have been natural, or they might have been artificial. Percival Lowell, his most famous disciple, plumped firmly for the artificial interpretation.
Lowell’s reasoning went like this. Mars is habitable, but its aridity makes the habitability marginal; if there were intelligences on Mars, they would do something about this; the obvious thing to do would be to build a network of long straight canals. And since this is what we see when we look at Mars, this is what must have happened.
With this leap of the imagination, Lowell created one of the most enduring tropes of science fiction: Mars as a dying planet. It would live on in the works of H. G. Wells, Edgar Rice Burroughs, Leigh Brackett and many, many others. And if his interpretation of what he saw did not win as much favour among his astronomical colleagues as it did in the popular imagination, it was not because the idea of life on Mars seemed too far-fetched. Observations of the way the planet’s brightness and colour seemed to change with the seasons made plant life there seem almost certain; if plants, why not animals and why not intelligence? The most weighty argument against Lowell’s Martians was simply that over time other, better observers consistently failed to see the canals as continuous and linear, if they saw them at all. The lack of evidence of engineering, not the implausibility of life on Mars, was what counted against Lowell – a belief in life on Mars was quite commonplace.
Today this easy acceptance seems rather remarkable. At the beginning of the twenty-first century, when the possibility of life elsewhere has become the central preoccupation of space exploration, its discovery is routinely held up as the most important discovery that could ever be made. What accounts for this change?
A large part of the answer lies in the nature of astronomy. Copernicus’s proposal that the earth was not the centre of the solar system changed the way that astronomers looked at the sky. If the earth was no longer the fixed centre, then it was a wandering star like the five which shuffled back and forth across the zodiac: a planet. Previously unique, now it was one member of a class and must have similarities to its classmates. The world had become a planet and so the planets must become worlds, a process accelerated by the Galilean discovery that, like the earth, the planets were round and had features. In this context it was quite normal to believe that one of the things that the planets had in common was life, especially since, after Copernicus, many astronomers tended to go out of their way to deny the earth any special attributes. As Lowell put it in Mars (1896), ‘That we are the only part of the cosmos possessing what we are pleased to call mind is so earth-centred a supposition, that it recalls the other earth-centred view once so devoutly held, that our little globe was the point about which the whole company of heaven was good enough to turn. Indeed, there was much more reason to think that then, than to think this now, for there was at least the appearance of turning, whereas there is no indication that we are sole denizens of all we survey, and every inference we are not.’ A Copernican stance could easily lead astronomers to the assumption of life, not lifelessness, as the status quo.
Another part of the answer is that in Lowell’s day a belief in life on Mars was largely without consequences. As Alfred Lord Tennyson noted as early as 1886, our astronomical observations of planets and our dreams of what might transpire on them were separated by a vast gulf:
Hesper – Venus – were we native
to that splendour or in Mars,
We should see the Globe we groan in,
fairest of their evening stars.
Could we dream of wars and carnage,
craft and madness, lust and spite,
Roaring London, raving Paris,
In that point of peaceful light?
Life on Mars might be likely, it might be inevitable, it might even be intelligent, but the possibility of people ever actually visiting Mars – or Martians visiting earth – was more or less pure fancy. This made Martians fascinating but not important, rather in the way of dinosaurs – another turn-of-the-century craze. Whatever evidence scientists might find of dinosaurs, or speculations they might produce about them, without a time machine encounters with dinosaurs were impossible. Similarly, without a space machine, encounters with Martians were impossible.
So while there might be intelligent Martians, there could be no links of history or interest between them and us. This gave the Martians an interesting rhetorical niche that they quickly made their own: ‘The man from Mars’ became the quintessential intelligent outsider, unswayed by any relevant prior worldliness, unattached to custom. He retains that position to this very day; his natural habitat is the newspaper op-ed page and other didactic or satirical environments, but he turns up elsewhere, too. Temple Grandin, the highly articulate woman with autism in Oliver Sacks’s An Anthropologist on Mars, applies the titular image to herself as a way of stressing her disassociation from the ways of the world around her; the wonderfully innocent yet artfully contrived metaphors of the poems in Craig Raine’s A Martian Sends a Postcard Home led to a whole school of poetry (if a small one) being dubbed ‘Martianism’. One of the most influential science fiction novels of the twentieth century, Robert Heinlein’s Stranger in a Strange Land, achieves its impact by showing us the earth through the eyes of a true ‘man from Mars’ – a human brought up on Mars by Martians.
Rhetorical devices aside, believing in Martians made little difference to the earthly lives of Lowell’s readers and this, I suspect, is one of the things that made them easy to believe in. Another spur to belief was the difference that the existence of Martian minds made to the way earthly imaginations saw Mars. One of the Copernican ways in which Martians made the planet Mars a world like the earth was that they made it a place experienced from the inside, a site for subjectivity. Without minds, Lowell argued, Mars and the other planets were ‘mere masses of matter’ – places without purpose, frightening voids. With minds, they were worlds.
To Lowell, there was no really useful or involving way to think about a planet except as a world inhabited and experienced by mind. The space age, though, has brought us new ways of seeing beyond the earth and changed our way of thinking about what we see. Our spacecraft, tools of observation but hardly observers in themselves, have shown us things we know cannot be witnessed directly or experienced subjectively, but which can still fascinate. The post-Copernican elision between worlds (structures of shared experience and history) and planets (vast lumps of rock and metal and gas that orbit a fire yet vaster) has been rewritten. Yes, the earth that is our world is also a planet. But not all planets are worlds. We no longer need the point of view of a mythical Martian to imagine Mars, or to convince us that Mars might be worth imagining. Now that our spacecraft have been there we can know it intimately from the outside, know it as an objective body rather than a subjective experience. We can measure and map its elemental composition and its wind patterns and its topography and its atmospheric chemistry and its surface mineralogy. The planet Mars can fascinate us just for what it is.
If the space age has opened new ways of seeing mere matter, though, it has also fostered a strange return to something reminiscent of the pre-Copernican universe. The life that Lowell and his like expected elsewhere has not appeared, and so the earth has become unique again. The now-iconic image of a blue-white planet floating in space, or hanging over the deadly deserts of the moon, reinforces the earth’s isolation and specialness. And it is this exceptionalism that drives the current scientific thirst for finding life elsewhere, for finding a cosmic mainstream of animation, even civilisation, in which the earth can take its place. It is both wonderful and unsettling to live on a planet that is unique.
