On this date in 1986, all seven crewmembers of the Challenger space shuttle were killed.
The dates this week all seem strangely connected to the worst episodes in the history of space exploration. With my last post, discussing the loss of the Ranger 3 probe, I wanted to talk about the imperfection of human endeavors, but in that case, I could afford to speak lightly of the probe missing the moon. It was, after all, an unmanned probe, and all that was lost was time, effort, and money. Some have had to give much more to the cause of exploring space.
Yesterday was the 41st anniversary of the Apollo 1 disaster. Three astronauts died when a fire started and rapidly spread through the spacecraft as it sat on the launchpad. Gus Grissom, Edward White, and Roger Chaffee were later found to have died of smoke inhalation, but were very heavily burned.
Today marks another sad date in NASA history, and one that, unlike the Apollo 1 fire, I was around to witness. 22 years ago today, the Challenger shuttle exploded seven seconds after takeoff from Cape Canaveral. I remember watching, back in the days when every school child in America watched every launch. It was still an occasion, and a great place to start a lesson, especially in a science class. This launch was even more heavily watched by American classrooms, because a teacher, Christa McAuliffe, was aboard, about to become the first teacher ever to leave the atmosphere of Earth.
McAuliffe's name is still, and will always be inexorably connected to the Challenger explosion. She was the public face of the mission, the poster child for NASA, and when the mission turned so horribly and suddenly tragic, she was still the name in the headlines. I asked a few friends today what they remembered of the explosion, and the only name that any of them could remember was Christa McAuliffe. Six professional astronauts also lost their lives that day, in the performance of their duties and in service of not only our country, but our species. Their names are Greg Jarvis, Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, Judith Resnick, Francis Scobee, and Michael Smith. They all deserve to be remembered.
Showing posts with label American. Show all posts
Showing posts with label American. Show all posts
28 January 2008
26 January 2008
Sometimes We Miss
On this date in 1962, the Ranger 3 space probe was launched.
In my opinion, one of the most impressive feats of science and technology, not to mention luck, in recent decades has been the success of the Mars rovers. The small (and relatively cheap) "little data collectors that could" have survived on the surface of Mars for years now, collecting hundreds of times the data originally planned for the mission. In the end, it is estimated that the mission will end because of dust that has settled on the rovers' solar panels. We never even considered they could last long enough for dust to be a problem.
Looking at this sort of success, it's easy to forget just how many times we as humans have tried to reach for the stars and failed. Aside from Apollo 13, which was lucky enough to get its own movie, most failed missions are happily forgotten.
One such mission that we often overlook in the history of space exploration is the Ranger 3. Launched from Cape Canaveral on January 26, 1962, it was meant to fly over the moon taking data on radar reflectivity and surface features, then land and continue to collect more data on the surface itself. It was, in many ways, the direct ancestor of the Mars rovers. Only it missed ... by a lot.
The Ranger 3 was launched by an Atlas-Agena B rocket. The idea was to clear the Earth's atmosphere, make a single course correction, and then ride the forces of gravity for the rest of the trip. It's the sort of calculation that anyone outside of NASA would call then, and many of us would still call today, impossible. But this is the reason you and I don't work for NASA. Their calculations were, in all likelihood, perfectly correct, but a faulty transistor on the rocket threw off its guidance system, and Ranger 3 missed the moon by an impressive 37,000 km on January 28. It then joined the thousands of other small objects orbiting our sun, and it remains out there today, spinning around the same star as us. Maybe someday we'll pick it up, and put it in a museum to remind ourselves that, as smart as we are, we and our technology are not perfect.
In my opinion, one of the most impressive feats of science and technology, not to mention luck, in recent decades has been the success of the Mars rovers. The small (and relatively cheap) "little data collectors that could" have survived on the surface of Mars for years now, collecting hundreds of times the data originally planned for the mission. In the end, it is estimated that the mission will end because of dust that has settled on the rovers' solar panels. We never even considered they could last long enough for dust to be a problem.
Looking at this sort of success, it's easy to forget just how many times we as humans have tried to reach for the stars and failed. Aside from Apollo 13, which was lucky enough to get its own movie, most failed missions are happily forgotten.
One such mission that we often overlook in the history of space exploration is the Ranger 3. Launched from Cape Canaveral on January 26, 1962, it was meant to fly over the moon taking data on radar reflectivity and surface features, then land and continue to collect more data on the surface itself. It was, in many ways, the direct ancestor of the Mars rovers. Only it missed ... by a lot.
