The myth of the Golden Age

You hear it all the time, don't you?  There's no such thing as common decency any more.  Moral values are in freefall.  Simple politeness is a thing of the past.  Kids today don't understand the value of (choose all that apply): hard work, honesty, compassion, loyalty, friendship, culture, intellectual pursuits.  The whole world has gone seriously downhill.

Oh, and we mustn't forget "Make America Great Again."  Implying that there was a time in the past -- usually unspecified -- when America was great, but it's kind of gone down the tubes since then.  But it's not just the Republicans; a 2015 study found that 76% of respondents in the United States believed that "addressing the moral breakdown of the country should be a high priority for their government."

This whole deeply pessimistic attitude is widespread -- that compared to the past, we're a hopeless mess.  The first clue that this might not be accurate, though, comes from history, and not just the fact that the past -- regardless which part of it you choose -- had some seriously bad parts.  Consider in addition that just about every era has felt the same way about its own past.  Nineteenth century Europe, for example, had a nearly religious reverence for the societies of classical Rome and Greece -- which is ironic, because the Greeks and Romans at the height of their civilizations both looked back to their ancestors as living in a "Golden Age of Heroes" that had, sadly, devolved into chaos and highly unheroic ugliness.

The Golden Age by Pietro de Cortona (17th century) [Image is in the Public Domain]

So psychologists Adam Mastroianni (of Columbia University) and Daniel Gilbert (of Harvard University) decided to see if there was any truth to the claim that we really are in moral decline.

Their findings, which were published last week in Nature, drew on sixty years of surveys about moral values, with respondents from 59 different countries.  These surveys not only asked questions regarding whether morality had declined over the respondents' lifetimes (84% said it had), they asked them to rate their own values and their peers'.

Interestingly, although most people said things were worse now than they had been in the past, there was no decline over time in how people rated the values and morality of the people around them in the present.  The percentage of people respondents knew and described as kind, decent, honest, or hard-working has remained completely flat over the past sixty years.

So what's going on?

Mastroianni and Gilbert say it's simple.

People idealize the past because they have bad memories.

It's the same phenomenon as when we recall vacations where there have been mishaps.  After a couple of years have passed, we remember the positive parts -- the walks on the beach, the excellent food, the beautiful weather -- and the sunburn, mosquito bites, delayed flights, and uncomfortable hotel room beds have all faded from memory.  It has to be really bad before the unpleasant memories come to mind first, such as the trip I took with my wife to Belize where the guests and staff of the lodge where we were staying all simultaneously came down with the worst food poisoning I've ever experienced.

Okay, that I remember pretty vividly.  But most vacation mishaps?  Barely remembered -- or only recalled with a smile, a laugh, a "can you believe that happened?"

What Mastroianni and Gilbert found was that we put that same undeserved gloss on the past in general.  It's an encouraging finding, really; people aren't getting worse, morality isn't going downhill, the world isn't going to hell in a handbasket.  In reality, most people now -- just like in the past -- are honest and decent and kind.

The problem, of course, is that given how widespread this belief is, and how resistant it is to changing, how to get folks to stop looking at the past as some kind of Golden Age.  Because the fact is, we have made some significant strides in a great many areas; equality for women and minorities, LGBTQ rights and treatment, concern for the environment are all far ahead of where they were even forty years ago.  There are a lot of ways the past wasn't all that great.

Believe me, as a closeted queer kid who grew up in the Deep South of the 1960s and 1970s, I wouldn't want to go back there for any money.

So maybe we need to turn our focus away from the past and look instead toward the future -- instead of lamenting some mythical and almost certainly false lost paradise, working toward making what's to come even better for everyone. 

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The whistleblower

From the make-of-this-what-you-will department, today we have: a well-respected and decorated military veteran and former member of both the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency and the National Reconnaissance Office who has stated under oath to Congress that the United States is in possession of "intact and partly intact craft of non-human origin."

His name is David Charles Grusch, and his shift from intelligence officer to alien whistleblower came as a shock to the people who know him.  An Army colonel who worked with him called him "beyond reproach;" another called him "an officer with the strongest possible moral compass."  He went to Congress with the information, he said, to expose "a decades-long publicly unknown Cold War for recovered and exploited physical material – a competition with near-peer adversaries over the years to identify UAP [unidentified anomalous phenomena] crashes/landings and retrieve the material for exploitation/reverse engineering to garner asymmetric national defense advantages."

