From the beginning of chapter 14 of his book, Pale Blue Dot
Here’s an excerpt from Robert H. Goddard’s notebook of 1907:
“The planets, in their various stages of development, are subjected to the same formative forces that operate on our Earth, and have, therefore, the same geologic formation, and probably life, of our own past, and perhaps future; but, further than this, these forces are acting, in some cases, under totally different conditions from those under which they operate on the Earth, and hence must evolve forms different from those ever known to man. The value of such material as this to the comparative sciences is too obvious to need discussion.”
And here is a quote from Ulf Merbold, a German space shuttle astronaut, in 1988:
“For the first time in my life, I saw the horizon as a curved line. It was accentuated by a thin seam of dark blue light—our atmosphere. Obviously, this was not the “ocean” of air I had been told it was so many times in my life. I was terrified by its fragile appearance.”
When you look down at the Earth from orbital altitudes, you see a lovely, fragile world embedded in black vacuum. But peering at a piece of the Earth through a spacecraft porthole is nothing like the joy of seeing it entire against the backdrop of black, or—better—sweeping across your field of view as you float in space unencumbered by a spacecraft. The first human to have this experience was Alexei Leonov, who on March 18th, 1965, left Voskhod 2 in the original space “walk.” “I looked down at the Earth,” he recalls, “and the first thought that crossed my mind was”The world is round, after all." In one glance I could see from Gibraltar to the Caspian Sea… I felt like a bird—with wings, and able to fly.”
When you view the Earth from farther away, as the Apollo astronauts did, it shrinks in apparent size, until nothing but a little geography remains. You’re struck by how self-contained it is. An occasional hydrogen atom leaves; a pitter-patter of cometary dust arrives. Sunlight, generated in the immense, silent thermonuclear engine deep in the solar interior, pours out of the Sun in all directions, and the Earth intercepts enough of it to provide a little illumination and enough heat for our modest purposes. Apart from that, this small world is on its own.
From the surface of the Moon you can see it, perhaps as a crescent, even its continents now indistinct. And from the vantage point of the outermost planet it is a mere point of pale light.
From Earth orbit, you are struck by the tender blue arc of the horizon—the Earth’s thin atmosphere seen tangentially. You can understand why there is no longer such a thing as a local environmental problem: Molecules are stupid. Industrial poisons, greenhouse gases, and substances that attack the protective ozone layer, because of their abysmal ignorance, do not respect borders. They are oblivious of the notion of national sovereignty. And so, due to the almost mythic powers of our technology (and the prevalence of short-term thinking,) we are beginning—on continental and on planetary scales—to pose a danger to ourselves. Plainly, if these problems are to be solved, it will require many nations acting in concert over many years.
I’m struck again by the irony that spaceflight—conceived in the cauldron of nationalist rivalries and hatreds—brings with it a stunning transnational vision. You spend even a little time contemplating the Earth from orbit and the most deeply engrained nationalisms begin to erode. They seem the squabbles of mites on a plum.
If we’re stuck on one world, we’re limited to a single case; we don’t know what else is possible. Then—like an art fancier familiar only with Faiyum tomb paintings, a dentist who knows only molars, a philosopher trained merely in Neoplatonism, a linguist who has studied only Chinese, or a physicist whose knowledge of gravity is restricted to falling bodies on Earth—our perspective is foreshortened, our insights narrow, our predictive abilities circumscribed. By contrast, when we explore other worlds, what once seemed the only way a planet could be turns out to be somewhere in the middle range of a vast spectrum of possibilities. When we look at those other worlds, we begin to understand what happens when we have too much of one thing or too little of another. We learn how a planet can go wrong. We gain a new understanding, foreseen by the spaceflight pioneer Robert Goddard, and today called comparative planetology.
The exploration of other worlds has opened our eyes in the study of volcanos, earthquakes, and weather. It may one day have profound implications for biology, because all life on Earth is built on a common biochemical master plan. The discovery of a single extraterrestrial organism—even something as humble as a bacterium—would revolutionize our understanding of living things. But the connection between exploring other worlds and protecting this one is most evident in the study of Earth’s climate and the burgeoning threat to that climate that our technology now poses. Other worlds provide vital insights about what dumb things not to do on Earth.
Three potential environmental catastrophes—all operating on a global scale—have recently been uncovered: ozone layer depletion, greenhouse warming, and nuclear winter. All three discoveries, it turns out, have strong ties to the exploration of the planets.
The molecules in question are called chlorofluorocarbons (CFCs.) Chemically, they’re extremely inert, which means they’re invulnerable—until they find themselves up in the ozone layer, where they’re broken apart by ultraviolet light from the Sun. The chlorine atoms thus liberated attack and break down the protective ozone, letting more ultraviolet light reach the ground. This increased ultraviolet intensity ushers in a ghastly procession of potential consequences involving not just skin cancer and cataracts, but weakening of the human immune system and, most dangerous of all, possible harm to agriculture and to photosynthetic organisms at the base of the food chain on which most life on Earth depends.
Now, who discovered that CFCs posed a threat to the ozone layer? Was it the principal manufacturer, the DuPont Corporation, exercising corporate responsibility? Was it the Environmental Protection Agency protecting us? Was it the Department of Defense defending us? No, it was two Ivory-tower, white-coated university scientists working on something else—Sherwood Rowland and Mario Molina of the University of California, Irvine. Not even an Ivy League university. No one instructed them to look for dangers to the environment. They were pursuing fundamental research. They were scientists following their own interests. Their names should be known to every schoolchild.
— Carl Sagan (1934–1996)
Astronomer, astrophysicist, cosmologist, author, and popularizer of science