The interstellar lighthouse

It's funny the questions you don't think to ask.  You find out something, accept it without any objections, and only later -- sometimes much later -- you stop and go, "Okay, hang on a moment."

That happened to me just yesterday, about a topic most of us don't ponder much, and that's the peculiar astronomical object called a neutron star.  It was on my mind not by random chance -- even I don't just sit around and say, "Hmm, how about those neutron stars, anyway?" -- but because of some interesting research (about which I'll tell you in a bit).

I first learned about these odd beasts when I took a class called Introduction to Astronomy at the University of Louisiana.  The professor, Dr. Whitmire, explained them basically as follows.

Stars are stable when there's a balance between two forces -- the outward pressure from the heat generated in the core, and the inward pull because of the gravity exerted by the star's mass.  During most of a star's life, those two are in equilibrium, but when the core exhausts its fuel, the first force diminishes and the star begins to collapse.  With small stars like the Sun, the collapse continues until the mutual repulsion of the atoms' electrons becomes a sufficient force to halt it from shrinking further.  This generates a white dwarf.

In a star between 10 and 29 times the mass of the Sun, however, the mutual electric repulsion isn't strong enough to stop the collapse.  The matter of the star continues to fall inward until it's only about ten kilometers across -- a star shrunk to the diameter of a small city.  This causes some pretty strange conditions.  The matter in the star becomes unimaginably dense; a teaspoon of it would have about the same mass as a mountain.  The pressure forces the electrons into the nuclei of the atoms, crushing out all the space, so that what you have is a giant electrically-neutral ball -- effectively, an enormous atomic nucleus made of an unimaginably huge number of neutrons.

The first neutron star ever discovered, at the center of the Crab Nebula [Image is in the Public Domain, courtesy of NASA/JPL]

The immense gravitational pull means that the surface of a neutron star is the smoothest surface known; any irregularities would be flattened out of existence.  (It's worth mentioning that even the Earth is way smoother than most people realize.  The distance between the top of Mount Everest and the bottom of the Marianas Trench is less, as compared to its size, than the topographic relief in a typical scratch on a billiard ball.)

So far, so good.  But it was the next thing Dr. Whitmire told us that should have made me pull up short, and didn't until now -- over forty years later.  He said that as a neutron star forms, the inward collapse makes its rotational speed increase, just like a spinning figure skater as she pulls in her arms.  Because of the Conservation of Angular Momentum, this bumps up the rotation of a neutron star to something on the order of making a complete rotation thirty times per second.  A point on the surface of a typical neutron star is moving at a linear speed of about one-third of the speed of light.

Further, because neutron stars have a phenomenally large magnetic field, this creates two magnetic "funnels" on opposite sides of the star that spew out jets of electromagnetic radiation.  And if these jets aren't aligned with the star's spin axis, they whirl around like the beams of a lighthouse.  A neutron star that does this, and appears to flash on and off like a strobe light, is called a pulsar.

This was the point when the red flags should have started waving, especially since I majored in physics and had taken a class called "Electromagnetism."  One of the first things we learned is that Scottish physicist James Clerk Maxwell discovered that magnetic fields are generated when charged particles move.  So how can a neutron star -- composed of electrically-neutral particles -- have any magnetic field at all, much less one so huge?  (The magnetic field of a typical neutron star is on the order of ten million Tesla; by comparison, one of the largest magnetic fields ever generated in the laboratory is a paltry sixteen Tesla, but was still enough to levitate a frog.)

The answer is a matter of conjecture.  One possibility is that even though a neutron star is neutral overall, there is some separation of charges within the star's interior, so the whirling of the star still creates a magnetic field.  Another possibility is that since neutrons themselves are composed of three quarks, and those quarks are charged, neutrons still have a magnetic moment, and the alignment of these magnetic moments coupled with the star's rotation is sufficient to give it an overall enormous magnetic field.  (If you want to read more about the answer to this curious question, the site Medium did a nice overview of it a while back.)

So it turns out that neutron stars aren't the simple things they appeared to be at first.  Not that this is much of a surprise; a recurring theme here at Skeptophilia is that nature always seems to turn out to be more complicated than we expected.  What brought this up in the first place was yet another anomalous observation about neutron stars, described in a series of papers I ran across in Astrophysical Journal Letters.  The conventional wisdom was that a neutron star's magnetic field would be oriented along an axis (which, as noted above, may not coincide perfectly with the star's spin axis).  This means that it would behave a bit like an ordinary magnet, with a north pole and a south pole on geometrically opposite sides.

That's what astronomers thought, until they found a pulsar with the euphonious name J0030+0451, 1,100 light years away in the constellation of Pisces.  Using the x-ray jets from the pulsar -- which should be aligned with its magnetic field -- they mapped the field itself, and found something extremely strange.

Instead of two jets, aligned with the poles of the magnetic field, J0030+0451 has three -- and they're all in the southern hemisphere.  One is (unsurprisingly) at the southern magnetic pole, but the other two are elongated crescents at about sixty degrees south latitude.

To say this is surprising is an understatement, and the astronomers are still struggling to explain it.