Yet if the earth is a single isolated planet, the human world is less constrained. The breakdown of the equation between planets and worlds works both ways. If there can now be planets which are not worlds, then there can be worlds that spread beyond planets – and ours is doing so. Our spacecraft and our imaginations are expanding our world. This projection of our world beyond the earth is for the most part a very tenuous sort of affair. It is mostly a matter of imagery and fantasy. Mars, though, might make it real – which is why Mars matters.
Mars is not an independent world, held together by the memories and meanings of its own inhabitants. But nor is it no world at all. More than any other planet we have seen, Mars is like the earth. It’s not very like the earth. Its gravity is weak, its atmosphere thin, its surface sealess, its soil poisonous, its sunlight deadly in its levels of ultraviolet, its climate beyond frigid. It would kill you in an instant. But it is earthlike enough that it is possible to imagine some of us going there and experiencing this new part of our human world in the way we’ve always experienced the old part – from the inside. The fact that humans could feasibly become Martians is the strongest of the links between Mars and the earth.
At the beginning of the space age – at the moment when it became clear to all that Mars might indeed one day be experienced subjectively – the International Astronomical Union stepped in to clean up the planet’s increasingly baroque nomenclature. Thanks to the efforts of Schiaparelli, Lowell and Eugène Michael Antoniadi, whose beautifully drawn charts had become the standard, the planet had come to boast 558 names for an uncertain number of features. In 1958 the IAU experts settled on 128 named regions and features, with 105 of the names coming from Schiaparelli. Then the first spacecraft images came back and the stalwarts of the IAU needed not only more names but also new rules by which names could be assigned. It was at this point that the convention of naming craters for people with an interest in the planet was laid down. Proctor’s astronomical pantheon was reconvened – Dawes, Secchi, Mädler, Beer and the rest of them all got craters, as did Proctor himself.
And in 1972 the International Astronomical Union established for all time the precise location of the Martian meridian. Lacking a transit circle made of good Ipswich steel – or, for that matter, any ancient monuments – the IAU’s working group had to use a natural landmark for their zero. They chose the geometrical centre of a small, nicely rounded crater in the middle of a larger crater fifty-six kilometres across. They called that larger crater Airy.
Mert Davies’s Net (#ulink_8208ae65-cc16-5b62-a51a-90a75aa3e9f2)
There is a passage in the oeuvre of William F. Buckley Jr, in which he remarks that no writer in the history of the world has ever successfully made clear to the layman the principles of celestial navigation. Then Buckley announces that celestial navigation is dead simple, and that he will pause in the development of his narrative to redress forever the failure of the literary class to elucidate this abecederian technology. There and then – and with awesome, intrepid courage – he begins his explication: and before he is through, the oceans are in orbit, their barren shoals are bright with shipwrecked stars.
John McPhee, In Suspect Terrain
It was Merton Davies who put Airy in his prime position. Mert is a kindly man, tall and thin, dignified but rather jolly. Everyone who knows him speaks fondly of him. You might imagine him embodying decent reliability in a Frank Capra film even before learning that he has worked for the same outfit over more than fifty years. But it’s hardly been a small-town life. Mert Davies was one of the pioneers of spy satellites, one of the small cadre of technical experts who changed the facts of geopolitical life by letting cold warriors see the world over which they were at war from a totally new perspective. After that, he became one of only two people to have played an active role in missions to every planet save Pluto.
(#ulink_df90643e-9f4a-5cd1-9f8c-e0f3eb7fc774) He has reshaped – quite literally – the way that earthlings see their neighbours in space. Davies is the man chiefly responsible for the ‘control nets’ of most of the solar system’s planets and moons – complex mathematical corsets that hold the scientific representations of those planetary surfaces together.
The first control net that he created served as the basis for the first maps of Mars made using data from spacecraft, rather than observations from earth. Compiled from fifty-seven pictures sent back when Mariner 6 and Mariner 7 flew past the planet in 1969, that first net tied together 115 points. When I met Davies in his office in Santa Monica thirty years later, his latest Martian control net held 36,397 points from 6320 images. Well into his eighties, Davies was still hard at work augmenting it further.
Davies had been interested in astronomy since boyhood, an interest he had shared with those close to him. In 1942, when he was working for the Douglas Aircraft corporation in El Segundo, California, he started courting a girl named Louise Darling. His interests made their dates a little unusual. Davies had started making a twelve-inch telescope, a demanding project. ‘I had a hard time finishing it,’ he recalls. ‘The amount of grinding it took and the difficulty of polishing that big a surface was a little bit over my head. I would take her with me to polish.’ And so she entered the world of grinding powder and the Foucault test, a simple but wonderfully precise way of gauging a mirror’s shape, which allows an amateur with simple equipment to detect imperfections as small as 50 billionths of a metre. Unorthodox courtship, but it worked. When I met Mert in 1999 he and Louise had been married for more than fifty years.
Just after the war, Davies heard that a think tank within Douglas was working on a paper for the Air Force about the possible uses of an artificial satellite. He applied to join the team more or less on the spot. The think tank soon became independent from Douglas and, as the RAND Corporation, it went on to play a major role in defining America’s national-security technologies and strategies throughout the Cold War. In the early 1950s Davies and his colleagues looked at ways to use television cameras in space in order to send back images of the Soviet Union. Then they developed the idea of using film instead of television – experience with spy cameras on balloons showed that the picture quality could be phenomenal – and returning the exposed frames to earth in little canisters. The idea grew into the Corona project, which after a seemingly endless run of technical glitches and launch failures at the end of the 1950s became a spectacularly successful spy-satellite programme.
While Corona was in its infancy, Davies was seconded to Air Force intelligence at the Pentagon, where he used the new American space technology to try to figure out what Russian space technology might be capable of. When he returned to Santa Monica in 1962, he was ready for a change. Spy satellites were no longer exciting future possibilities for think-tank dreamers, but practical programmes controlled by staff officers and their industry contractors. And there was another problem. ‘A lot of the work at RAND was going into Vietnam – my colleagues were working on reconnaissance issues there – and I wanted no part of that.’
