A short history of nearly everything (26 page)

Though Manson’s strange rocks and silken waters were matters of curiosity, forty-one years would pass before a team from the University of Iowa got around to making a trip to the community, then as now a town of about two thousand people in the northwest part of the state. In 1953, after sinking a series of experimental bores, university geologists agreed that the site was indeed anomalous and attributed the deformed rocks to some ancient, unspecified volcanic action. This was in keeping with the wisdom of the day, but it was also about as wrong as a geological conclusion can get.

The trauma to Manson’s geology had come not from within the Earth, but from at least 100 million miles beyond. Sometime in the very ancient past, when Manson stood on the edge of a shallow sea, a rock about a mile and a half across, weighing ten billion tons and traveling at perhaps two hundred times the speed of sound ripped through the atmosphere and punched into the Earth with a violence and suddenness that we can scarcely imagine. Where Manson now stands became in an instant a hole three miles deep and more than twenty miles across. The limestone that elsewhere gives Iowa its hard mineralized water was obliterated and replaced by the shocked basement rocks that so puzzled the water driller in 1912.

The Manson impact was the biggest thing that has ever occurred on the mainland United States. Of any type. Ever. The crater it left behind was so colossal that if you stood on one edge you would only just be able to see the other side on a good day. It would make the Grand Canyon look quaint and trifling. Unfortunately for lovers of spectacle, 2.5 million years of passing ice sheets filled the Manson crater right to the top with rich glacial till, then graded it smooth, so that today the landscape at Manson, and for miles around, is as flat as a tabletop. Which is of course why no one has ever heard of the Manson crater.

At the library in Manson they are delighted to show you a collection of newspaper articles and a box of core samples from a 1991–92 drilling program—indeed, they positively bustle to produce them—but you have to ask to see them. Nothing permanent is on display, and nowhere in the town is there any historical marker.

To most people in Manson the biggest thing ever to happen was a tornado that rolled up Main Street in 1979, tearing apart the business district. One of the advantages of all that surrounding flatness is that you can see danger from a long way off. Virtually the whole town turned out at one end of Main Street and watched for half an hour as the tornado came toward them, hoping it would veer off, then prudently scampered when it did not. Four of them, alas, didn’t move quite fast enough and were killed. Every June now Manson has a weeklong event called Crater Days, which was dreamed up as a way of helping people forget that unhappy anniversary. It doesn’t really have anything to do with the crater. Nobody’s figured out a way to capitalize on an impact site that isn’t visible.

“Very occasionally we get people coming in and asking where they should go to see the crater and we have to tell them that there is nothing to see,” says Anna Schlapkohl, the town’s friendly librarian. “Then they go away kind of disappointed.” However, most people, including most Iowans, have never heard of the Manson crater. Even for geologists it barely rates a footnote. But for one brief period in the 1980s, Manson was the most geologically exciting place on Earth.

The story begins in the early 1950s when a bright young geologist named Eugene Shoemaker paid a visit to Meteor Crater in Arizona. Today Meteor Crater is the most famous impact site on Earth and a popular tourist attraction. In those days, however, it didn’t receive many visitors and was still often referred to as Barringer Crater, after a wealthy mining engineer named Daniel M. Barringer who had staked a claim on it in 1903. Barringer believed that the crater had been formed by a ten-million-ton meteor, heavily freighted with iron and nickel, and it was his confident expectation that he would make a fortune digging it out. Unaware that the meteor and everything in it would have been vaporized on impact, he wasted a fortune, and the next twenty-six years, cutting tunnels that yielded nothing.

By the standards of today, crater research in the early 1900s was a trifle unsophisticated, to say the least. The leading early investigator, G. K. Gilbert of Columbia University, modeled the effects of impacts by flinging marbles into pans of oatmeal. (For reasons I cannot supply, Gilbert conducted these experiments not in a laboratory at Columbia but in a hotel room.) Somehow from this Gilbert concluded that the Moon’s craters were indeed formed by impacts—in itself quite a radical notion for the time—but that the Earth’s were not. Most scientists refused to go even that far. To them, the Moon’s craters were evidence of ancient volcanoes and nothing more. The few craters that remained evident on Earth (most had been eroded away) were generally attributed to other causes or treated as fluky rarities.