"From its perch on the space station, NICER [the Neutron star Interior Composition Explorer] is revolutionizing our understanding of pulsars," said Paul Hertz, astrophysics division director at NASA Headquarters in Washington.  "Pulsars were discovered more than fifty years ago as beacons of stars that have collapsed into dense cores, behaving unlike anything we see on Earth."

It appears that we still have a way to go to fully explain how they work.  But that's how it is with the entire universe, you know?  No matter where we look, we're confronted by mysteries.  Fortunately, we have a tool that has proven over and over to be the best way of finding answers -- the collection of protocols we call the scientific method.  I have no doubt that the astrophysicists will eventually explain the odd magnetic properties of pulsars.  But the way things go, all that'll do is open up more fascinating questions -- which is why I've said many times that if you're interested in science, you'll never run out of things to learn.

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Easy as A, B, C

There's an unfortunate but natural tendency for us to assume that because something is done a particular way in the culture we were raised in, that obviously, everyone else must do it the same way.

It's one of the (many) reasons I think travel is absolutely critical.  Not only do you find out that people elsewhere get along just fine doing things differently, it also makes you realize that in the most fundamental ways -- desire for peace, safety, food and shelter, love, and acceptance -- we all have much more in common than you'd think.  As Mark Twain put it, "Travel is fatal to prejudice, bigotry, and narrow-mindedness, and many of our people need it sorely on these accounts.  Broad, wholesome, charitable views of men and things cannot be acquired by vegetating in one little corner of the earth all one's lifetime."

One feature of culture that is so familiar that most of the time, we don't even think about it, is how we write.  The Latin alphabet, with a one-sound-one-character correspondence, is only one way of turning spoken language into writing.  Turns out, there are lots of options:

• Pictographic scripts -- where one symbol represents an idea, not a sound.  One example is the Nsibidi script, used by the Igbo people of Nigeria.

• Logographic scripts -- where one symbol represents a morpheme (a meaningful component of a word; the word unconventionally, for example, has four morphemes -- un-, convention, -al, and -ly).  Examples include early Egyptian hieroglyphics (later hieroglyphs included phonetic/alphabetic symbols as well), the Cuneiform script of Sumer, the characters used in Chinese languages, and the Japanese kanji.

• Syllabaries -- where one symbol represents a single syllable (whether or not the syllable by itself has any independent meaning).  Examples include the Japanese hiragana script, Cherokee, and Linear B -- the mysterious Bronze-Age script from Crete that was a complete mystery until finally deciphered by Alice Kober and Michael Ventris in the mid-twentieth century.

• Abjads -- where one symbol represents one sound, but vowels are left out unless they are the first sound in the word.  Examples include Arabic and Hebrew.

• Abugidas -- where each symbol represents a consonant, and the vowels are indicated by diacritical marks (so, a bit like a syllabary melded with an abjad).   Examples include Thai, Tibetan, Bengali, Burmese, Malayalam, and lots of others.

• Alphabets -- one symbol = one sound for both vowels and consonants, such as our own Latin alphabet, as well as Cyrillic, Greek, Mongolian, and many others.

To make things more complicated, scripts (like every other feature of language) evolve over time, and sometimes can shift from one category to another.  There's decent evidence that our own alphabet evolved from a pictographic script.  Here are three examples of pathways letters seem to have taken:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Rozemarijn van L, Proto-sinaitic-phoenician-latin-alphabet-2, CC BY-SA 4.0]

The reason the topic comes up is the discovery at Tell Um-el Marra, Syria of incised clay cylinders that date to 2400 B.C.E. and may be the earliest known example of an alphabetic script -- meaning one of the last four in the list, which equate one symbol with one sound or sound cluster (rather than with an idea, morpheme, or entire word).  If the discovery and its interpretation bear up under scrutiny, it would precede the previous record holder, Proto-Sinaitic, by five hundred years.

"Alphabets revolutionized writing by making it accessible to people beyond royalty and the socially elite," said Glenn Schwartz, of Johns Hopkins University, who led the research.  "Alphabetic writing changed the way people lived, how they thought, how they communicated.  And this new discovery shows that people were experimenting with new communication technologies much earlier and in a different location than we had imagined before now...  Previously, scholars thought the alphabet was invented in or around Egypt sometime after 1900 B.C.E.  But our artifacts are older and from a different area on the map, suggesting the alphabet may have an entirely different origin story than we thought."

When you think about it, alphabetic scripts are a brilliant, but odd, innovation.  Drawing a picture, or even a symbol, of an entire concept as a way of keeping track of it -- the head of a cow on a vessel containing milk, for example -- isn't really that much of a stretch.  But who came up with letting symbols represent sounds?  It's a totally different way of representing language.  Not merely the symbols themselves altering, and perhaps becoming simpler or more stylized, but completely divorcing the symbol from the meaning.

No one, for example, links the letter "m" to water any more.  It's simply a symbol-sound correspondence, and nothing more; the symbol itself has become more or less arbitrary.  The level of meaning has been lifted to clusters of symbols.