Happily, an alternative offered itself in the form of Bruce Murray, an energetic young professor from the California Institute of Technology in Pasadena, on the other side of Los Angeles. Murray was an earth scientist, not an astronomer. His first glimpse of Mars through a telescope wasn’t a childhood epiphany in the backyard. It was a piece of professional work from the Mount Wilson Observatory. Late as it was, though, that first sight provided emotional confirmation for Murray’s earlier intellectual decision that the other planets were something worth devoting a lifetime’s study to. When Murray looked at Mars through the world-famous sixty-inch telescope, he was not just seeing an evocative light in the sky; he was seeing a world’s worth of new geology, a planet-sized puzzle that he and his Caltech colleagues were determined to crack. Their tool was to be the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, a facility that Caltech managed on behalf of the federal government. JPL, in the foothills of the San Gabriel mountains, had been a centre for military aerospace research since the war. In 1958 the Army ceded it to the newly founded National Aeronautics and Space Administration, as part of which it would become America’s main centre for planetary exploration. By 1961, JPL was planning NASA’s first Mars mission, Mariner 4. The man in charge of building a camera for it was Robert Leighton, a Caltech physics professor. He asked a geologist he knew on the faculty, Bob Sharp, to help him figure out what the camera might be looking at. Sharp asked his eager young colleague Murray to join the team.
Murray and Davies met in 1963; with three young children to support, Murray was keen for some extra income and so found consulting for RAND congenial. He and Davies quite quickly became close friends and Mert started to think he might want to get involved in Murray’s end of the space programme. After all, he had the right credentials: he had been in the space business since the days of the V2 and he had some experience in interpreting images of both the earth and moon as seen from orbit. (At the Pentagon he had analysed Russian pictures of the far side of the moon to see whether they might be fakes.) When Mariner 4’s television camera sent back its image-data – a string of twenty-one grainy pictures covering just 1 per cent of the planet’s surface – Davies was as surprised as almost everybody else to see that it looked not like an earthly desert but like the pock-marked face of the moon, or the aftermath of a terrible war. The space programme was important (Murray and his colleagues would brief the president) but it was also open (they briefed him in front of the cameras). Out among the planets there was no risk of finding yourself in a conflict you wanted no part of, or of having to keep work secret from all but your closest colleagues.
By the time Mariner 6 and Mariner 7 were sent to Mars four years later, in 1969, Davies was a key part of the team dealing with the images they sent back. His particular contribution was to work on the mathematical techniques needed to turn the disparate images into the most reliable possible representation of the planet.
Since the seventeenth century, when Willebrord Snell of Leiden first refined the procedure into something like its modern form, earthbound map makers have turned what can be seen into what can be precisely represented through surveying. Decide on a set of landmarks – Snell and his countrymen liked churches – and then, from each of these landmarks, take the bearings of the other landmarks nearby. From this survey data you can build up a network of fixed points all across the landscape. Plot every point on your map according to measurements made with respect to things in this well-defined network and it will be highly accurate. If, unlike Holland, your country is large, mountainous and only sparsely supplied with steeples, setting up a reliable network in the first place can be hard work – the United States wasn’t properly covered by a single mapping network until the 1930s, when abundant Works Progress Administration labour was available to help with the surveying. But the principle of measuring the angles between lines joining landmarks has been used in basically the same way all over the earth.
Two problems make the mapping of other planets different, one conceptual, one practical. On earth, experience allows you to know what the features you are mapping are: hills, valleys, forests and so on are easily recognised for what they are. While the pictures a spacecraft’s cameras send back may be very good, this level of understanding is just not immediately available. When the first images of Mars were sent back by Mariner 4 they were initially unintelligible to Murray and the rest of the imaging team. Before the researchers even started on a physical map, they needed a conceptual one, a way of categorising what was before their eyes. How to do this – how to see what had never been seen before – was the besetting problem of early planetary exploration.
The practical problem is that unlike an earthly surveyor, you can’t wander around the surface of an alien planet making measurements at leisure. Your only viewpoint is that of a spacecraft flying past the surface at considerable distance and speed. So you not only don’t know what you’re looking at; you’re also none too sure of where you’re looking from. A spacecraft’s position is not a given, like that of a church. It is something that its controllers have to continuously work out. What they know for sure is how fast it is receding from the earth, because that causes frequency changes in its radio signals. To find out where the spacecraft actually is, this information is compared with estimates of where the spacecraft thinks it is – the primary tools here are small on-board cameras called star trackers – and calculations of where it ought to be, derived from measurements and models of all the forces – the gravity of the sun and the planets, the gentle nudges from on-board thrusters – that are shaping its trajectory. If all is going well, the calculations based on all these observations fall into line to produce a consistent picture.
(#ulink_7b7003b6-a667-5c61-90a6-a1bc15cb940d) But though this may be accurate enough for navigation, it is not accurate enough for map making. You don’t know precisely where the spacecraft is, or precisely which way its camera is pointing, or, for that matter, precisely where the surface of the planet is. So you can’t say exactly what bit of the planet you’re looking at in any given picture.
Working round these problems involved Davies in a huge amount of laborious cross-checking and number crunching (Airy himself would have loved it, I suspect). First he had to put together a set of clearly distinguishable features that appeared in more than one of the pictures – the centres of craters, for the most part. The precise locations of these features within the individual frames in the data sent back by the spacecraft then had to be put into a set of mathematical equations along with the best available figures for the spacecraft’s position when each picture was taken, and the direction in which the camera was pointing at the time. Then he had to add in factors describing the distortions the cameras were known to inflict on the pictures they took. Once all this was done, the whole calculation had to be fed into a computer on punch cards; the computer then ground through possible solutions until it came to one that made the values of all the variables in the equations consistent. Those values defined a specific way of arranging the set of surface features in three dimensions – imagine it as a framework of dots linked by straight lines – which came as close as possible to satisfying all the data. Effectively, the final answer said ‘if the reference points you’ve specified are arranged in just this way with respect to one another, and if the spacecraft was at these particular points at these particular times, then that would explain why the reference points appear in the positions that they do in these pictures’. That optimal arrangement of reference points was the control net.