By the time Shoemaker came along, a common view was that Meteor Crater had been formed by an underground steam explosion. Shoemaker knew nothing about underground steam explosions—he couldn’t: they don’t exist—but he did know all about blast zones. One of his first jobs out of college was to study explosion rings at the Yucca Flats nuclear test site in Nevada. He concluded, as Barringer had before him, that there was nothing at Meteor Crater to suggest volcanic activity, but that there were huge distributions of other stuff—anomalous fine silicas and magnetites principally—that suggested an impact from space. Intrigued, he began to study the subject in his spare time.

Working first with his colleague Eleanor Helin and later with his wife, Carolyn, and associate David Levy, Shoemaker began a systematic survey of the inner solar system. They spent one week each month at the Palomar Observatory in California looking for objects, asteroids primarily, whose trajectories carried them across Earth’s orbit.

“At the time we started, only slightly more than a dozen of these things had ever been discovered in the entire course of astronomical observation,” Shoemaker recalled some years later in a television interview. “Astronomers in the twentieth century essentially abandoned the solar system,” he added. “Their attention was turned to the stars, the galaxies.”

What Shoemaker and his colleagues found was that there was more risk out there—a great deal more—than anyone had ever imagined.

Asteroids, as most people know, are rocky objects orbiting in loose formation in a belt between Mars and Jupiter. In illustrations they are always shown as existing in a jumble, but in fact the solar system is quite a roomy place and the average asteroid actually will be about a million miles from its nearest neighbor. Nobody knows even approximately how many asteroids there are tumbling through space, but the number is thought to be probably not less than a billion. They are presumed to be planets that never quite made it, owing to the unsettling gravitational pull of Jupiter, which kept—and keeps—them from coalescing.

When asteroids were first detected in the 1800s—the very first was discovered on the first day of the century by a Sicilian named Giuseppi Piazzi—they were thought to be planets, and the first two were named Ceres and Pallas. It took some inspired deductions by the astronomer William Herschel to work out that they were nowhere near planet sized but much smaller. He called them asteroids—Latin for “starlike”—which was slightly unfortunate as they are not like stars at all. Sometimes now they are more accurately called planetoids.

Finding asteroids became a popular activity in the 1800s, and by the end of the century about a thousand were known. The problem was that no one was systematically recording them. By the early 1900s, it had often become impossible to know whether an asteroid that popped into view was new or simply one that had been noted earlier and then lost track of. By this time, too, astrophysics had moved on so much that few astronomers wanted to devote their lives to anything as mundane as rocky planetoids. Only a few astronomers, notably Gerard Kuiper, the Dutch-born astronomer for whom the Kuiper belt of comets is named, took any interest in the solar system at all. Thanks to his work at the McDonald Observatory in Texas, followed later by work done by others at the Minor Planet Center in Cincinnati and the Spacewatch project in Arizona, a long list of lost asteroids was gradually whittled down until by the close of the twentieth century only one known asteroid was unaccounted for—an object called 719 Albert. Last seen in October 1911, it was finally tracked down in 2000 after being missing for eighty-nine years.

So from the point of view of asteroid research the twentieth century was essentially just a long exercise in bookkeeping. It is really only in the last few years that astronomers have begun to count and keep an eye on the rest of the asteroid community. As of July 2001, twenty-six thousand asteroids had been named and identified—half in just the previous two years. With up to a billion to identify, the count obviously has barely begun.

In a sense it hardly matters. Identifying an asteroid doesn’t make it safe. Even if every asteroid in the solar system had a name and known orbit, no one could say what perturbations might send any of them hurtling toward us. We can’t forecast rock disturbances on our own surface. Put them adrift in space and what they might do is beyond guessing. Any asteroid out there that has our name on it is very likely to have no other.