It's so familiar that we take it for granted, but honestly, it's quite a breathtaking invention.

Scholars are uncertain what the writing on the clay cylinders says; they've yet to be translated, so it may be that this assessment will have to be revisited.  Also uncertain is how it's related to other scripts that developed later in the region, which were largely thought to be derived from Egyptian writing systems.

If this discovery survives peer review, it may be that the whole history of symbolic written language will have to be re-examined.

But that's all part of linguistics itself.  Languages evolve, as does our understanding of them.  Nothing in linguistics is static.  The argument over whether it should be -- the infamous descriptivism vs. prescriptivism fight -- is to me akin to denying the reality of biological evolution.  Our word usages, definitions, and spellings have changed, whether you like it or not; so have the scripts themselves.  Meaning, somehow, still somehow survives, despite the dire consequences the prescriptivists warn about.

It's why the recent tendency for People Of A Certain Age to bemoan the loss of cursive writing instruction in American public schools is honestly (1) kind of funny, and (2) swimming upstream against a powerful current.  Writing systems have been evolving since the beginning, with complicated, difficult to learn, difficult to reproduce, ambiguous, or highly variable systems being altered or eliminated outright.  It's a tough sell, though, amongst people who have been trained all their lives to use that script; witness the fact that Japanese still uses three systems, more or less at the same time -- the logographic kanji and the syllabic hiragana and katakana.  It will be interesting to see how long that lasts, now that Japan has become a highly technological society.  My guess is at some point, they'll phase out the cumbersome (although admittedly beautiful) kanji, which require understanding over two thousand symbols to be considered literate.  The Japanese have figured out how to represent kanji on computers, but the syllabic scripts are so much simpler that I suspect they'll eventually win.

I doubt it'll be any time soon, though.  The Japanese are justly proud of their long written tradition, and making a major change in it will likely be met with as much resistance as English spelling reform has been.

In any case, it's fascinating to see how many different solutions humans have found for turning spoken language into written language, and how those scripts have changed over time (and continue to change).  All features of the amazing diversity of humanity, and a further reminder that "we do it this way" isn't the be-all-end-all of culture.

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The strange story of Omm Sety

Dorothy Louise Eady was born on the 16th of January in 1904 in a suburb of London, the only child of a tailor and his wife.  She seemed to be a perfectly ordinary little girl until she was three years old, when she took a tumble down a set of stairs and developed a highly peculiar set of symptoms that was to change the trajectory of her life.

She developed foreign accent syndrome -- a real, although rare, condition where stroke or head trauma causes an individual's speech patterns to change, giving their voice a superficially "foreign" accent.  (Significantly, they don't suddenly gain proficiency in another language, despite what's sometimes claimed.)  Weirder still, when she started school, she began demonstrating a knowledge of ancient Egypt that is, at the very least, unusual for a child her age.  She got in trouble for comparing Christianity to the Egyptian pantheon, and was finally expelled when she flat-out refused to sing a hymn about the Exodus calling on God to "curse the swart Egyptians."  She frequented a local Roman Catholic church, until a chat with the priest revealed that she was doing so because the pomp and pageantry of the Catholic mass "reminded her of the old religion," at which point the priest suggested she probably should entertain her reminiscences elsewhere.

These setbacks didn't discourage her in the least.  A visit to the British Museum as a teenager sent her into raptures; when she saw a photograph of the temple of the Pharaoh Seti I, she said, "There is my home!  But where are the trees?  Where are the gardens?"

Interestingly, most people seemed to tolerate her odd claims, and in fact she studied Egyptian history and hieroglyphics under E. A. Wallis Budge, one of the foremost Egyptologists of the early twentieth century.  Eventually -- perhaps inevitably -- she moved to Egypt, describing it as "coming home."  During this entire period she was plagued by dreams, sleepwalking, and nightmares, including a vision of an entity that called itself "Hor-Ra" and claimed to be the spirit of Seti I.  This spirit proceeded to narrate to her a tale, which Eady wrote down in hieroglyphics, telling of her previous life.

Eady, Hor-Ra said, had once been a priestess of humble origins named Bentreshyt, who had fallen in love with Seti.  Despite her vow of chastity, she had sex with Seti and got pregnant.  Knowing that once her transgression was found out, it was likely she'd be executed -- and in the process, disgrace the pharaoh -- she chose to commit suicide.

Alongside her claims of having been reincarnated, however, Eady did real, honest-to-goodness archaeological and historical work, assisting such brilliant scholars as Selim Hassan and Ahmed Fakhry, earning their respect and also the respect of her friends and neighbors.  She was celebrated for her tolerance, keeping to her own practice of rituals celebrating Ra and Horus and Osiris and the rest, but also fasting during Ramadan and celebrating Christmas and Easter with the Christians.

Whatever you think of her story, Dorothy is kind of hard to dislike, frankly.