Once Davies and his colleagues provided the control net, it could be used to position all the rest of the data. It became possible to say quite accurately where things were with respect to the planet’s poles and its prime meridian. Indeed, one of the primary functions of the control net was to define the planet’s latitude and longitude system – which is why Davies, as both maker of the control net and a member of the International Astronomical Union committee responsible for giving names to features on other planets, was able to put Mars’s Greenwich in a little round crater within the larger crater that was being named after Airy.
Since his first work on Mars, Davies has done his bit in the mapping of more or less every solid body any American spacecraft has visited. By the 1970s he had completely forsaken the black world of spy satellites for the scientific delights of other planets and the personal pleasure of exploring this one: once unencumbered by security clearances and the knowledge they bring, he was free to travel to meetings all around the world, and did so with Louise and alacrity. He’s never made headlines – I doubt he’d want to – but his contributions have been vital prerequisites for much of the work that has.
But there’s still more that Mert would like to do. The mathematics of the control net maximise its self-consistency, not its accuracy. This makes it likely that it contains errors. If you had some independent way of checking it – if you had a point in the control net the location of which you knew independently – you might be able to do something about that.
In principle, such independent measurements are possible. When I interviewed Davies in his office at RAND in December 1999, America had landed three spacecraft on the surface of Mars – the two Viking landers in 1976, and Pathfinder in 1997. The radio signals sent back from those spacecraft revealed their positions very accurately with respect to the fixed-star reference system used by astronomers. If you could find the spacecraft in images of the Martian surface that also contained features tied into the control net, you could check the position of the spacecraft with respect to the net against its absolute position as revealed by the radio signals. That would allow you to calibrate the net with new precision. Do the same for a few spacecraft and you could tie the thing down to within a few hundred metres, as opposed to a few kilometres.
The frustration is that you can’t see the spacecraft. About the size of small cars, from orbital distances – hundreds of kilometres – they are lost in the Martian deserts. The Mars Observer Camera, part of the Mars Global Surveyor spacecraft, has been trying to pick out some sign of the three spacecraft since 1997. It is by far the most acute camera ever sent to Mars. But even MOC can’t pick out the landers. Mankind has made its mark on Mars – but that mark has yet to be seen.
Lacking any proper sightings, checks on the control net using the landers’ locations have had to be indirect. From matching the features that the landers see on the horizon around them with features visible in pictures taken from orbit, it’s possible to make estimates of where the landers are, estimates that are potentially very accurate. Unfortunately, the different experts who try this sort of triangulation get different answers. When Mert and I met in 1999, various inconsistencies had convinced him that one bit of data which he had thought pretty good, and which he had used to calibrate the control net – a two-decade-old estimate of where exactly in the rubble-strewn plains of Chryse Viking 1 had landed – was, in fact, wrong. In a week’s time he was going to go and tell the American Geophysical Union’s fall meeting about the mistake and the fact that it had introduced an error of a fraction of a degree into the control net’s definition of the prime meridian. But if that was an irritation, there was also a new hope. The very next day, a new lander would be setting itself down on the Martian surface, giving MOC another man-made landmark to try to pick out. A steeple to navigate by.
(#ulink_db20b988-4553-5324-bbf7-d26bc0faeb83) The other, according to Caltech professor Bruce Murray, is Murray’s Caltech colleague Ed Danielsen.
(#ulink_8a8b2272-4052-580b-9282-689777c8d501) In 1999, NASA’s Mars Climate Orbiter demonstrated what happens when things don’t go well. When reporting its thruster firings the spacecraft’s software used metric measurements (Newton seconds). The software on earth thought that these reports were in pound (thrust) seconds, a smaller unit, and thus underestimated the effects of the thruster firings. This meant that JPL’s model of the Climate Orbiter’s position became increasingly inaccurate and, when its controllers tried to insert the spacecraft into orbit round Mars, it was plunged deep into the atmosphere and burned up.
The Polar Lander (#ulink_868b30fe-6001-58e4-b8e3-1fcda1f8f99d)
I can think of nothing left undone to deserve success.
Robert Falcon Scott, diary entry, November 1, 1911
On the morning of that next day, Friday, 3 December 1999, JPL in Pasadena is awash with visitors, just as it always is when one of its spacecraft is about to do something exciting. The road leading past the local high school and up to the lab is lined with outside-broadcast vans. Inside, the tree-lined plaza at the lab’s centre – the place where, at the celebration to mark Voyager 2’s successful passage past Neptune, Carl Sagan danced with Chuck Berry – is filled with temporary trailers in which the working press will work, when there is work for them to do. It’s not just journalists who are wandering around looking for gossip, coffee and companions unseen since the last such event. There are VIPs from the upper echelons of NASA and beyond, distinguished visitors from other research centres, the families and friends of people involved in the mission. And back down the freeway at the convention centre in downtown Pasadena there are hundreds of paying customers turning up for a parallel popular event held by a group called the Planetary Society, a planetary-science fan club and lobbying organisation created by Bruce Murray, Carl Sagan and a one-time JPL mission planner named Lou Friedman. The Planetfest gives the public a chance to watch the events on Mars played out on vast TV screens, to hear the findings analysed by experts, to meet their favourite science fiction authors, to admire and buy art inspired by planetary exploration, to collect toys and gaudy knick-knacks and to party the weekend away. No other scientific event – not even the sequencing of a particularly juicy microbe or chromosome – gets attention like this. But then no other science stirs the emotions like planetary science.
The absent star of the show is the Mars Polar Lander. A life-sized stand-in sits in a sandbox in the middle of the plaza at JPL, a backdrop for TV reporters from around the world. Like most spacecraft, it looks a little ungainly: three widely spaced round feet, each of them braced by a set of three legs; segmented solar panels to either side, partly folded out flat, partly flush to the spacecraft’s sloping shoulders, tilted to catch the beams of a sun low on the Martian horizon; spherical propellant tanks and rocket nozzles sit in its belly, antennae, masts and a sort of binocular periscope perch on its back. A scoop on the end of a robot arm scratches the pseudo-Martian sand.