The recovered "material," he said, is clearly not of human manufacture.  It is "of exotic origin (non-human intelligence, whether extraterrestrial or unknown origin) based on the vehicle morphologies and material science testing and the possession of unique atomic arrangements and radiological signatures."

Further -- although details were not forthcoming, as the transcript of the hearing was classified -- several current members of the recovery team testified under oath to the Inspector General, and corroborated Grusch's claims.

Grusch has stated that his actions have resulted in retaliation, although it is unclear by whom.

Now that Grusch has come forward, a surprising array of officials have voiced their support.  Jonathan Grey, an intelligence officer specializing in UAP analysis at the National Air and Space Intelligence Center, said, "The existence of complex historical programs involving the coordinated retrieval and study of exotic materials, dating back to the early twentieth century, should no longer remain a secret.  The majority of retrieved, foreign exotic materials have a prosaic terrestrial explanation and origin – but not all, and any number higher than zero in this category represents an undeniably significant statistical percentage...  A vast array of our most sophisticated sensors, including space-based platforms, have been utilized by different agencies, typically in triplicate, to observe and accurately identify the out-of-this-world nature, performance, and design of these anomalous machines, which are then determined not to be of earthly origin."

The whole thing is curious, to say the least.  On the one hand, we have several highly-respected and high-ranking military officials putting their reputations on the line to come forward with this information, and -- thus far -- all of them pretty much corroborating each other's stories.  On the other hand, we still have zero hard evidence that has been made available to scientists.  I am especially curious about the "unique atomic arrangements and radiological signatures" Grusch refers to.  How are we to tell the difference between an odd, but naturally-occurring, material and one of alien manufacture?  Take, for example, quasicrystals -- about which I wrote here at Skeptophilia a few months ago -- which were thought to be only produceable in the laboratory, until a sample was found in a Siberian meteorite.

If we had piece of a spaceship console with lettering in Klingon, I might pay more attention.

Now, I'm not saying I disbelieve Grusch et al., mind you.  I'm merely saying that, to quote Neil deGrasse Tyson, "what I've seen so far does not meet the minimum standard of evidence required in science."

As I've said about a hundred times, nobody would be more delighted than me at having unequivocal proof of extraterrestrial intelligence.  But this -- as of right now -- is still in the category of "equivocal."  So I'm willing to defer forming a definite opinion, pending someone dragging out the "intact craft of non-human origin" and letting us all take a look at it. 

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The long rain

Imagine going back 240 million years.

This would land you in the early Triassic Period.  By this time, the Earth would have had twelve million years to recover from the cataclysmic Permian-Triassic Extinction, the largest mass extinction on record.  Life had rebounded some -- two of the dominant terrestrial animal groups were the terrifying crurotarsans (picture a long-legged on-land crocodile) and the dicynodonts (which looked a little like a rhino with a parrot's bill -- and tusks).

Finding your way around the place would be confusing, if all you know is the current continental arrangement.  Pangaea was still locked together, and would be until rifting began to open up the Atlantic Ocean -- but that was still forty million years in the future.

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Fama Clamosa, Pangaea 200Ma, CC BY-SA 4.0]

Because virtually all the land masses of the world were jammed together into one supercontinent, the climate was really dry.  There probably was a reasonable amount of rainfall along the coastline, but most places were very far away from the coast.  The result is that one of the major early Triassic sedimentary rocks is the "Triassic red sandstone" formed from wind-blown layers of sand deposited in conditions that resembled today's Sahara Desert.  But instead of being restricted to a part of a single continent, this was what it was like in the interior of Pangaea -- i.e., the entire land mass on planet Earth.

But even the Sahara isn't lifeless, and neither was the continental interior of Pangaea during the early Triassic.  Organisms found a way to cope with the dry conditions, and -- all things considered -- life was doing okay.

Then -- 234 million years ago -- it started to rain.

I'm not talking about your short-lived desert thunderstorm, here, nor even the kind of "atmospheric river" event that hit the Central Valley of California this year, causing not only flooding but an explosive burst of wildflowers.

This rainstorm lasted two million years.

It's called the "Carnian Pluvial Episode," and evidence for it can be seen in a sudden shift in sedimentary geology, a change in the isotope concentrations in carbonate rocks (like limestone), and a huge spike in heavy elements (like osmium and mercury) that are much more common in deep-mantle rocks.  The last bit is a clue to what happened -- there was a massive eruption called the Wrangellia Flood Basalts in what would eventually become southern Alaska and western British Columbia.  I've written before about two other flood basalt provinces, the Siberian Traps (implicated in the Permian-Triassic Extinction) and the Deccan Traps (contributory to the Cretaceous Extinction), and while the Wrangellia event isn't as big as either of those, it is many orders of magnitude larger than anything you probably picture as a volcanic eruption.  The Wrangellia Flood Basalt injected huge quantities of carbon dioxide into the atmosphere, largely through the lava burning through limestone, coal, and any organic matter on the surface.  This spiked the atmospheric temperature, increased seawater evaporation...

