Curiosities of the Sky by Garrett P. Serviss (mind reading books TXT) 📕

Suppose we examine two more of Mr Ritchey’s illuminating photographs, and, first, the one showing the crater Theophilus and its surroundings. We have spoken of Theophilus before, citing the facts that it is sixty-four miles in diameter and eighteen thousand feet deep. It will be noticed that it has two brother giants — Cyrillus the nearer, and Catharina the more distant; but Theophilus is plainly the youngest of the trio. Centuries, and perhaps thousands of years, must have elapsed between the periods of their upheaval, for the two older craters are partly filled with d�bris, while it is manifest at a glance that when the south eastern wall of Theophilus was formed, it broke away and destroyed a part of the more ancient ring of Cyrillus.

There is no more tremendous scene on the moon than this; viewed with a powerful telescope, it is absolutely appalling.

The next photograph shows, if possible, a still wilder region. It is the part of the moon lying between Tycho and the south pole. Tycho is seen in the lower left-hand part of the picture. To the right, at the edge of the illuminated portion of the moon, are the crater-rings, Longomontanus and Wilhelm I, the former being the larger. Between them are to be seen the ruins of two or three more ancient craters which, together with portions of the walls of Wilhelm I and Longomontanus, have been honeycombed with smaller craters. The vast crateriform depression above the center of the picture is Clavius, an unrivaled wonder of lunar scenery, a hundred and forty-two miles in its greatest length, while its whole immense floor has sunk two miles below the general surface of the moon outside the ring. The monstrous shadow-filled cavity above Clavius toward the right is Blancanus, whose aspect here gives a good idea of the appearance of these chasms when only their rims are in the sunlight. But observe the indescribable savagery of the entire scene. It looks as though the spirit of destruction had gone mad in this spot. The mighty craters have broken forth one after another, each rending its predecessor; and when their work was finished, a minor but yet tremendous outbreak occurred, and the face of the moon was gored and punctured with thousands of smaller craters. These relatively small craters (small, however, only in a lunar sense, for many of them would appear gigantic on the earth) recall once more the theory of meteoric impact. It does not seem impossible that some of them may have been formed by such an agency.

One would not wish for our planet such a fate as that which has overtaken the moon, but we cannot be absolutely sure that something of the kind may not be in store for it. We really know nothing of the ultimate causes of volcanic activity, and some have suggested that the internal energies of the earth may be accumulating instead of dying out, and may never yet have exhibited their utmost destructive power.

Perhaps the best assurance that we can find that the earth will escape the catastrophe that has overtaken its satellite is to be found in the relatively great force of its gravitation. The moon has been the victim of its weakness; given equal forces, and the earth would be the better able to withstand them. It is significant, in connection with these considerations, that the little planet Mercury, which seems also to have parted with its air and water, shows to the telescope some indications that it is pitted with craters resembling those that have torn to pieces the face of the moon.

Upon the whole, after studying the dreadful lunar landscapes, one cannot feel a very enthusiastic sympathy with those who are seeking indications of the continued existence of some kind of life on the moon; such a world is better without inhabitants. It has met its fate; let it go! Fortunately, it is not so near that it cannot hide its scars and appear beautiful — except when curiosity impels us to look with the penetrating eyes of the astronomer.

The Great Mars Problem

Let any thoughtful person who is acquainted with the general facts of astronomy look up at the heavens some night when they appear in their greatest splendor, and ask himself what is the strongest impression that they make upon his mind. He may not find it easy to frame an answer, but when he has succeeded it will probably be to the effect that the stars give him an impression of the universality of intelligence; they make him feel, as the sun and the moon cannot do, that his world is not alone; that all this was not made simply to form a gorgeous canopy over the tents of men. If he is of a devout turn of mind, he thinks, as he gazes into those fathomless deeps and among those bewildering hosts, of the infinite multitude of created beings that the Almighty has taken under his care. The narrow ideas of the old geocentric theology, which made the earth God’s especial footstool, and man his only rational creature, fall away from him like a veil that had obscured his vision; they are impossible in the presence of what he sees above. Thus the natural tendency, in the light of modern progress, is to regard the universe as everywhere filled with life.