Think of the Earth’s orbit as a kind of freeway on which we are the only vehicle, but which is crossed regularly by pedestrians who don’t know enough to look before stepping off the curb. At least 90 percent of these pedestrians are quite unknown to us. We don’t know where they live, what sort of hours they keep, how often they come our way. All we know is that at some point, at uncertain intervals, they trundle across the road down which we are cruising at sixty-six thousand miles an hour. As Steven Ostro of the Jet Propulsion Laboratory has put it, “Suppose that there was a button you could push and you could light up all the Earth-crossing asteroids larger than about ten meters, there would be over 100 million of these objects in the sky.” In short, you would see not a couple of thousand distant twinkling stars, but millions upon millions upon millions of nearer, randomly moving objects—“all of which are capable of colliding with the Earth and all of which are moving on slightly different courses through the sky at different rates. It would be deeply unnerving.” Well, be unnerved because it is there. We just can’t see it.

Altogether it is thought—though it is really only a guess, based on extrapolating from cratering rates on the Moon—that some two thousand asteroids big enough to imperil civilized existence regularly cross our orbit. But even a small asteroid—the size of a house, say—could destroy a city. The number of these relative tiddlers in Earth-crossing orbits is almost certainly in the hundreds of thousands and possibly in the millions, and they are nearly impossible to track.

The first one wasn’t spotted until 1991, and that was after it had already gone by. Named 1991 BA, it was noticed as it sailed past us at a distance of 106,000 miles—in cosmic terms the equivalent of a bullet passing through one’s sleeve without touching the arm. Two years later, another, somewhat larger asteroid missed us by just 90,000 miles—the closest pass yet recorded. It, too, was not seen until it had passed and would have arrived without warning. According to Timothy Ferris, writing in theNew Yorker , such near misses probably happen two or three times a week and go unnoticed.

An object a hundred yards across couldn’t be picked up by any Earth-based telescope until it was within just a few days of us, and that is only if a telescope happened to be trained on it, which is unlikely because even now the number of people searching for such objects is modest. The arresting analogy that is always made is that the number of people in the world who are actively searching for asteroids is fewer than the staff of a typical McDonald’s restaurant. (It is actually somewhat higher now. But not much.)

While Gene Shoemaker was trying to get people galvanized about the potential dangers of the inner solar system, another development—wholly unrelated on the face of it—was quietly unfolding in Italy with the work of a young geologist from the Lamont Doherty Laboratory at Columbia University. In the early 1970s, Walter Alvarez was doing fieldwork in a comely defile known as the Bottaccione Gorge, near the Umbrian hill town of Gubbio, when he grew curious about a thin band of reddish clay that divided two ancient layers of limestone—one from the Cretaceous period, the other from the Tertiary. This is a point known to geology as the KT boundary,[27]and it marks the time, sixty-five million years ago, when the dinosaurs and roughly half the world’s other species of animals abruptly vanish from the fossil record. Alvarez wondered what it was about a thin lamina of clay, barely a quarter of an inch thick, that could account for such a dramatic moment in Earth’s history.

At the time the conventional wisdom about the dinosaur extinction was the same as it had been in Charles Lyell’s day a century earlier—namely that the dinosaurs had died out over millions of years. But the thinness of the clay layer clearly suggested that in Umbria, if nowhere else, something rather more abrupt had happened. Unfortunately in the 1970s no tests existed for determining how long such a deposit might have taken to accumulate.

In the normal course of things, Alvarez almost certainly would have had to leave the problem at that, but luckily he had an impeccable connection to someone outside his discipline who could help—his father, Luis. Luis Alvarez was an eminent nuclear physicist; he had won the Nobel Prize for physics the previous decade. He had always been mildly scornful of his son’s attachment to rocks, but this problem intrigued him. It occurred to him that the answer might lie in dust from space.

Every year the Earth accumulates some thirty thousand metric tons of “cosmic spherules”—space dust in plainer language—which would be quite a lot if you swept it into one pile, but is infinitesimal when spread across the globe. Scattered through this thin dusting are exotic elements not normally much found on Earth. Among these is the element iridium, which is a thousand times more abundant in space than in the Earth’s crust (because, it is thought, most of the iridium on Earth sank to the core when the planet was young).