... and it started to rain.

Imagine being an animal adapted to living in Arizona, and all of a sudden, you find you're living in the Amazon lowlands.  That's pretty much what happened.

The result was another extinction.  Both the crurotarsans and dicynodonts bit the dust.  Or actually, at that point, the mud.  Let me emphasize that both groups were doing fine before the climatic shift; but having spent millions of years adapting to the early Triassic desert conditions, they couldn't handle it when the long rain started.

The winners here were the animals that had the flexibility to cope with the changing conditions -- in this case, dinosaurs, which would go on to dominate the place for another 165 million years.  The early mammals also made it, obviously, but they were still small at this point (and would remain so until the non-avian dinosaurs met their demise).  Interesting that the quintessential Mesozoic group, the dinosaurs, might never have taken off like they did if it hadn't been for a sudden geological event that triggered a climatic shift and knocked out the two main competitor groups.

And I would be remiss if I didn't mention that the rate at which the Wrangellia Flood Basalts injected carbon dioxide into the atmosphere is thought to be significantly smaller than the rate we're doing the same from burning fossil fuels.

Any wonder why environmentalists are worried?

We've already had our share of bizarre weather in the last few years; it seems like not a week goes by without my hearing someone say, "This hardly ever happens."  At the moment, here in upstate New York, it hasn't rained for a month, and we're getting spectacular sunsets (and difficulty breathing) because of a pall of wildfire smoke that's come all the way from central Quebec.  Vietnam and Laos have already set record high temperatures this year, reaching a devastating 44 C (with correspondingly high humidity), as did the Pacific Northwest of the United States, with Portland at a less dangerous but still scorching 35 C.  

Weather isn't climate, something I feel obligated to remind the climate change deniers every time we have a cold snap in January; but as anomalous weather happens over and over and over, these kinds of patterns begin to add up to something significant.  As a Louisiana native, I'm already worried about this year's hurricane season -- especially given that the most recent sea surface temperatures are (in the words of Australian climatologist Matthew England) "heading off the charts."

To judge by the geological record of events like the Carnian Pluvial Episode, it looks like we might be in the last half of "fuck around and find out."

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Everything evaporates

In the episode of Star Trek: The Original Series called "Metamorphosis," the crew of the Enterprise encounters a man who has been kept alive and healthy for centuries by an entity he calls "the Companion."  I don't honestly remember it all that well -- it was kind of the usual Star Trek fare, as I recall -- but one line has stuck in my head all these years since I saw it: "Immortality consists largely of boredom."

I remember thinking as a kid what a bizarre statement that was.  Given the choice, who wouldn't want to live forever?  And, on the bigger scale, who wouldn't want the universe to exist for eternity?

When I was in high school, though, I started to run into some disquieting scientific ideas that made me realize what a pipe dream this was.  The Second Law of Thermodynamics -- that over time, all closed systems devolve toward chaos.  The fact that even the stars have births, lives... and deaths.  The three possibilities of the ultimate fate of the universe -- a collapse back into a singularity, a "flat universe" that slows its expansion but never quite gets to zero, and an accelerating universe that eventually speeds up until spacetime itself gets pulled apart.

None of which would be survivable by any life as we know it.

It all seemed so... bleak.  I remember rooting for the collapse ("Big Crunch") model, because some scientists thought this might result in an oscillating universe, one where death was followed by rebirth, a new Big Bang that would reset everything and start over.  It somehow seemed preferable to the clock simply winding down and eventually stopping.  But even that hope was dashed by the cosmologists; from the data we have, it appears either the universe is flat (the middle scenario) or hyperbolic (the third scenario).  

So it looks like the cosmos has a finite lifespan.  (If you've got a half-hour to have your mind blown, watch the wonderful YouTube video "The Timeline of the Universe" -- which takes us from now to the end, at least as far as current cosmology understands things.)

And a new piece of research has found that even the objects in that expanding, cooling universe aren't immortal.  Working at the Radboud University of Nijmegen, theoretical physicists have found that the phenomenon of Hawking radiation doesn't just apply to black holes -- it applies to everything.