Dorothy Eady, ca. 1928 [Image is in the Public Domain]

Some pieces of her story do, oddly enough, seem to have some verifiable basis in fact.  She pointed out a spot near the Temple of Seti where she said there'd been a garden in which she'd first met the pharaoh, and later excavation revealed the foundations of a garden that matched her descriptions.  She was brought into a newly-opened room in the temple in complete darkness, and asked to describe the paintings on the walls -- which she did accurately enough to freak out the people present.

Eady -- by then usually known by her adopted name of Omm Sety -- died on the 21st of April, 1981 in Abydos, never wavering from her claims that she was a reincarnated Egyptian priestess.  So what are we to make of her story?

One thing that strikes me is that although her persistence in devoting herself to Egyptian studies was certainly uncommon for a woman of her time, she does not seem to have been in it for fame, money, or self-aggrandizement.  She was unassuming personally, and had no particular interest in making more in the way of income than she needed to be reasonably comfortable.  In fact, Jonathan Cott, in his book about Eady's life called The Search for Omm Sety, quotes William Simpson, professor of Egyptology at Yale, as saying that "a great many people in Egypt took advantage of her because she more or less traded her knowledge of ancient Egypt by writing or helping people out by doing drafting for them for a pittance."

And it also seems certain that she really believed what she was saying.  Unlike a lot of people who make similar claims, she doesn't have the look of a con artist.  Even Carl Sagan, surely a skeptic's skeptic if there ever was one, was impressed, saying she was "a lively, intelligent, dedicated woman who made real contributions to Egyptology.  This is true whether her belief in reincarnation is fact or fantasy...  However, we must keep in mind that there is no independent record, other than her own accounts, to verify what she claimed."

This, of course, is the sticking point; Sagan is certainly not saying he believes she was reincarnated, just that it can't be rigorously ruled out.  And, more importantly, that there may be no way to prove it one way or the other.  Certainly her knowledge seems uncanny, but it's important to remember that during the 1920s and 1930s there was a significant Egyptomania happening, especially following the discovery of Tutankhamen's tomb by Howard Carter and Lord Carnarvon in 1922.  Stories and photographs were circulating everywhere, and it'd be hard for an unbiased evaluator to tease apart what Eady learned through her studies or other media, and what she might allegedly be recalling through strange supernatural pathways.

As you would no doubt expect, the people who already believed in reincarnation use this as one of their favorite examples, while the doubters still doubt, attributing Eady's obsession with Egypt not to a buried memory of a past life but to a blend of genuine curiosity and scholarship with delusions brought on by an early head injury.  For myself, I might be convinced if her odd claim to knowledge had included understanding the Egyptian language prior to being taught it, or some other piece of verifiable information there's no way she could have obtained by ordinary means.  I have to admit, describing the paintings in a newly-excavated room in the dark comes close; but given that others had seen the paintings, and also the commonalities that exist between a lot of examples of New Kingdom-era art, it doesn't quite get there, evidence-wise.  She could have been told what the paintings looked like, or they may just have been shrewd guesses based on her extensive knowledge of Egyptian art and artifacts.

And it does strike me that this is yet another example of James Randi's objection to stories of reincarnation; that everyone in their previous life seems to have been a high priest or priestess or prince or princess or whatnot, and nobody -- as would seem, simply by the statistics of the situation, to be far more likely -- was a dirt-poor peasant in China or India, or someone who died as a child of diphtheria or measles or smallpox.

The fact remains, though, that Eady's case is an odd one.  It doesn't convince me, but it does leave me scratching my head a little. 

However, I'm not so fond of the idea of reincarnation in any case, so maybe it's for the best.  Life is no cakewalk, and especially given that you aren't given any choice who you're reincarnated as, I'd just as soon not press "reset" and start the whole thing over.  If I had to choose an afterlife, I'd go with Valhalla.  Sitting around the table quaffing mead (can you just drink mead?  Or do you have to quaff it?), having mock sword-fights with your friends, and generally raising hell just for the fun of it.

Certainly better than harps, hymns, and halos, which seems to be the only other thing on offer.

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Out of line

Astrophysicists have a fairly clear idea about how planetary systems form.

The whole thing starts with a nebula -- a cloud of interstellar gas and dust,  mostly made of hydrogen and helium -- that begins to contract under the influence of gravity.  Assuming it's large enough, that compaction raises its temperature; and because almost always, the cloud as a whole had some angular momentum to start with (i.e. it had a net spin around the nebula's center of mass, even if a small one) its rotational rate increases as the collapse proceeds.  That increase in spin rate flattens the cloud out -- think of a whirling blob of pizza dough in the hands of someone who knows how to make the perfect pizza crust -- resulting in a concentrated mass in the center (the future star) and a "protoplanetary disk."

The disk is never perfectly uniform, so the higher gravitational pull of the denser parts draws in more material, making them denser still -- a classic example of positive feedback.  Those lumpy bits form the planets, ultimately gaining sufficient mass to gravitationally clear the regions around their orbits.  When the star becomes dense and hot enough to initiate fusion, the light and heat blow away lighter elements (hydrogen and helium), leaving the inner regions enriched in heavier elements like carbon, silicon, magnesium, nickel, aluminum, and iron.