But science, which is responsible for this broadening of men’s thoughts concerning the universality of life, itself proceeds to set limits. Of spiritual existences it pretends to know nothing, but as to physical beings, it declares that it can only entertain the supposition of their existence where it finds evidence of an environment suited to their needs, and such environment may not everywhere exist. Science, though repelled by the antiquated theological conception of the supreme isolation of man among created beings, regards with complacency the probability that there are regions in the universe where no organic life exists, stars which shine upon no inhabited worlds, and planets which nourish no animate creatures. The astronomical view of the universe is that it consists of matter in every stage of evolution: some nebulous and chaotic; some just condensing into stars (suns) of every magnitude and order; some shaped into finished solar bodies surrounded by dependent planets; some forming stars that perhaps have no planets, and will have none; some constituting suns that are already aging, and will soon lose their radiant energy and disappear; and some aggregated into masses that long ago became inert, cold, and rayless, and that can only be revivified by means about which we can form conjectures, but of which we actually know nothing.

As with the stars, so with the planets, which are the satellites of stars. All investigations unite to tell us that the planets are not all in the same state of development. As some are large and some small, so some are, in an evolutionary sense, young, and some old. As they depend upon the suns around which they revolve for their light, heat, and other forms of radiant energy, so their condition varies with their distance from those suns. Many may never arrive at a state suitable for the maintenance of life upon their surfaces; some which are not at present in such a state may attain it later; and the forms of life themselves may vary with the peculiar environment that different planets afford. Thus we see that we are not scientifically justified in affirming that life is ubiquitous, although we are thus justified in saying that it must be, in a general sense, universal. We might liken the universe to a garden known to contain every variety of plant. If on entering it we see no flowers, we examine the species before us and find that they are not of those which bloom at this particular season, or perhaps they are such as never bear flowers. Yet we feel no doubt that we shall find flowers somewhere in the garden, because there are species which bloom at this season, and the garden contains all varieties.

While it is tacitly assumed that there are planets revolving around other stars than the sun, it would be impossible for us to see them with any telescope yet invented, and no instrument now in the possession of astronomers could assure us of their existence; so the only planetary system of which we have visual knowledge is our own.

Excluding the asteroids, which could not from any point of view be considered as habitable, we have in the solar system eight planets of various sizes and situated at various distances from the sun. Of these eight we know that one, the earth, is inhabited. The question, then, arises: Are there any of the others which are inhabited or habitable?

Since it is our intention to discuss the habitability of only one of the seven to which the question applies, the rest may be dismissed in a few words. The smallest of them, and the nearest to the sun, is Mercury, which is regarded as uninhabitable because it has no perceptible supply of water and air, and because, owing to the extraordinary eccentricity of its orbit, it is subjected to excessive and very rapid alterations in the amount of solar heat and light poured upon its surface, such alterations being inconsistent with the supposition that it can support living beings. Even its average temperature is more than six and a half times that prevailing on the earth! Another circumstance which militates against its habitability is that, according to the results of the best telescopic studies, it always keeps the same face toward the sun, so that one half of the planet is perpetually exposed to the fierce solar rays, and the other half faces the unmitigated cold of open space. Venus, the next in distance from the sun, is almost the exact twin of the earth in size, and many arguments may be urged in favor of its habitability, although it is suspected of possessing the same peculiarity as Mercury, in always keeping the same side sunward. Unfortunately its atmosphere appears to be so dense that no permanent markings on its surface are certainly visible, and the question of its actual condition must, for the present, be left in abeyance. Mars, the first planet more distant from the sun than the earth, is the special subject of this chapter, and will be described and discussed a few lines further on. Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune, the four giant planets, all more distant than Mars, and each more distant than the other in the order named, are all regarded as uninhabitable because none of them appears to possess any degree of solidity. They may have solid or liquid nuclei, but exteriorly they seem to be mere balls of cloud. Of course, one can imagine what he pleases about the existence of creatures suited to the physical constitution of such planets as these, but they must be excluded from the category of habitable worlds in the ordinary sense of the term. We go back, then, to Mars.

It will be best to begin with a description of the planet. Mars is 4230 miles in diameter; its surface is not much more than one-quarter as extensive as that of the earth (.285). Its mean distance from the sun is 141,500,000 miles, 48,500,000 miles greater than that of the earth. Since radiant energy varies inversely as the square of distance, Mars receives less than half as much solar light and heat as the earth gets. Mars’ year (period of revolution round the sun) is