In other words, everything eventually will evaporate.

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA]

You probably know that empty space isn't really empty; it's filled with a seething foam of virtual particles that pop into existence in pairs (one matter particle and one antimatter particle) and, almost always, immediately mutually annihilate.  The overall result is nothing that generally impacts us on the macroscopic scale, since the lifetimes of these virtual pairs is measured in nanoseconds.  (It does contribute to the overall mass-energy density of empty space, however, something called the Casimir effect, which has been experimentally measured and agrees with the theoretical prediction perfectly -- so as bizarre as they sound, virtual particles are a real phenomenon.)

But there's more to it than this, and the key is the word "almost" in "almost always immediately mutually annihilate."  When the virtual pair is produced near the event horizon of a black hole, sometimes one of the particles gets trapped inside the event horizon, and the other escapes, radiating away into space.  This mass and energy is lost to the black hole, so it shrinks a bit -- and over large amounts of time, the black hole itself will evaporate away.

That's the Hawking radiation.  But what the current research showed is that this evaporation happens to everything -- not just black holes.

"[This research] means that objects without an event horizon, such as the remnants of dead stars and other large objects in the universe, also have this sort of radiation," said Heino Falcke, who co-authored the paper.  "And, after a very long period, that would lead to everything in the universe eventually evaporating, just like black holes.  This changes not only our understanding of Hawking radiation but also our view of the universe and its future."

So I guess the band Kansas might want to reconsider their lyric, "Nothing lasts forever but the Earth and sky."

The whole thing bothers me less now than it would have when I was younger.  It's not that I'm fond of the idea of death, mind you; I'm not ready to check out any time soon.  It's more that I've accepted its inevitability.  It's why the wonderful television series The Good Place was so incredibly poignant.  The main characters finally come to understand that maybe an eternity in the Good Place (heaven) isn't all it's cracked up to be, and that our appreciation of the beauty of the universe and what life has to offer comes from the fact that it is finite.  

But it should definitely focus our minds and hearts on appreciating what we have now.  I'll end with a quote from a different Star Trek episode, which (in my opinion) is the best one in the entire franchise: the Star Trek: The Next Generation episode "The Inner Light."

"Seize the time, Maribol.  Live now.  Make now always the most precious time.  Now will never come again."

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The Lazarus flower

The way things are, sometimes it's nice to find a bit of good news to focus on.  Today's good news comes to us by way of my dear writer friend Vivienne Tuffnell, whose books are brilliant and whose lovely blog Zen and the Art of Tightrope Walking should be on your "subscribe" list.

The article Vivienne posted was about an amazing accomplishment -- the "de-extinction" of a plant, the York groundsel (Senecio eboracensis).

[Photograph credit: Andrew Shaw/The Rare British Plants Nursery]

The plant has an interesting history.  It's an example of a curious phenomenon where a new species has resulted from hybridization -- in this case, between the exotic Sicilian ragwort (Senecio squalidus) and the native common groundsel (Senecio vulgaris).  Some time in the last three hundred years -- when Sicilian ragwort was unintentionally introduced to England -- the two cross-pollinated.  Such hybrids are usually infertile because of having sets of non-homologous (unpaired) chromosomes, but the hybrid then backcrossed to S. vulgaris, resulting in an allopolyploid, a plant that had a combination of chromosomes from two different parent species but was self-fertile.  It was also genetically distinct enough from both parent species that it couldn't backcross again, and thus was reproductively isolated -- i.e., a new species.

(Interestingly, another example of allopolyploidy is wheat, a hybrid of two grass species that have actually been identified in the wild.)

The problem was, the new species was only found in the city of York, and an extensive cleanup campaign in 1991 involved the overzealous application of weedkiller.  The only colonies of York groundsel known were destroyed.  Researchers had three small pots of the plant on a windowsill in the University of York, but the plant is an annual or short-lived perennial, and they didn't last long.  Fortunately, before dying, they produced a pinch of tiny seeds -- which were sent to the Millennium Seed Bank at the fabulous Kew Gardens.

Andrew Shaw, of The Rare British Plants Nursery, wanted to see if the York groundsel could be brought back.  There was a small amount of seeds in private ownership, but those germinated poorly.  So he approached Kew to see if the remaining seeds might be used to try to save the species from extinction.

It worked.  Of the hundred seeds planted by Shaw, all but two of them germinated.  Over the next two years, Shaw oversaw the production of over a thousand seedlings, which were planted out in specially-chosen plots of land in the city.  The reintroduced plants are now flowering in the wild for the first time in over thirty years.