The Ranger 3 was launched by an Atlas-Agena B rocket. The idea was to clear the Earth's atmosphere, make a single course correction, and then ride the forces of gravity for the rest of the trip. It's the sort of calculation that anyone outside of NASA would call then, and many of us would still call today, impossible. But this is the reason you and I don't work for NASA. Their calculations were, in all likelihood, perfectly correct, but a faulty transistor on the rocket threw off its guidance system, and Ranger 3 missed the moon by an impressive 37,000 km on January 28. It then joined the thousands of other small objects orbiting our sun, and it remains out there today, spinning around the same star as us. Maybe someday we'll pick it up, and put it in a museum to remind ourselves that, as smart as we are, we and our technology are not perfect.
15 January 2008
The Real Dr. Strangelove
"Of course, the whole point of a Doomsday Machine is lost, if you keep it a secret."
-Doctor Strangelove
On this date in 1908, Edward Teller was born.
The brilliant but eccentric Teller was born in Hungary, and was born with the name Teller Ede. His family was Jewish, and growing up in the politically tempestuous Hungary of the early 20th century made him deeply distrust totalitarian government. He studied under both Enrico Fermi and Niels Bohr, and emigrated to the United States, along with his wife Mici. There he made several interesting breakthroughs, such as his prediction of Jahn-Teller distortions, and there he also began his interest in nuclear energy.
Teller joined the Manhattan Project in 1942. In an episode that speaks volumes about his level of confidence in his abilities, and hi scientific curiosity, he had a famous conversation with Fermi about the potential of the atomic bomb. They argued over whether an even more powerful blast would be possible by using atomic fission to set off a second fusion reaction. While the first atomic bomb was 3 years away, Teller had already begun imagining the Hydrogen bomb. He contributed in several ways to the development of the first atomic bomb, and always kept the H-bomb, or "Super" as he called it, in the back of his head.
He would go on to be known as the father of the H-bomb. The whole idea was largely ignored or marginalized until the Soviets tested an atomic bomb of their own. Teller's hydrogen bomb idea seemed like the obvious next step, and he was central in its design and execution.
Teller is remembered mainly for his H-bomb work, but is really a symbol of the optimism, sometimes blind, that we had towards atomic power in the 1950s and '60s. He was a leading advocate of peacetime uses for the atomic bomb, most famously recommending the use of a hydrogen bomb to create a deep-water port at Point Hope, Alaska. At some point in the early 1960s, cooler heads prevailed, but the plan, called Project Chariot, went farther than anyone likes to admit. He also pressed for the use of nuclear weapons in excavation for oil, a seemingly questionable bit of logic that also failed to see the light of day.
Teller remained a public figure well into the 1980s. In 1979, he took on what he perceived as an unfair attack on nuclear energy in the form of the film "The China Syndrome". He wrote an ad in the New York Times blasting Fonda and Ralph Nader for their rants against nuclear power, claiming that his tireless efforts against them had actually caused his heart attack. He wrote "You might say that I was the only one whose health was affected by that reactor near Harrisburg (referring to Three Mile Island). No, that would be wrong. It was not the reactor. It was Jane Fonda. Reactors are not dangerous."
Teller was a unique man, even among the eccentric brain trust that was the Manhattan Project. While many of his colleagues eventually saw the dangers of nuclear proliferation and became strong opponents of the use of nuclear weapons, he remained a stalwart supporter of them. He made enemies of Oppenheimer, Stanislaw Ulam, and Nobel laureate Isidor Rabi, among others, and his isolation made him that much easier to label a "mad scientist". But though I disagree with many of his views, to remember Edward Teller as "mad" would be grossly unfair. He was a fine physicist, a brilliant man, who believed that he was serving the cause of peace. I personally have always questioned the logic of peace through the most extreme destruction man has ever devised, but I also find it hard to imagine the terror of believing that a Nazi atomic bomb was possible, especially for an ethnic Jew from Hungary cursed with the knowledge of what such a device could do.
-Doctor Strangelove
On this date in 1908, Edward Teller was born.
The brilliant but eccentric Teller was born in Hungary, and was born with the name Teller Ede. His family was Jewish, and growing up in the politically tempestuous Hungary of the early 20th century made him deeply distrust totalitarian government. He studied under both Enrico Fermi and Niels Bohr, and emigrated to the United States, along with his wife Mici. There he made several interesting breakthroughs, such as his prediction of Jahn-Teller distortions, and there he also began his interest in nuclear energy.