This model explains two things; why the planets in the Solar System all have relatively circular orbits that are aligned with each other and with the spin plane of the Sun, and why the inner planets (Mercury, Venus, Earth, and Mars) are dense and rocky, while the outer ones (Jupiter, Saturn, Uranus, and Neptune) are gas giants.

But.

When we get too confident, nature has this awkward way of saying, "You think you understand everything?  Ha.  A lot you know."  Back in the 1990s people looking for exoplanets started finding what are now nicknamed "hot Jupiters," which are gas giants locked in a tight orbit around their host stars.  Hot Jupiters seem to be pretty common; on the other hand, it may just be that they're simple to spot.  Given their size and mass, they are going to be easier to pick up both by the transit method (the dip in a star's brightness as its planet crosses in front of it) and the wobble method (stars having a slight back-and-forth "wobble" as the star and its planet orbit their common center of gravity; this effect is more pronounced for larger exoplanets and ones with closer orbits).  

So how does a gas giant form, and remain stable, so near to its host star?  Wouldn't the light and heat of the star blow away the lightweight gases, as they seem to have done in our own Solar System?

The answer is "we're not sure."

Another spanner in the works comes from planets that are misaligned -- that have rotational axes or orbital planes skewed with respect to the rotational plane of the star.  There are two examples in our own Solar System; Venus (which actually rotates backwards as compared to the other planets; its day is longer than its year) and Uranus (which lies on its side -- its rotational axis is tilted 82 degrees with respect to its orbital plane).

Neither of these has been explained, either.

But weirdest of all is when a planet's orbital plane is out of alignment with both the star's rotation and the orbits of other planets in the system.  This, in fact, is why the topic comes up; a paper this week in the journal Astrophysics presents some strange new data on the system AU Microscopii, suggesting that the planet AU Microscopii c has its orbital plane tilted by 67 degrees with respect to everything else in the system.  So as the other two planets, and the star itself, are all moving in a nicely aligned fashion, AU Microscopii c is describing these wild loops above and below the system's orbital plane.

You might be wondering how they figured out the orientation of the rotational axis of the star, since most stars look like points of light even in large telescopes.  And this part is really cool.  It's called the Rossiter-McLaughlin effect.  As a star rotates, from our perspective half of the star's disk is heading toward us while the other half is heading away.  So the light from the part that's coming toward us gets slightly blue-shifted, and the light from the other half is simultaneously red-shifted.  Now, imagine a large planet crossing in front of the star, orbiting in the same direction as the star is rotating.  First the blue-shifted part of the light will be partially blocked, then the red-shifted part, resulting in a spectrum alteration that will look like this:

[Image licensed under the Creative Commons Amitchell125, Animation of the Rossiter-Mclaughlin (RM) effect, CC BY-SA 4.0]

So we know the rotational plane of the star from the Rossiter-McLaughlin effect, and the orbital planes of the planets from the direction of the star's wobble.

And they don't line up.  At all.

This completely confounds our models of how planetary systems form.  Did a close pass by another heavy object yank one of the planets out of alignment?  Or an actual collision with something?  (That's one guess about why Uranus's axis is tilted.)  The answer is still "we don't know."  What seems certain is that the configuration is gravitationally unstable.  AU Microscopii is thought to be a young star, on the order of 24 million years old; the Solar System is over five hundred times older than that.  As I described in a post a couple of years ago, long-term stability usually requires some kind of orbital resonance, where the gravitational pull of planets acts to reinforce their trajectories, keeping them all locked in a tight celestial dance.  So it seems like the weird loop-the-loop described by AU Microscopii c is unlikely to last long.

But it's also an orbit that, based on what we know, shouldn't have happened in the first place.  So maybe it's not a good idea to place bets on what it's going to do in the future.

In any case, it's yet another example of how far we have to go in our understanding of the universe we live in.  That's okay, of course; it'd be boring if we had it all figured out.  Science is like some benevolent version of the Hydra from Greek mythology; for every one question we answer, we create nine more.

I think the scientists are going to be busy for a very long time to come.

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Ignoring Cassandra

The Atlantic Meridional Overturning Circulation (AMOC), sometimes nicknamed "the Atlantic Conveyor," is an enormous oceanic current that not only encircles the entire Atlantic Ocean, it links up with other circulation patterns in the Indian and Pacific Oceans.

[Image is in the Public Domain courtesy of NASA]

It's called a "thermohaline" circulation because it's driven by two things; temperature and salinity.  Cold water is denser than warm water; salty water is denser than fresher water.  Alterations in these factors determine where the water goes, setting up convection (the movement of a fluid because of gradients in density).  Specifically, as the warm Gulf Stream (the red line along the eastern coast of North America on the above map) moves northward, it cools down and evaporates.  Those both act to increase its density, to the point that just south of Iceland, it sinks.

That sinking mechanism is what drives the entire thing.  Slow that down, and the whole system fails.