"It’s a smiley, happy-looking yellow daisy and it’s a species that we’ve got international responsibility for," said Alex Prendergast, senior vascular plant specialist at Natural England, who worked on the project.  "It only lives in York, and it only ever lived in York.  It’s a good tool to talk to people about the importance of urban biodiversity and I hope it will capture people’s imagination.  It’s also got an important value as a pollinator and nectar plant in the area because it flowers almost every month of the year."

So there's your cheerful news of the day.  While humans do their fair share of damage, it's nice to know that sometimes, people who care will actually work toward fixing something.  In this case, bringing back a rare plant from the brink of extinction -- and introducing a bit of color into the landscape of a city.

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Splitting the Moon

Gervase of Canterbury was a twelfth-century English monk who lived from about 1141 to 1210.  He is best known as a historical chronicler, and wrote accounts of both the secular and ecclesiastical history of Britain, as well as producing quantities of maps showing the landholdings and bishoprics at the time.  Both of these have been of considerable value to scholars, and his writings are lucid, fact-based, and clear-eyed.

Which makes the other event he wrote about even more curious.

In June of the year 1178, Gervase says, some of the monks of the abbey were out on the lawn at twilight, enjoying a bit of leisure time in the pleasant warmth of early evening.  That was when they saw something astonishing:

[On the evening of June 18, 1178] after sunset when the Moon had first become visible, a marvelous phenomenon was witnessed by some five or more men...  Now there was a bright new Moon... its horns were tilted toward the east; and suddenly the upper horn split in two.  From the midpoint of the division a flaming torch sprang up, spewing out, over a considerable distance, fire, hot coals, and sparks.  Meanwhile the body of the Moon which was below writhed, as it were, in anxiety and to put it in the words of those who reported it to me and saw it with their own eyes, the Moon throbbed like a wounded snake.  Afterwards it resumed its proper state.  This phenomenon was repeated a dozen times or more, the flame assuming various twisting shapes at random and then returning to normal.  Then after these transformations the Moon from horn to horn, that is along its whole length, took on a blackish appearance.  The present writer was given this report by men who saw it with their own eyes, and are prepared to stake their honor on an oath that they have made no addition or falsification in the above narrative.

I first heard about this peculiar account almost exactly eight hundred years after it happened, on the episode of Carl Sagan's Cosmos called "Heaven and Hell."  Sagan's take on the story is that what Gervase wrote is substantially true; that despite the superstition of the time, he transcribed an unembellished record of what the other monks had seen.  Further, Sagan said, the survey work done on the Moon since that time found what may account for the odd event -- a 22-kilometer-wide recent crater just barely over the edge of the near-Earth side on the northeastern quadrant, named Giordano Bruno after the martyred sixteenth century astronomer.  What the monks witnessed was the meteorite impact that produced the crater, first creating a plume of molten rock and then scattering dark ash across the Moon's surface.  Interestingly, Giordano Bruno has rays of debris surrounding it, suggesting its recent origins:

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA/JPL]

Further evidence supporting this conjecture is that laser rangefinding data shows that the Moon is oscillating slightly -- in Sagan's words, "ringing like a bell" -- at a frequency consistent with a meteor impact eight hundred years earlier.

Not everyone agrees with this interpretation, however.  Paul Withers, of the University of Arizona's Lunar and Planetary Laboratory, points out that such an impact would have accelerated much of the debris to escape velocity, and a significant quantity of it would have been pulled in by the Earth's more powerful gravitational field, triggering "blizzard-like meteor storms" with as many as fifty thousand meteors per hour for several days, perhaps up to a week.  No one recorded any such event.  Surely the meticulous Chinese and Korean astronomers of the time would have seen and written about such an unprecedented phenomenon.  In fact, nobody else on Earth we know of who was keeping records at the time even recorded witnessing the initial impact -- if impact it was.

Withers suggests a much more local, and prosaic, solution; what the monks of Canterbury saw was a bolide, a meteor that explodes in midair.  The most famous bolide is the Chelyabinsk meteor of February 2013, when an estimated eighteen meter long, nine thousand metric tonne chunk of rock exploded over the Russian town of Chelyabinsk, creating a tremendous fireball and shattering windows throughout the region.  The Canterbury event, Withers said, was a bolide over southeastern England that just happened to create its fireworks in front of the crescent Moon, which would explain why it wasn't seen elsewhere.