Teller joined the Manhattan Project in 1942. In an episode that speaks volumes about his level of confidence in his abilities, and hi scientific curiosity, he had a famous conversation with Fermi about the potential of the atomic bomb. They argued over whether an even more powerful blast would be possible by using atomic fission to set off a second fusion reaction. While the first atomic bomb was 3 years away, Teller had already begun imagining the Hydrogen bomb. He contributed in several ways to the development of the first atomic bomb, and always kept the H-bomb, or "Super" as he called it, in the back of his head.
He would go on to be known as the father of the H-bomb. The whole idea was largely ignored or marginalized until the Soviets tested an atomic bomb of their own. Teller's hydrogen bomb idea seemed like the obvious next step, and he was central in its design and execution.
Teller is remembered mainly for his H-bomb work, but is really a symbol of the optimism, sometimes blind, that we had towards atomic power in the 1950s and '60s. He was a leading advocate of peacetime uses for the atomic bomb, most famously recommending the use of a hydrogen bomb to create a deep-water port at Point Hope, Alaska. At some point in the early 1960s, cooler heads prevailed, but the plan, called Project Chariot, went farther than anyone likes to admit. He also pressed for the use of nuclear weapons in excavation for oil, a seemingly questionable bit of logic that also failed to see the light of day.
Teller remained a public figure well into the 1980s. In 1979, he took on what he perceived as an unfair attack on nuclear energy in the form of the film "The China Syndrome". He wrote an ad in the New York Times blasting Fonda and Ralph Nader for their rants against nuclear power, claiming that his tireless efforts against them had actually caused his heart attack. He wrote "You might say that I was the only one whose health was affected by that reactor near Harrisburg (referring to Three Mile Island). No, that would be wrong. It was not the reactor. It was Jane Fonda. Reactors are not dangerous."
Teller was a unique man, even among the eccentric brain trust that was the Manhattan Project. While many of his colleagues eventually saw the dangers of nuclear proliferation and became strong opponents of the use of nuclear weapons, he remained a stalwart supporter of them. He made enemies of Oppenheimer, Stanislaw Ulam, and Nobel laureate Isidor Rabi, among others, and his isolation made him that much easier to label a "mad scientist". But though I disagree with many of his views, to remember Edward Teller as "mad" would be grossly unfair. He was a fine physicist, a brilliant man, who believed that he was serving the cause of peace. I personally have always questioned the logic of peace through the most extreme destruction man has ever devised, but I also find it hard to imagine the terror of believing that a Nazi atomic bomb was possible, especially for an ethnic Jew from Hungary cursed with the knowledge of what such a device could do.
14 January 2008
Maury's Faith
On this date in 1806, Matthew Fontaine Maury was born.
Maury was a true cross-disciplinary scientist. A published astronomer, oceanographer and geologist, he is best known for his work on oceanic geology, or perhaps as one of the great mediators between science and religion, a need as dire today as it was 200 years ago.
As one would expect of a 19th century man of learning, Matthew grew up in an educated family. His grandfather was Reverend James Maury, teacher of both James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson even lived with the Maurys for two years. James emphasized geography, making it a central part of his lessons, and is widely credited with encouraging young Jefferson's later push to settle the West.
After the death of his beloved brother John, an officer in the Navy, Matthew's parents forbade him to enter naval service. Then, as now, there was no way to better encourage a curious mind than to forbid it something, and Matthew entered the Navy in 1825. He would, from that point forward, always remain in love with the sea, even after a shipboard injury forced him to abandon sailing at the age of 33.
One of his best-known studies had rather mixed effects, depending on your perspective. He was the first to systematically chart whale sightings, realizing that the great whales were migratory and followed certain paths. While this was, of course, a revelation in marine biology, and a hugely important biological finding, it also led to far more efficient harvesting of whales, to the point that populations could not withstand.
Maury was also a founding member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. During the Civil War, he developed a new form of torpedo for the South that had serious implications for enemy shipping. Had he been on the Northern side, he may have been remembered as a hero, but his scientific achievements are largely lost in his allegiance to the South.
Above all else, though, Maury was a man of faith. He quoted scripture, read the Bible daily, and was by all accounts a strictly Christian man. His science was a profession, and a great love of his, but never interfered with his beliefs, nor vice versa. Some so-called creation scientists would put him forward as an example of someone that would clearly take their side today, but I have to disagree. I think he would be, as many scientists today are, more of a spectator in the conflict between religion and science, and I like to believe that a man so dedicated to both ways of knowing saw no reason why they should be so at odds.
Tomorrow, The Real Dr. Strangelove
Maury was a true cross-disciplinary scientist. A published astronomer, oceanographer and geologist, he is best known for his work on oceanic geology, or perhaps as one of the great mediators between science and religion, a need as dire today as it was 200 years ago.