Which is exactly what is happening.  A paper last week in Nature found that the AMOC has diminished dramatically because of anthropogenic climate change; the warming oceans, along with fresh meltwater from Greenland, has made large parts of the north loop of the circulation too buoyant to sink.  Since 1950, the flow rate has gone down by 0.46 sverdrups.  Before you say, "Well, that doesn't sound like very much," allow me to point out that one sverdrup is a million cubic meters a second.  The combined flow of all the rivers in the world is only about 1.2 sverdrups.

So 0.46 is huge.

Current models indicate that this change is going to have enormous effects on local climates.  Western and northern Europe are likely to get colder; the surface loop of the AMOC is why Iceland, Scotland, and Scandinavia are way warmer than you'd expect given their latitudes.  The southeastern United States and eastern South America will probably become much warmer; the heat energy doesn't just go away because it's not being transported northward and dissipated.  Rainfall patterns, and storm paths and intensity, will certainly change, but how is unknown.

The truth is, we don't know enough to predict exactly what the outcome will be, at least not with any certainty.  We're perturbing a complex global system with about as much caution as a toddler playing in the mud.  But what seems certain is that we have now entered the "Find Out" phase of "Fuck Around and Find Out."

What kills me is we've been warning about this for decades.  British science historian James Burke's prescient documentary After the Warming described the collapse of the AMOC as an outcome of anthropogenic climate change all the way back in 1991.  But instead of listening to the scientists, and brilliant advocates like Burke who bring science to the public notice, more people were swayed by idiots like former Oklahoma Senator James Inhofe, who brought a snowball onto the floor of the United States Senate and basically said, "Hey, it's snowing, so climate change isn't real, hurr hurr hurr durr."

Of course, listening to Inhofe and his ilk is easy.  If you believe him, you don't have to make any changes to your lifestyle.  And we haven't gotten any further in the intervening decades; President-elect Trump has nominated Lee Zeldin for the head of the Environmental Protection Agency and Doug Burgum for Secretary of the Interior, both thoroughgoing climate change deniers who are deep in the pockets of the fossil fuel industry.  (And please, for the love of all that's holy, stop calling them "climate skeptics."  A skeptic respects the evidence.  These people reject a body of evidence that's as high as Mount Everest in the name of profit and short-term expediency.)

Politicians Discussing Global Warming by Isaac Cordal (2011)

I read a serious analysis of Donald Trump's win claiming that one factor was that Americans have a "suspicion of expertise."  That is something that will never, ever make sense to me.  How is it reasonable to say, essentially, "These people know more than I do, so I don't believe them"?  The result is that we now have one of the most powerful countries in the world being run by a cabal of people who are united by two things -- (1) devotion to Donald Trump, and (2) a complete lack of qualifications.  So this distrust of evidence, science, and rationality is only going to get worse -- and will become the motive force in driving policy.

The problem is, though, if you ignore the truth, sooner or later it catches up with you.  And from the recent paper, it appears it's going to be sooner.  Sea level rise is already threatening coastal communities, and there are island nations that will simply cease to exist if if gets much worse.  Extreme weather events are likely to become commonplace.  We're sure to see alterations in climate that will affect agriculture, and in some places, habitability.

As usual, the people creating the problem aren't the ones who are going to get hurt by it -- at least not at first.  But this is an issue that will, ultimately, affect us all.

And lord have mercy, I am tired.  Tired of shouting warnings, tired of citing study after study, tired of arguing from the standpoint of facts and evidence with people determined not to listen to any of it.  I'm not even an actual scientist, just a retired science teacher and blogger, and I feel like I've been sounding the call about this stuff forever; I can't imagine how the actual researchers feel.  It makes me sympathize with Cassandra, from Greek mythology -- who was blessed with the ability to see the future, but cursed to have no one believe her.

I wish I had some sort of hopeful message to end on, but I don't.  I'm not naturally a pessimist, but given the fact that the country I live in just voted in an anti-science, anti-intellectual, anti-academic administration whose motto seems to be "Corporate Profit Über Alles," I don't think we're going to make any progress here for the next four years.  By then, how much more damage will have been done?

As journalist Sheri Fink put it: "Soon after a disaster passes, we tend to turn our eyes away and focus our resources on the day-to-day, rather than on preparing for the rare, but foreseeable and potentially catastrophic disaster.  It's another form of triage, how much we invest in preparing for that, a very important question for public policy.  But... we are such a short-sighted species."

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Accents and accuracy

When I was in eighth grade, a movie aired called The Autobiography of Miss Jane Pittman.  We were encouraged by our English teacher to watch it, and it turned out to be well worth the time, even to a fourteen-year-old who at that point didn't care much about history.  It was based on a novel by Ernest J. Gaines, and starred the amazing Cicely Tyson, who played a woman born into slavery, who lives to age 110 and sees the beginning of the Civil Rights Movement in 1962.  (And yes, Tyson plays the title character the entire way through -- not only is the makeup incredible, but so is her ability to portray ages between 20 and 110 absolutely convincingly.)