I'm not entirely happy with this explanation, either.  As Chelyabinsk illustrates, bolides are loud.  There is nothing in Gervase's account indicating that the Canterbury event made any sound at all.  Plus -- if you'll look at videos of the Chelyabinsk meteor (you can see a short clip at the page linked above) -- they move fast, leaving behind a bright streak.  Surely the monks of Canterbury had seen "shooting stars" many times before, and would have reported this not as a phenomenon on the Moon, but simply a humongous shooting star that exploded.

And finally, if it was a bolide, how could this account for the monks' statement that the paroxysms on the Moon were "repeated a dozen times or more"?

I'm still leaning toward the lunar impact explanation, myself, but I'm aware that it leaves plenty of unanswered questions.  It's a curious account, however you look at it.  We may never know for certain what happened, but even so, we're lucky that someone as clear-headed as Gervase of Canterbury was around during those dark and superstitious times to record an event that surely must have scared the absolute hell out of everyone who witnessed it.

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The mysteries of the deep

I've heard it said that we know more about the surface of the Moon than we do about the deep oceans on the Earth.

I've never seriously attempted to find out how accurate this is (and honestly, don't know how you'd compare the two), but I suspect it's substantially correct.  About seventy percent of the Earth's surface is covered by water, and given the difficulty of seeing what's down there -- even by remote telemetry -- it's no wonder we're still finding things in the ocean we never knew existed.

Take, for example, the study that appeared in Current Biology last week about the Clarion-Clipperton Zone.  The CCZ is the region between the Clarion Fracture Zone and the Clipperton Fracture Zone in the central Pacific, with an area of about six million square kilometers.  It contains several (apparently dormant or extinct) volcanoes, a number of submarine troughs of uncertain seismic activity, and a rough, mountainous topography.

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of the United States Geological Survey and the Department of the Interior]

The prevailing wisdom has been that most of the open ocean has relatively low biodiversity.  To put it more simply, that there just ain't much out there.  If you're in the middle of the ocean, any given cubic meter of water is unlikely to have many living things in it beyond single-celled plankton.  And -- supposedly -- the floor of the deep ocean, with crushing pressures, no light, and constant temperatures just above the freezing point of water, is often pictured as being pretty much devoid of life except for the bizarre hydrothermal vent communities.

That concept of the deep oceans needs some serious re-evaluation.  Last week's paper featured a survey of the abyssal life in the Clarion-Clipperton Zone, and found nearly six thousand species of animals...

...of which 92% were unknown to science.

The coolness factor of this research is tempered a little by the reason it was conducted.  The CCZ is being studied because of its potential for deep-sea mining.  The seafloor there has a rich concentration of manganese nodules, concretions of metal oxides and hydroxides (predominantly manganese and iron, with lower concentrations of other heavy metals), which are of immense value to industry.  Add to that the fact that the CCZ is in international waters -- so, basically, there for whoever gets there first -- and you have a situation that is ripe for exploitation.

What makes this even more complex is that the metals in the nodules are used, amongst other things, for high-efficiency electronics, including renewable energy systems.  The cost, though, might be the destruction of an ecosystem that we've only begun to study.

"There are some just remarkable species down there," said Muriel Rabone, of the Natural History Museum of London, who co-authored the study.  "Some of the sponges look like classic bath sponges, and some look like vases.  They’re just beautiful.  One of my favorites is the glass sponges. They have these little spines, and under the microscope, they look like tiny chandeliers or little sculptures.  There are so many wonderful species in the CCZ, and with the possibility of mining looming, it’s doubly important that we know more about these really understudied habitats."

So much of what humans have done seems to be blundering around blindly and only afterward seeing what the consequences are.  Perhaps we should investigate the ocean's mysteries before we attempt to use it for profit.

It seems fitting to end with a quote from H. P. Lovecraft, whose fascination with the ocean returns time and time again in his fiction: "But more wonderful than the lore of old men and the lore of books is the secret lore of ocean.  Blue, green, grey, white, or black; smooth, ruffled, or mountainous; that ocean is not silent.  All my days have I watched it and listened to it, and I know it well.  At first it told to me only the plain little tales of calm beaches and near ports, but with the years it grew more friendly and spoke of other things; of things more strange and more distant in space and in time.  Sometimes at twilight the grey vapours of the horizon have parted to grant me glimpses of the ways beyond; and sometimes at night the deep waters of the sea have grown clear and phosphorescent, to grant me glimpses of the ways beneath.  And these glimpses have been as often of the ways that were and the ways that might be, as of the ways that are; for ocean is more ancient than the mountains, and freighted with the memories and the dreams of Time."

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