As one would expect of a 19th century man of learning, Matthew grew up in an educated family. His grandfather was Reverend James Maury, teacher of both James Madison and Thomas Jefferson. Jefferson even lived with the Maurys for two years. James emphasized geography, making it a central part of his lessons, and is widely credited with encouraging young Jefferson's later push to settle the West.
After the death of his beloved brother John, an officer in the Navy, Matthew's parents forbade him to enter naval service. Then, as now, there was no way to better encourage a curious mind than to forbid it something, and Matthew entered the Navy in 1825. He would, from that point forward, always remain in love with the sea, even after a shipboard injury forced him to abandon sailing at the age of 33.
One of his best-known studies had rather mixed effects, depending on your perspective. He was the first to systematically chart whale sightings, realizing that the great whales were migratory and followed certain paths. While this was, of course, a revelation in marine biology, and a hugely important biological finding, it also led to far more efficient harvesting of whales, to the point that populations could not withstand.
Maury was also a founding member of the American Association for the Advancement of Science. During the Civil War, he developed a new form of torpedo for the South that had serious implications for enemy shipping. Had he been on the Northern side, he may have been remembered as a hero, but his scientific achievements are largely lost in his allegiance to the South.
Above all else, though, Maury was a man of faith. He quoted scripture, read the Bible daily, and was by all accounts a strictly Christian man. His science was a profession, and a great love of his, but never interfered with his beliefs, nor vice versa. Some so-called creation scientists would put him forward as an example of someone that would clearly take their side today, but I have to disagree. I think he would be, as many scientists today are, more of a spectator in the conflict between religion and science, and I like to believe that a man so dedicated to both ways of knowing saw no reason why they should be so at odds.
Tomorrow, The Real Dr. Strangelove
09 January 2008
The Great Northwestern Gale
On this date in 1880 ...
It seems appropriate today to do a post about extreme weather. I live in the Pacific Northwest, and though the winter is always wet, this season has been unusually gray and rainy. A puddle that stresses the definition of puddle and probably deserves to be a pond sits right outside my front door, and occasionally seeps in a bit. You only have to go up about 500 feet for all the water to turn into snow, and there's plenty of that at elevation.
But if I was alive 128 years ago today, today's nasty winter weather would be but a pleasant fantasy, because on this date in 1880, one of the greatest winter storms in American history hit the Pacific Northwest.
Unfortunately, the region was lacking modern measurement devices to know, exactly, how fast the wind was, and how low the barometer sank. One estimate puts it at 998 mb, an extreme storm event, but we have to go on words instead of numbers to understand the ferocity of the storm. Most of the words surviving to this day are from letters to the Daily Oregonian, a newspaper in Astoria, OR. Here are a few excerpts:
"We have just experienced one of the severest gales; nothing like it has occurred since the settlement of the bay." Astoria had been officially settled 70 years earlier, in 1810.
"The tide rose seven feet higher than was ever known; nearly all the old wharves are taken away." I don't care if it's accurate or not - the phrase "seven feet higher than was ever known" is poetic in a way that letters to the editor seldom approach.
In Portland, far from the center of the storm's fury, we do get some scientific measurement of the gale. A barometer read 28.556 inches, the second lowest reading in the history of the state, and even more impressively, the fastest rate of decline in Oregon history. The barometer fell by a over quarter of an inch in 2 hours, a massive drop in so short a time. Wind speed rose from 4 to 39 miles per hour in a span of fifteen minutes. And remember, this was not where the storm first hit, in Astoria, but 72 miles inland.
So, if you're like me, and you complained today about the winter weather in the Northwest, you can be somewhat comforted that it has been a lot worse than this, and we made it through.
On Friday, Jedlik and the Dynamo
It seems appropriate today to do a post about extreme weather. I live in the Pacific Northwest, and though the winter is always wet, this season has been unusually gray and rainy. A puddle that stresses the definition of puddle and probably deserves to be a pond sits right outside my front door, and occasionally seeps in a bit. You only have to go up about 500 feet for all the water to turn into snow, and there's plenty of that at elevation.
But if I was alive 128 years ago today, today's nasty winter weather would be but a pleasant fantasy, because on this date in 1880, one of the greatest winter storms in American history hit the Pacific Northwest.
Unfortunately, the region was lacking modern measurement devices to know, exactly, how fast the wind was, and how low the barometer sank. One estimate puts it at 998 mb, an extreme storm event, but we have to go on words instead of numbers to understand the ferocity of the storm. Most of the words surviving to this day are from letters to the Daily Oregonian, a newspaper in Astoria, OR. Here are a few excerpts:
"We have just experienced one of the severest gales; nothing like it has occurred since the settlement of the bay." Astoria had been officially settled 70 years earlier, in 1810.