The real Polar Lander, cameras and legs and solar panels tucked into an aeroshell that will protect them from the atmosphere, is falling towards Mars at about 22,500 kilometres an hour. The last course corrections were made early in the morning, fine-tuning the trajectory to maximise the chances of hitting the chosen landing site a bit less than 1000 kilometres from the south pole of Mars. They seem to have worked; the trajectory appears as true as if the spacecraft were running on tracks. Anyway, nothing more can be done – as Apollo astronaut Bill Anders remarked when the third stage of his Saturn V put him and his crewmates on course for the moon, ‘Mr Newton is doing the driving now.’ The spacecraft has nothing to do but obey the law of gravity. Oh, and to fire the occasional rocket, discard its heat shield at the appropriate time, deploy a parachute or two, all things that have to happen precisely at the right time and can’t be controlled from earth because it would take the commands fourteen minutes to get to Mars. Standard spacecraft stuff – only nothing on interplanetary spacecraft is standard. You can never be sure you’ve checked out all the systems and you never fly exactly the same model twice. Every mission is a sequence of hundreds of events controlled by thousands of mechanisms and circuits, any one of which could go wrong.
Because of all this – and especially because the lab’s previous Mars mission, Mars Climate Orbiter, ended in ignominious failure just a few months ago – the tension back at JPL is tangible. But it is also unfocused. There is no more to see than there is to do. An oddity of space exploration is that only very rarely do you get to see the process in action. You see the results, which are often spectacular in and of themselves, but there’s never a cut-away camera angle to let you see the spacecraft through which these wonders of the universe are being revealed. And while it’s hardly surprising that we can’t see the means by which – through which – we’re witnessing these wonders, it’s also a great pity. You don’t have to be Mert Davies, intent on refining his control net, to want to see a picture of a spacecraft on the rubble-strewn plains of Mars. You just have to be human and to want to see something human in that great emptiness where nothing human has been seen before. Such a sight would close some sort of cognitive circuit; it would make Mars a distant mirror in which we could see something of ourselves reflected. It would thicken the connections between our planets and draw Mars further into our world.
This need to close the loop explains why the most popular unmanned space mission ever was the 1997 Mars Pathfinder. Anyone with a web browser could watch as its limited little rover, Sojourner, fitfully explored the rock garden it had been landed in. It explains why the artists displaying their wares to the faithful down at Planetfest in Pasadena do not, for the most part, just paint spectacular landscapes when they paint Mars – they paint landscapes with human participation inside them: an astronaut, a rover, even an unmanned craft. One of the most popular pictures of Mars ever painted is Return to utopia by Pat Rawlings, which shows a future astronaut planting a flag – whose? we can’t see – next to the second Viking lander, simultaneously celebrating its far-flung location and pulling it back from nature into the human world.
Here’s what we’re not seeing by around lunchtime on 3 December: about ten minutes before it hits the atmosphere, Mars Polar Lander begins making its final preparations, resetting its guidance systems, prepping one of its cameras. Mars is vast in its sky, only a few thousand kilometres away, half in shadow, half in sunlight, its surface a range of browns and yellows, the red of its earthly appearance revealed from space as an atmospheric illusion. At this range you can see the craters, the streaks of dust blown by the winds, the strange changing textures of the surface, the largest of the ancient, dried-out valleys, perhaps the wispy whiteness of high dry-ice clouds. New features stream around the curve of the planet as the spacecraft catches up with its target, its trajectory taking it south and east at seven kilometres a second towards the harsh brightness of the southern polar cap. Six minutes before atmospheric entry, the spacecraft twists round so that its aeroshell heat shield is pointed forwards. A minute later a set of six explosive bolts is detonated and the lander slips away from the cruise stage that has been providing it with power and communications on the eleven-month journey from earth. From now on all the power comes from the batteries and no communication is possible until the lander’s own antennae are deployed on the ground. Once the cruise stage and the lander are safely separated, the cruise stage goes on to release two microprobes called Scott and Amundsen, spacecraft designed to survive smashing into the planet’s crust at high speed and then measure the moisture of its soil. They are so tiny that you could cup one in your hands like a grapefruit.
As lander, cruise stage and probes drift away from each other, perspectives alter. Mars stops being a vast wall in front of the spacecraft and becomes a strange new land below them; the ice-white limb of the planet barring the sky becomes a curved horizon. The outer reaches of the atmosphere begin to stroke the lander’s protective aeroshell, too thin at first to have much effect, but getting thicker by the second. Soon on-board accelerometers decide the breaking force is getting strong enough to be worth bothering about and tiny thrusters start firing to keep the aeroshell’s blunt nose cone pointed the right way. The atmosphere’s grip tightens further. Within a minute or so, the deceleration is up to 12g – the sort of force you’d feel if a cruising airliner came to a full halt in a couple of seconds. The nose cone is at 1650°C and the air around it is incandescent. The Polar Lander is a minute-long meteor in the Martian sky.
Three minutes after atmospheric entry begins, the worst is over, though the lander is still moving at 1500 kilometres an hour. A gun at the back of the aeroshell fires out a parachute and the thin air rips it open seven kilometres above the surface. Ten seconds later the charred front of the aeroshell is jettisoned and a camera pointing downwards starts to take pictures of the landscape below as it rushes upwards. If they make it back to earth, these descent images will make quite a movie.
While all this is happening I’m picking at a tuna sandwich in the JPL cafeteria. I chat to some of the scientists from other projects who are gathering round the television monitors that show what’s happening in mission control, then wander back across the plaza, past the model in the sandbox, to the press room. There’s no hurry – the probe is silent during the landing sequence and is only due to pipe up twenty-three minutes after touchdown. Even then there will be a fourteen-minute delay as the radio waves creep across the solar system at the speed of light. Plenty of time.
A quarter of a billion kilometres away, Mars Polar Lander’s legs snap out from their stowed position, ready for the ground below.
Four months later a board of enquiry decided that this was the crucial moment. When the legs snapped into position, they apparently did so with a touch more vigour than was necessary, flexing a little against the restraints meant to hold them in position. Little magnetic sensors in the spacecraft’s body seem almost certain to have interpreted this flexing as meaning that the legs had encountered resistance and were bending under the weight of the spacecraft – just as they would at the moment of touchdown. The state of these sensors was being monitored a hundred times a second by the part of the spacecraft’s software that was in charge of turning off the engines straight after landing and, since the legs took more than a hundredth of a second to reach their proper position, the sensors reported that the spacecraft seemed to have touched down on two successive checks. If it had heard this report only once, the software in charge of turning off the engines would have ignored the reading as a transient glitch. Hearing it twice, the software in charge of turning off the engines after touchdown concluded that the spacecraft had indeed touched down. Unfortunately, it was still almost four kilometres up in the air.
