Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space

true.

Or you can spy it in the east before dawn, fleeing the rising Sun. In these two incarnations, brighter than anything else in the sky except only the Sun and the Moon it was known as the evening and the morning star. Our ancestors did not recognize it was a world, the same world, never too far from the Sun because it is in an orbit about it interior to the Earth’s. Just before sunset or just after sunrise, we can sometimes see it near some fluffy white cloud, and then discover by the comparison that Venus has a color, a pale lemon-yellow.

You peer through the eyepiece of a telescope—even a big telescope, even the largest optical telescope on Earth—and you can make out no detail at all. Over the months, you see a featureless disk methodically going through phases, like the Moon: crescent Venus, full Venus, gibbous Venus, new Venus. There is not a hint of continents or oceans.

Some of the first astronomers to see Venus through the telescope immediately recognized that they were examining a world enshrouded by clouds. The clouds, we now know, are droplets of concentrated sulfuric acid, stained yellow by a little elemental sulfur. They lie high above the ground. In ordinary visible light there’s no hint of what this planet’s surface, some 50 kilometers below the cloud tops, is like, and for centuries the best we had were wild guesses.

You might conjecture that if we could take a much finer look there might be breaks in the clouds, revealing day by day, in bits and pieces, the mysterious surface ordinarily hidden from our view. Then the time of guesses would be over. The Earth is on average half cloud-covered. In the early days of Venus exploration, we saw no reason that Venus should be 100 percent overcast. If instead it was only 90 percent, or even 99 percent, cloud- covered, the transient patches of clearing might tell us much.

In 1960 and 1961, Mariners 1 and 2, the first American spacecraft designed to visit Venus, were being prepared. There were those, like me, who thought the ships should carry video cameras so they could radio pictures back to Earth. The same technology would be used a few years later when Rangers 7, 8, and 9 would photograph the Moon on the way to their crash landings—the last making a bull’s-eye in the crater Alphonsus. But time was short for the Venus mission, and cameras were heavy. There were those who maintained that cameras weren’t really scientific instruments, but rather catch-as- catch-can, razzle-dazzle, pandering to the public, and unable to answer a single straightforward, well-posed scientific question. I thought myself that whether there are breaks in the clouds was one such question. I argued that cameras could also answer questions that we were too dumb even to pose. I argued that pictures were the only way to show the public—who were, after all, footing the bill—the excitement of robotic missions. At any rate, no camera was flown, and subsequent missions have, for this particular world, at least partly vindicated that judgment: Even at high resolution from close flybys, in visible light it turns out there are no breaks in the clouds of Venus, any more than in the clouds of Titan.[19] These worlds are permanently overcast.

In the ultraviolet there is detail, but due to transient patches of high-altitude overcast, far above the main cloud deck. The high clouds race around the planet much faster than the planet itself turns: super-rotation. We have an even smaller chance of seeing the surface in the ultraviolet.

When it became clear that the atmosphere of Venus was much thicker than the air on Earth—as we now know, the pressure at the surface is ninety times what it is here—it immediately followed that in ordinary visible light we could not possibly see the surface, even if there were breaks in the clouds. What little sunlight is able to make its tortuous way through the dense atmosphere to the surface would be reflected back, all right; but the photons would be so jumbled by repeated scattering off molecules in the lower air that no image of surface features could be retained. It would be like a “whiteout” in polar snowstorm. However, this effect, intense Rayleigh scattering, declines rapidly with increasing wavelength; in the near-infrared, it was easy to calculate, you could see the surface if there were breaks in the clouds or if the clouds were transparent there.

So in 1970 Jim Pollack, Dave Morrison, and I went to the McDonald Observatory of the University of Texas to try to observe Venus in the near-infrared. We “hypersensitized” our emulsions; the good old-fashioned[20] glass photographic plates were treated with ammonia, and sometimes heated or briefly illuminated, before being exposed at the telescope to light from Venus. For a time the cellars of McDonald Observatory reeked of ammonia. We took many pictures. None showed any detail. We concluded that either we hadn’t gone far enough into the infrared or the clouds of Venus were opaque and unbroken in the near infrared.