"The tide rose seven feet higher than was ever known; nearly all the old wharves are taken away." I don't care if it's accurate or not - the phrase "seven feet higher than was ever known" is poetic in a way that letters to the editor seldom approach.
In Portland, far from the center of the storm's fury, we do get some scientific measurement of the gale. A barometer read 28.556 inches, the second lowest reading in the history of the state, and even more impressively, the fastest rate of decline in Oregon history. The barometer fell by a over quarter of an inch in 2 hours, a massive drop in so short a time. Wind speed rose from 4 to 39 miles per hour in a span of fifteen minutes. And remember, this was not where the storm first hit, in Astoria, but 72 miles inland.
So, if you're like me, and you complained today about the winter weather in the Northwest, you can be somewhat comforted that it has been a lot worse than this, and we made it through.
On Friday, Jedlik and the Dynamo
06 January 2008
Daylight Savings and the Energy Crisis
On this date in 1974, the United States enacted year-round daylight savings time.
The concept of daylight savings time has always been a strange one to me. No matter what number one attaches to a particular time of day, it has no effect on the number of hours of sunlight, but it can have a huge effect on human activities, mostly because the majority of us working folks are on a relatively strict work schedule. Nine to five may be a bit of a cliche, but it still remains the most common work day, at least in the United States. There are a lot of interesting consequences to the difference between it being light and dark outside when that 5-o'clock bell rings.
Studies have shown a reduction in both crime and traffic accidents during daylight savings time. It makes a certain amount of sense when you think about it. If the average person is home and (relatively) secure by the time it gets dark, there is both less driving in the dark and less walking in the dark through what might be suspicious territory.
Daylight savings also has a huge effect on energy use, and that is the effect that brings up today's blog post. Because of our enforced work schedules, people tend to go to sleep at about the same time regardless of the timing of sunlight. So, the energy used on electric lighting in the home tends to be less during daylight savings time because there are fewer hours between returning home from work and turning almost everything off to go to sleep. If gas happens to be in low supply, this little difference can be important.
In 1974, gas was, to say the least, in low supply. The energy crisis was in full stride, after OPEC decided to use the West's oil dependence as a weapon to punish us for our support of Israel in the fourth Arab-Israeli War. Price controls and rationing were already well in place when the New Year came around and the decision was made to extend daylight savings to further reduce energy use. As it turned out, the problems had reached their worst point and were starting to abate. It would be two months later, on March 17, that OPEC dropped the embargo and things started to normalize. Still, for those of us who complain about $4 gas and marvel at $100/barrel oil, it is worth remembering a time when we not only had to wait our turn to get gas, but also actually changed our clocks to save it.
Tomorrow, Galileo and the Four Moons
The concept of daylight savings time has always been a strange one to me. No matter what number one attaches to a particular time of day, it has no effect on the number of hours of sunlight, but it can have a huge effect on human activities, mostly because the majority of us working folks are on a relatively strict work schedule. Nine to five may be a bit of a cliche, but it still remains the most common work day, at least in the United States. There are a lot of interesting consequences to the difference between it being light and dark outside when that 5-o'clock bell rings.
Studies have shown a reduction in both crime and traffic accidents during daylight savings time. It makes a certain amount of sense when you think about it. If the average person is home and (relatively) secure by the time it gets dark, there is both less driving in the dark and less walking in the dark through what might be suspicious territory.
Daylight savings also has a huge effect on energy use, and that is the effect that brings up today's blog post. Because of our enforced work schedules, people tend to go to sleep at about the same time regardless of the timing of sunlight. So, the energy used on electric lighting in the home tends to be less during daylight savings time because there are fewer hours between returning home from work and turning almost everything off to go to sleep. If gas happens to be in low supply, this little difference can be important.
In 1974, gas was, to say the least, in low supply. The energy crisis was in full stride, after OPEC decided to use the West's oil dependence as a weapon to punish us for our support of Israel in the fourth Arab-Israeli War. Price controls and rationing were already well in place when the New Year came around and the decision was made to extend daylight savings to further reduce energy use. As it turned out, the problems had reached their worst point and were starting to abate. It would be two months later, on March 17, that OPEC dropped the embargo and things started to normalize. Still, for those of us who complain about $4 gas and marvel at $100/barrel oil, it is worth remembering a time when we not only had to wait our turn to get gas, but also actually changed our clocks to save it.
Tomorrow, Galileo and the Four Moons
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