A bit more than a minute later, when the spacecraft’s radar said that it was only forty metres above the surface, the misinformed software had its virtual hand put on the virtual switch that controlled the engines. It turned them off straight away, unable to know or care that the spacecraft was still moving at almost fifty kilometres an hour. After falling that last forty metres, Mars Polar Lander hit the surface at something like eighty kilometres an hour, a speed it could never survive.
Back in December, no one knows any of this. About an hour after lunch on Friday, we know that the first transmission from the surface hasn’t happened, but though that’s a little disappointing, no one is really worried. Spacecraft are programmed to be flighty things and at the slightest sign of something out of the ordinary they are apt to go into ‘safe modes’, which means shutting down all non-vital systems for a set amount of time. The lander’s ability to go safe had been turned off during the descent sequence – when wilful inactivity would have been fatal – but once it got down to the ground this override would turn itself off and the spacecraft would be free to go into a silent funk if some subsystem or other had exceeded its safety levels during the landing.
Over the next few days the silence gets worse. Scott and Amundsen, the ground-penetrating microprobes, are never heard from at all. To this day no one knows what happened to them. The team running the polar lander itself methodically lists the things that could be stopping the probe from communicating and tries to work its way around them, using various different types of radio command. Is the main antenna facing the wrong way? Then send the lander instructions to scan its beam across the sky. Did it not hear those instructions? Send them over another frequency. Did it go into a different sort of safe mode, or go safe twice? Listen at the later times when it was meant to transmit. Each possibility is a branch on what the engineers call a fault tree, and every branch has to be checked out.
While all this is going on up at JPL, down at the Pasadena convention centre the Planetfest rolls on. The fact that there are no neat new pictures of the surface to be seen puts a damper on it, to be sure – but not too terrible a one. People still come to hear the assembled luminaries talk about the great future of Mars exploration. They hear from astronauts and scientists and engineers and Star Trek actors and Bill Nye me Science Guy, proselytiser by appointment to PBS. And they hear from the science fiction writers. From Larry Niven, who has just written a fantasy in which all humanity’s dreams about Mars come true at the same time; from Greg Bear, whose Moving Mars imagined the planet’s future as a backwater from which settlers watch the ever more high-tech earth redefine what is human; from Greg Benford, whose The Martian Race, published this very weekend, sets a new standard of technical accuracy for first-mission-to-Mars stories. And from Kim Stanley Robinson, whose books Red Mars, Green Mars, and Blue Mars provide the fullest picture yet attempted of life on that planet. Unlike every previous generation of science fiction writers, these men have had data from Mars orbit and the Martian surface on which to base their visions, and they are scrupulous in their use. In their hands, the physical facts of planetary science and the romance of travel to other worlds are brought as close as they yet can be.
Meanwhile, up at JPL, what seemed so close is slipping away. After each new attempt to make contact an ever more despondent flight team comes out to face an ever smaller press corps and tell us that nothing was heard. They were so excited on Friday morning – by the early hours of Sunday, some are almost in tears. On Monday morning most have had a chance to rest, but though the faces are fresher and the eyes clearer, a certain resignation has settled in. By Monday night, all the one-fault branches on the fault tree have been evaluated; it’s clear that at least two separate systems must have failed. The team will keep climbing ever more unlikely limbs of the fault tree for a week or so yet, but for the rest of us that’s it. The lander is lost. The last tents in the media caravan are folded up just after midnight; we don’t even have the ingenuity, or stamina, to find a bar.
Mariner 9 (#ulink_25e48a43-bfd9-5776-9bdf-d47020ce4ba7)
‘I think it’s part of the nature of man to start with romance and build to a reality.’
Ray Bradbury, in Mars and the Mind of Man
Mars Polar Lander was JPL’s thirteenth mission to Mars and its fifth failure. Mariner 3 died with its solar panels pinned to its side by the wrapping in which it had been launched in 1964; Mariner 8 fell into the Atlantic in 1971; Mars Observer exploded as it was trying to go into orbit round Mars in 1993; Mars Climate Orbiter burned up in the atmosphere in 1999; Mars Polar Lander made its mistake just forty metres up a few months later. An optimist might point out that each got closer to the target than the previous failure. A pessimist might point out that the frequency of failure seems to be on the increase.
It’s hardly surprising that, with so few missions, everything that has not been a failure has been counted a terrific success. Mars exploration is still too new for there to have been any hey-ho, business-as-usual missions. But among all these successes one stands out: Mariner 9. Mariner 9 was the first American spacecraft to go into orbit round another planet. It was the first interplanetary probe to send back data in a flood, rather than a trickle. It was the first mission to Mars to provide images of the entire surface and record the full diversity of its landscapes. It was the first spacecraft to see a planet change dramatically beneath its eyes, to watch weather on another world. Mariner 9 revealed a Mars that was fascinating in its own right, rather that disappointing in the light of previous earthly expectations. And Mariner 9 allowed a small team of artists and artisans to make the first detailed, reliable maps of another planet.
There were two big differences between Mariner 9 and its earlier siblings (two of which, Mariner 2 and Mariner 5, went to Venus, not Mars). One was that Mariner 9 had a largish rocket system on board, its cluster of spherical fuel tanks hiding the distinctive octagonal magnesium body that all the Mariner family shared. This engine was needed to slow the spacecraft down when it got to Mars, thus allowing it to go into orbit round its target rather than flying past it at breakneck speed, as the previous probes had. The other, less visible, difference was that Mariner 9 would have the opportunity to send back serious amounts of data.
When Mariner 4 flew past Mars in 1965, it seemed extraordinary that the signal it sent back could be heard at all. Mariner 4’s radio transmitter had a power of ten watts; it had to send data back to a target – the earth – much less than an arc minute across (an arc minute is a sixtieth of a degree). Only a small fraction of the spacecraft’s ten-watt beam actually hit the earth, and only one ten-billionth of that fraction hit the actual receiver – a steerable radio telescope sixty-eight metres in diameter built specifically for the Mars missions at a site a couple of hours’ drive into the Mojave Desert from JPL. But the power of electronic engineers to decode such staggeringly faint signals has been one of the least celebrated wonders of the space age.