There was only one thing that struck a sour note, and I was far from the only one in my class who noticed it.  One of the characters was the villainous Albert Cluveau, who was identified as "a Cajun."  And this guy had the worst Cajun accent ever.  My mom was 100% pure Cajun, so I know whereof I speak; most of my classmates were Cajun as well, given that I grew up in Lafayette, Louisiana, "the heart of Cajun Country."  Cluveau was portrayed by Will Hare, who wasn't even from Louisiana, and I still remember one of my friends saying, "Why didn't they just hire an actual Cajun?  There are plenty of 'em around."

Given how long ago this happened, I don't recall exactly what it was that pinpointed his accent as fake; certainly he was trying his best to make it sound right, but it simply didn't work.  There was something about the pronunciation, but also the cadence -- the "swing" of the language -- that was way off.  And to anyone who grew up in southern Louisiana, it did exactly what movie directors never want to happen; it took the watcher right out of the scene, made them say, "Okay, that's an actor trying to play a role and not doing it all that well."

Sometimes actors can pull it off, of course.  David Tennant is Scottish, but does a convincing English accent as the Tenth Doctor in Doctor Who.  And in the episode "Tooth and Claw," there's a scene where he's pretending to be Scottish -- so he's a Scottish guy playing an English guy who's trying to do a Scottish accent badly. 

Strangely enough, it works.

The reason the topic comes up is a study out of Cambridge University that appeared last week in the journal Evolutionary Human Sciences, which tested various groups of people in the British Isles to see how good they are at detecting fake accents.  And it turns out that people from Glasgow, Dublin, Belfast, and Durham are way better at picking it up when someone's faking their regional accent than folks from the southeastern parts of England (including London), and also the area around the city of Bristol.

Glaswegians scored in the high seventies to around eighty percent accurate; people from Essex did the worst, averaging only a little better than chance.  The surmise is that the areas where the scores were lowest tended to be more cosmopolitan, where there's a greater likelihood that residents have moved there recently from somewhere else.  Hearing lots of different variations on an English accent, it appears, might make you less aware of when someone's faking your own.  Another factor is that some of the places that score the highest -- Glasgow and Belfast, especially -- have high amounts of regional pride, and value the local accent as a marker of belonging.

"The UK is a really interesting place to study," said linguist Jonathan Goodman, who led the study.  "The linguistic diversity and cultural history is so rich and you have so many cultural groups that have been roughly in the same location for a really long time.  Very specific differences in language, dialect and accents have emerged over time, and that's a fascinating side of language evolution...  Cultural, political, or even violent conflict are likely to encourage people to strengthen their accents as they try to maintain social cohesion through cultural homogeneity.  Even relatively mild tension, for example the intrusion of tourists in the summer, could have this effect...  I'm interested in the role played by trust in society and how trust forms.  One of the first judgments a person will make about another person, and when deciding whether to trust them, is how they speak.  How humans learn to trust another person who may be an interloper has been incredibly important over our evolutionary history and it remains critical today."

Which explains why Scottish people roll their eyes when they hear this guy say he's "an old Aberdeen pub-crawler."

James Doohan, who played Chief Engineer Montgomery "Scotty" Scott, wasn't Scottish, he was Canadian -- the son of immigrants from Northern Ireland.

I know the whole "cultural marker" thing is why I picked up on Will Hare's terrible Cajun accent so quickly.  Cajuns were for many years a poor and marginalized community, ridiculed as being less intelligent and less cultured than the rich (mostly Anglo) landowners, so it was pretty common for Cajuns to try to unlearn their own accent in an attempt to blend in.  (My mom was painfully aware of her own accent, and in something a little like the Cambridge study turned on its head, adopted a stilted "King's English" accent when she had company -- I don't think anyone was fooled by it, and in any event, it's kind of sad she felt like she had to do that.)

What's interesting is that like the Glaswegians' pride in their own accent, in the last fifty years there's been a resurgence of Cajun pride in southern Louisiana, largely spearheaded by the late Jimmy Domengeaux, who founded CODOFIL, the Council for the Development of French in Louisiana.  Domengeaux was instrumental in repopularizing Cajun music and in preserving the Cajun French dialect.  They've even appropriated an insult; "coonass" was a derogatory epithet for Cajuns, of uncertain origin but thought to be from an old French slang word for prostitute, and I can remember when I was in high school starting to see bumper stickers saying "Proud To Be A Coonass."  (Nota bene: some southern Louisianans still consider it derogatory, and most people would never use it in polite conversation; and like most words of this type, it comes off completely differently when used by someone who is not Cajun themselves.  So it's still a word to be careful with.)

So that's our excursion into linguistics for today.  The upshot is not to try to fake an accent when you're in Great Britain or Ireland.  Or anywhere else, really.  People will usually figure you out, and it's not a good look.  Just enjoy the richness of variety in human speech -- and talk like you normally do.  They're probably as curious about your accent as you are about theirs.

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Rock of ages

One of the most amazing strides that's been made in science in the last hundred years is our ability to figure out how old stuff is.