More than 20 years later, the Galileo spacecraft, making a close flyby of Venus, examined it with higher resolution and sensitivity, and at wavelengths a little further into the infrared than we were able to reach with our crude glass emulsions. Galileo photographed great mountain ranges. We already knew of their existence, though; a much more powerful technique had earlier been employed: radar. Radio waves effortlessly penetrate the clouds and thick atmosphere of Venus, bounce off the surface, and return to Earth, where they are gathered in and used to make a picture. The first work had been done, chiefly, by. American ground-based radar at JPL’s Goldstone tracking station in the Mojave Desert and at the Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico, operated by Cornell University.

Then the U.S. Pioneer 12, the Soviet Venera 15 and ?6 and the U.S. Magellan missions inserted radar telescopes into orbit around Venus and mapped the place pole to pole. Each spacecraft would transmit a radar signal to the surface and then catch it as it bounced back. From how reflective each patch of surface was and how long it took the signal to return (shorter from mountains, longer from valleys), a detailed map of the entire surface was slowly and painstakingly constructed.

The world so revealed turns out to be uniquely sculpted by lava flows (and, to a much lesser degree, by wind), as described in the next chapter. The clouds and atmosphere of Venus have now become transparent to us, and another world has been visited by the doughty robot explorers from Earth. Our experience with Venus is now being applied elsewhere—especially to Titan, where once again impenetrable clouds hide an enigmatic surface, and radar is beginning to give us hints of what might lie below.

Venus had long been thought of as our sister world. It is the nearest planet to the Earth. It has almost the same mass, size, density, and gravitational pull as the Earth does. It’s a little closer to the Sun than the Earth, but its bright clouds reflect more sunlight back to space than our clouds do. As a first guess you might very well imagine that, under those unbroken clouds, Venus was rather like Earth. Early scientific speculation included fetid swamps crawling with monster amphibians, like the Earth in the Carboniferous Period; a world desert; a global petroleum sea; and a seltzer ocean dotted here and there with limestone-encrusted islands. While based on some scientific data, these “models” of Venus—the first dating from the beginnings of the century, the second from the 1930s, and the last two from the raid-1950s—were little more than scientific romances, hardly constrained by the sparse data available.

Then, in 1956, a report was published in The Astrophysical Journal by Cornell H. Mayer and his colleagues. They had pointed a newly completed radio telescope, built in part for classified research, on the roof of the Naval Research Laboratory in Washington, D.C., at Venus and measured the flux of radio waves arriving at Earth. This was not radar: No radio waves were bounced off Venus. This was listening to radio waves that Venus on its own emits to space. Venus turned out to be much brighter than the background of distant stars and galaxies. This in itself was not very surprising. Every object warmer than absolute zero (-273°C) gives off radiation throughout the electromagnetic spectrum, including the radio region. You, for example, emit radio waves at an effective or “brightness” temperature of about 35°C, and if you were in surroundings colder than you are, a sensitive radio telescope could detect the faint radio waves you are transmitting in all directions. Each of us is a source of cold static.

What was surprising about Mayer’s discovery was that the brightness temperature of Venus is more than 300°C, far higher than the surface temperature of the Earth or the measured infrared temperature of the clouds of Venus. Some places on Venus seemed at least 200° hotter than the normal boiling point of water. What could this mean?

Soon there was a deluge of explanations. I argued that the high radio brightness temperature was a direct indication of a hot surface, and that the high temperatures were due to a massive carbon dioxide/water vapor greenhouse effect—in which some sunlight is transmitted through the clouds and heats the Surface, but the surface experiences enormous difficulty in radiating back to space because of the high infrared opacity of carbon dioxide and