(#ulink_b0208d84-7121-5a00-a4d5-5a01695a9efd) It’s an ability at least as wonderful as that of actually launching things into space, and compared with rocketry it’s both grown in capability far faster and been a good sight more dependable. That sixty-eight-metre Goldstone dish in the Mojave, along with companions near Madrid and Canberra, now brings data back from the edges of the solar system, a hundred times further away than Mars, and handles data rates as high as 110,000 bits per second. Even in the early days of Mariner 4 the limiting constraint on the rate at which data could be sent back was not the radio link, but the speed at which the tape recorder which stored the data on board the spacecraft could play it back. And that was staggeringly slow: eight bits per second. It took weeks to send back data recorded in minutes.
Mariner 4’s pictures each contained less than a thousandth of the data in a nine-inch aerial photograph. The frames were just 200 pixels wide by 200 pixels deep; the brightness of each pixel was recorded as six bits of data, providing sixty-four gradations of tone between black and white. The total amount of data in every frame (thirty kilobytes) was just a little bit more than the amount of disk-space taken up by an utterly empty document in the version of Word with which I am writing this book. In principle I could download the equivalent of Mariner 4’s entire twenty-two-image data-set from the Internet in a matter of seconds using my utterly unexceptional modem. In 1964, though, it took eight hours to get each picture back to JPL. The process was so slow that the waiting scientists printed out the numerical value for each pixel on a long ribbon of ticker tape, cut the ribbon into 200-number-long strips and then coloured each pixel in with chalk according to its numerical value. Every two and a half minutes another strip could be added to the picture. The first space-age image of Mars, taken by the first entirely digital camera ever built and transmitted over 170 million kilometres of empty space, was put together like an infant school painting-by-numbers project.
By the time Mariner 6 and Mariner 7 flew past Mars in 1969, communications were far faster (though the on board tape recorders, which outweighed the cameras whose data they stored, were still a problem). Each of the 1969 Mariners returned a hundred times more data to earth than Mariner 4 had four years earlier. In 1971 Mariner 9 – with a data rate 2000 times that of Mariner 4 and a year in which to transmit, rather than a week – did 100 times better still. And this meant that the whole scale of the operation was different. The ‘television teams’ – so called because their instrument was basically a TV camera – on Mariners 4, 6 and 7 had been small: Leighton, who masterminded the camera design; a few other Caltech faculty members; some JPL people; and a few select outsiders, such as Mert Davies. But Mariner 9 was going to provide far more data than such a team could digest and the data were to be used not just for analytical science but for the practical business of mapping. Among other things, America was committed to landing robot probes on Mars to look for life in 1976. Those probes – the Vikings – needed landing sites, and choosing landing sites required maps.
NASA would have been happy to make the maps itself. But in the mid-1960s Congress noticed that almost every government agency had its own map makers and decided that the money-hungry, fast-growing space agency would be an exception to this rule. So the mapping of the planets was instead made the duty of the United States Geological Survey. This was not entirely arbitrary; the USGS already had an astrogeology branch, headquartered in Flagstaff, Arizona, which was deeply involved in the study of the moon and was helping to train the Apollo astronauts. The USGS gave primary responsibility for its study of Mars to a team of five geologists, three from Flagstaff, two from the survey’s California centre in Menlo Park, south of San Francisco. The senior member of the USGS team was a man called Hal Masursky: in part because Murray was at the same time working on a mission to Venus and Mercury, Masursky became one of the television team’s two principal investigators. The other PI was a young man called Brad Smith, a highly rated expert on Mars as observed through telescopes who had yet to complete his PhD.
Up to the point when he joined the astrogeology branch in the early 1960s, Hal Masursky’s career had not been stellar. He had never completed his Ph.D.; his terrestrial work had been uneventful. But Masursky became fascinated by the possibilities of geology on other worlds, and turned out to be a great success at it. The success lay not in his own scientific work – though he was a perceptive observer, his complete inability actually to write things up was something of a limitation – but in his ability to get things done within the sometimes bureaucratic world of space exploration and to explain these achievements to the world at large. Some of his colleagues considered him as vivid an off-the-cuff communicator as Carl Sagan.
Hal was at the same time a bright spark and a consummate committee man. He was charming but dogged, willing to get down into the details of sequencing spacecraft manoeuvres and download times whenever necessary, but also keeping a clear eye on the overall objectives. His astrogeological life became in large part devoted to the teamwork necessary for planning and running space missions, and he played a role in almost every major mission of the 1970s and 1980s, making sure they would send back pictures geologists could make use of. If Hal was on a committee, a planetary scientist who learned the political ropes back then once told me, it would get things done; if he wasn’t on a committee, then you didn’t want to be on it either. It was probably not an important one, and it might well not get anywhere.
Masursky was good at getting committees to work; in his personal life his gift for structure was less evident. Committee work meant he was endlessly travelling. (It’s said that at times he lived in Flagstaff without a car, preferring simply to rent one when he flew in just as he would anywhere else.) His ability to keep projects he was administering within budgets was famously poor. He was married at least four times, religious and passionate in argument. He was diabetic, but rather than accepting the discipline of managing the condition he let his team do so for him. Jurrie van der Woude, an image-processing specialist then at Caltech and later at JPL, remembers finding Masursky passed out on the floor of his office late one night during the Mariner 9 mission. Jurrie shouted for help and people came running – people already armed with candies and orange juice, because they knew what to expect. ‘From that point on I was part of the club. No matter where you went around the lab you’d carry orange juice with you. Nobody talked about it, but in press briefings there’d be four or five of us like secret servicemen, waiting and watching for the right time to bring him orange juice. He had this kind of a smile and every so often you’d realise that behind it he was just gone.’ Eventually diabetes took its toll; in the late 1980s Masursky sickened, dying in 1990. During his sad decline, he would occasionally elude his last, devoted wife and wander off to Flagstaff’s little airport, sure he should be going somewhere. Now he has a crater on Mars: 12.0°N, 32.5°W, a hole 110 kilometres across in the region called Xanthe Terra.