Geologists have known for a long time that the Earth is old; how old, on the other hand, was a matter of serious debate.  Scottish geologist James Hutton, who pioneered the idea of uniformitarianism -- that the same slow, steady processes we see going on today have proceeded at essentially the same rate throughout Earth's history -- guessed that our planet was at least tens of millions of years old, and a far cry from the six-thousand-odd years the creationists of both his day and ours believe.  In fact, because the rocks he studied seemed to have been melted, eroded, remodeled, and remelted over and over, he thought it was entirely possible that the Earth was infinitely old; "The result of our present enquiry," he wrote, in his 1738 book Theory of the Earth, "is that we find no vestige of a beginning, no prospect of an end."

It was undeniable, though, that things had changed over time.  A century later, English geologist William Smith went all over the British Isles tracking similarities in rock outcroppings, and used index fossils -- fossil organisms characteristic of only short geological timespans, and therefore useful in dating strata -- to create a map of the country by geological age.  (That map has stood the test of time; in the nearly two centuries since he created it, there have been very few changes needed.)

But still, Hutton and Smith could only speculate as to how old particular rock outcrops were.  There might be Jurassic fossils to be found in Lyme Regis (on the Dorset coast) and in Cleveland (in Yorkshire), suggesting they're close to the same age, but what is their actual age?  It wasn't until American chemist Bertram Boltwood had a major brainstorm in 1907, realizing that the steady breakdown of radioisotopes in rock samples could act like a natural clock, that geologists had a tool to determine exactly how old various rock strata are.

Still, it's not easy.  Radioisotope dating rests on the assumption that the rock in question hasn't been significantly altered since formation.  If something has changed the amount of the radioisotope you're using (or its decay product), it will throw off your estimate of the age.  (That's why there's still argument over the Shroud of Turin; although radiocarbon dating has pretty conclusively shown that it's from the Middle Ages, there was a fire in the church where it was housed that deposited soot in the cloth, potentially altering the amount of carbon-14 in the fibers.  Almost all scientists, however, are of the opinion that this doesn't affect the calculation enough to increase its age by the twelve hundred years required to buy its divine origin.)

So radioisotope dating is a cool idea, but rests on some serious assumptions.  How do you make it more accurate?

Enter the humble zircon.

Zircons -- mostly made of zirconium silicate -- are crystalline minerals found kind of everywhere.  When big enough, they're decent semiprecious gemstones, but geologists love them for a different reason; they are amazingly good for geochronology.  They crystallize in many kinds of igneous rocks, and once they form, they are incredibly durable, resisting both physical and chemical weathering.  They contain trace amounts of radioactive elements, and when those decay, the decay products stay put, allowing zircons to act as extremely accurate radiochemical clocks.  They also trap the gases that were in the atmosphere at the time of formation, and the ratio of two oxygen isotopes (oxygen-16 and oxygen-18) gives a good idea of what the environment was doing at the time of formation.

This is how zircons from the Jack Hills Formation in Australia have been found to date from over four billion years ago -- and to show that even at that time, the Earth was cool enough to have a liquid water ocean.

The reason all this comes up, though, is not because of a terrestrial rock, but a Martian one.  The meteorite NWA 7034, found in Western Sahara in 2011, was blasted out of the surface of Mars by a (different) meteorite impact, ultimately landing on Earth; we know it's from Mars because of gas bubble inclusions that have a gas composition matching what we know of the Martian atmosphere.  And NWA 7034 contains zircon crystals that not only date back to 4.45 billion years ago...

... they show that they were formed in the presence of hot water.

A slice of zircon crystal from NWA 7034 [Image credit: Aaron Cavosie and Jack Gillespie]

The banding pattern shows alterations in iron, aluminum, and sodium concentration indicating that it formed in contact with high-temperature water, perhaps a hydrothermal vent system.

So amazing as it sounds, considering the Red Planet's current dry, dusty, windswept surface, four billion years ago it had liquid water, maybe even oceans of it.  Its lower gravitational pull meant that its atmosphere gradually leaked away to space, lowering the pressure and evaporating away the water it had.  But for a time, Mars was a wet planet.

And given how ecosystems flourish around Earth's hydrothermal vents, it may even have had life.

Even fervent aficionados of extraterrestrial life like myself doubt that Mars had time to evolve life of any great complexity; so I'm afraid C. S. Lewis's vision of the intelligent Hrossa and Séroni and Pfifltriggi in Out of the Silent Planet are going to remain forever in the realm of fiction.

A Malacandrian Hross [Image by artist Deimos Remus, licensed under the Creative Commons CC-BY-SA]

But it's entirely possible that it might, at some point, have had microbial life.  There's a slim (but nonzero) chance it still exists somewhere underground; what's more likely is that it left microfossils that could potentially be detected with more careful study of Martian rocks.  At this point, we don't know for sure, but the new study of the Western Sahara Martian meteorite certainly seems to support the possibility.

Whether or not that pans out, it's still pretty incredible that in only a little over a hundred years we've gone from "okay, this rock is probably about the same age as that rock" to being able to say "this tiny crystal formed on Mars near a hydrothermal vent 4.45 billion years ago, then got blasted into space and landed here."  Science will always have a capacity to astonish us.  

And if you're curious about the universe around you, the one certain thing is that you'll never be bored.

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