When Mariner 9 set forth from earth in 1971, no one had seen Xanthe in close-up. No one had seen the crater that would one day be named for the principal investigator on the television team, or the striking channel that runs next to it and quite probably once filled it with water, Tiu Vallis. No one knew that Mars offered such sights. Mariner 4 had seen a moonlike surface covered in craters. It had measured the atmospheric pressure as being much lower than most measurements from earth had suggested – about 1 per cent of the pressure at sea level on earth. The long-held picture of Mars as a basically earthlike if very marginal environment – something like a cold high-altitude desert, except worse – was demolished. The surface had to be very old to have accumulated so many craters; the atmosphere must always have been very thin and free of moisture for the craters not to have eroded away. From the composition of the atmosphere – 95 per cent carbon dioxide – and measurements of its temperature and pressure – both low – Leighton and Murray had been able to predict that the polar caps, which earthbound observers had seen as water ice that might moisten their imagined earthlike desert, were in fact made of frozen carbon dioxide. Mariner 7 seemed to confirm this theory when it passed over the south pole carrying infrared instruments capable of measuring the surface’s temperature and composition, and found it to be as Murray and Leighton had predicted.
Admittedly, Mars was not all craters. Mariner 6 had seen that Hellas, known as a large bright region to the earthbound astronomers, was much smoother than the cratered terrain next to it, though no one could say why. The same spacecraft also sent back pictures of an odd terrain quickly termed ‘chaotic’, a collapsed jumble of a landscape from which a few table-top mesas stood proud. It was as though the land had rotted from within. But though such features might prove interesting, the general impression was of a dull, geologically inactive place, more or less unchanged since the creation of the solar system, a place little more interesting than the earth’s moon and far harder to get to. Bruce Murray, who unlike many in the business had never had a boyhood romance with the stars, took a certain delight in debunking the delusions of people who still wanted to think of Mars as at least a little earthlike. Murray has a certain intellectual aggression, as do many Caltechers – the USGS geologists on Mariner 9 used to be amazed by the frequency and ferocity of the arguments that Murray’s students on the team, Larry Soderblom and Jim Cutts, would get into. Nostalgic notions of an earthlike Mars gave Murray’s belligerence its casus belli. Mars was simply not what people had thought it to be. Rather than a world to be experienced in the imagination, it was a planet to be measured, a planet in the new space-age meaning of the term, something woven from digital data streams and ruled by the hard science of physics and chemistry.
On 12 November 1971, the night before Mariner 9 was to go into orbit, Caltech held a public symposium on ‘Mars and the Mind of Man’ featuring Murray, Carl Sagan and the science fiction authors Arthur C. Clarke and Ray Bradbury: it was the genteel ancestor of the bigger, brasher Planetfests which accompany today’s missions. Murray cast himself in wrestling terms as ‘the heavy – the guy with the black trunks’. He acknowledged people’s ‘deep-seated desire to find another place where we can make another start … that is not just a popular thing [but] affects science deeply’. He then set about using his experience of Mariners 4, 6 and 7 to pour cold water – in fact frozen carbon dioxide – on such fancies. Carl Sagan, a new member of the television team and already a passionate advocate of the search for life in planetary exploration, responded by saying that nothing seen so far had ruled out life on Mars – it had just made it harder to imagine if you were parochial enough to imagine all life must be like earth life. Clarke optimistically suggested that if there wasn’t life on Mars in 1971, there certainly would be by the end of the century.
While Clarke and his colleagues spoke in Caltech’s auditorium, events up at JPL were turning out quite dramatic enough without any added fiction. One of the reasons that 1971 was a good time to launch the first Mars orbiters was that Mars, which has a markedly eccentric orbit, would be at its closest to the sun at the time when it was most easily reached from the earth. Unfortunately, perihelion warms the Martian atmosphere up quite a lot and the resultant winds can kick up dust storms. This possibility had been discussed earlier in the year by the Mariner mission operations team. Brad Smith, Masursky’s partner at the helm of the television team, said it would not be a problem. But Smith was wrong. The great storm started on 22 September. Within a few days almost half the southern hemisphere was obscured by the brilliant cloud and a week later a second storm started further to the north. Soon the storms merged. Telescopes on earth saw a Mars utterly without features – and so did Mariner 9. Its first pictures, sent back on 8 November, revealed no detail whatsoever – wags joked that they had arrived at cloud-covered Venus by mistake. On 10 November, when the pre-orbital images should have been as good as those from Mariners 6 and 7, all that could be seen was the faint outline of the south polar cap and a faint dark spot. It turned out to correspond to the location which Schiaparelli had called ‘Nix Olympica’ – the Snows of Olympus. Two days later three more dark spots were seen a few thousand kilometres from Nix Olympica, forming a line from south-west to north-east across the region called Tharsis. The rest of the planet was still completely blank.
Two days later, after the spacecraft had gone into orbit, new pictures revealed that each of these spots had a crater at its centre. Carl Sagan took a Polaroid of the computer screen and rushed to the geologists’ room. Masursky and his colleagues immediately realised what they were seeing. These were not impact craters like those seen by the previous Mariners, but volcanic calderas. Nix Olympica and the other features – dubbed North Spot, Middle Spot and South Spot – were volcanoes, volcanoes vast enough to stick out of the lower atmosphere into air too thin to carry the fine Martian dust. Within hours, Masursky was telling the waiting press corps all about it. Murray, who as well as sporting the black trunks of the killjoy was taking on a role as the television team’s prudent conscience, was aghast. Mars had previously shown no signs of volcanism; it was surely rash to jump to such a dramatic conclusion. But within days more detailed photos showed without doubt that Masursky was right.
It’s easy now to scoff at Murray’s reluctance to see the truth. Mars’s volcanoes have become, along with its vast canyon system, the things for which the planet is best known. Inasmuch as there is a popular picture of Mars today, these features – four big lumps with a long set of deep gashes to one side, rendered in a reasonably garish red – are what make it up. In some ways, though, Murray’s reluctance to credit such things seems almost fitting, a greater tribute to their stature than straightforward acceptance. It may sound like a lack of imagination – but if you wanted to, you could read it as the opposite. Maybe Murray had the imagination to look beyond the simple images of calderas and see quite how dauntingly huge the volcanoes would have to be in order to show up on Mariner 9’s pictures of a planet wrapped in dust from pole to pole.
