StarDate

If you’re looking for a world like Tatooine, good luck. Of the more than 6,000 known planets in other star systems, fewer than 20 orbit both stars of a binary system. So those double sunsets are few and far between. Just to refresh your memory, Tatooine is the home world of Luke Skywalker in Star Wars. Such planets are called “circumbinaries” because they circle around both stars in the system. Over the past decade, astronomers have searched for such worlds in a project with a rhythmic name: Bebop – Binaries Escorted by Orbiting Planets. The project looks for tiny “wiggles” in the motions of the stars caused by orbiting planets. It’s found a few planets, with several more candidates. One of those discoveries is Bebop-3b. The system’s two stars are quite close together. One of them is similar to the Sun. The other is only about a quarter of the Sun’s mass, and a tiny fraction of its brightness. The planet is about half the mass of Jupiter, the giant of our own solar system. It orbits the two stars once every 18 months, at a bit more than Earth’s distance to the Sun. We don’t know how fast Bebop-3b rotates, so we don’t know how often it sees sunrises and sunsets. All we know for sure is that there are two of each – one featuring a bright star, the other a faint cosmic ember. The system is about 400 light-years away. It’s high overhead at nightfall – but much too faint to see without a telescope. Script by Damond Benningfield

In the lexicon of astronomy, Pollux is known a class K-zero-3 star. That tells us that the star’s surface is a little cooler and redder than the Sun’s. It tells us that the star has puffed up to many times its original size. And it tells us that the star is nearing its end. Pollux is the brightest star of Gemini. It’s quite close to the Moon tonight. Its “twin,” the star Castor, and the brilliant planet Jupiter are a little farther from the Moon. The system that astronomers use to classify stars was developed more than a century ago. It groups the stars into classes O, B, A, F, G, K, and M. That system is based on a star’s surface temperature or color – hotter stars are bluer, while cooler stars are redder. O stars are blue-white, while M stars are red or orange. Each class is subdivided using the numbers zero through nine. At K-0, Pollux is just across the line from class G – the class that includes the Sun. The classification ends with the Roman numerals one through five. A “five” means the star is in the main phase of life. A “three” means it’s moved on to the giant phase. It’s converted the hydrogen in its core to helium. Pollux is now fusing the helium to make carbon and oxygen. That change has caused it to puff up; it’s nine times the diameter of the Sun. Over time, Pollux will get even bigger, cooler, and redder. It may evolve into class M – a brilliant star at the end of its life. Script by Damond Benningfield

Jupiter is the “big boy” of the solar system. It’s more than twice the mass of all the other planets combined. In many other star systems, though, Jupiter wouldn’t seem quite so impressive. Astronomers have discovered hundreds of planets that are heavier than Jupiter – up to 80 times Jupiter’s mass. Astronomers aren’t sure how such monster planets get to be so heavy. But they have a couple of main ideas. One says they grow from the mergers of smaller planets. The other says it depends on the environment in which a planet is born. Almost all planets take shape in disks of gas and dust around infant stars. The more material there is in the disk, the more there is for making planets. But there’s a limit on how massive a planet can become. Anything more than about 30 times the mass of Jupiter might become a brown dwarf – an intermediate step between planets and stars. And at more than 80 times Jupiter’s mass, it becomes a true star. The heavy planets don’t get much bigger than Jupiter, no matter how massive they are. As an object gains mass its gravity gets stronger. That squeezes it tighter, making it more compact. So while these “super-Jupiter” planets might outweigh Jupiter, they’d look a lot like the big boy of the solar system. Look for Jupiter near the Moon tonight. It looks like a brilliant star, so you can’t miss it. The twin stars of Gemini are close by, and we’ll have more about that tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

Elnath has dual citizenship. Officially, it’s the second-brightest star of Taurus, so it’s known as Beta Tauri. It marks the tip of one of the bull’s horns. But it’s also known as Gamma Aurigae – one of the bright stars that outlines Auriga, the charioteer. That designation is un-official – it’s been considered defunct for almost a century. The dual identity is a result of changes in how astronomers define the constellations. At first, the constellations were vaguely defined. Each one encompassed the connect-the-dots pattern that outlined the classical figure. But there weren’t hard borders. In 1603, German astronomer Johannes Bayer published a new naming scheme for all the stars. In it, he assigned Elnath to both Taurus and Auriga. That worked fine for centuries. But in the early 20th century, astronomers decided to assign precise boundaries for each constellation – like the borders of states or nations. Elnath was just inside the border of Taurus. So, officially, Elnath belongs to the bull. But it still forms part of the classical outline of Auriga – giving Elnath a dual citizenship. Elnath is about 130 light-years away. It’s about five times the size and mass of the Sun, and it’s hundreds of times brighter. It’s easy to pick out tonight because it’s close to the Moon. As night falls, they’re no more than one or two degrees apart – right along the border between the bull and the charioteer. Script by Damond Benningfield

Just about every star is born in a cluster – a family of dozens to thousands of stars. Most of these families fall apart, with the individual stars going their own way. The Sun’s cluster, for example, dissipated billions of years ago. One cluster that’s in the process of dissipating is the Hyades, which outlines the face of Taurus, the bull. It’s the nearest cluster, at a distance of about 150 light-years. Today, the Hyades contains several hundred stars – probably less than half its original population. The other stars were pulled away by the gravitational tug of the rest of the galaxy. The cluster’s heaviest stars reside in its tightly packed center. None of them is much more than about twice as massive as the Sun. That’s because of the cluster’s age – 625 million years. All of its heavier stars have already burned out. All that remains is their dead cores. The least-massive stars have migrated to the outskirts of the cluster. Over the next few hundred million years, those stars will all drift away. That will leave only a sad little remnant of this impressive family of stars. The Hyades stands to the lower left of the Moon this evening. Its stars form a “V” shape. The brightest star in the outline is bright orange Aldebaran, the bull’s eye. But it’s not a member of the cluster – it simply lines up in the same direction as the stars of the Hyades. We’ll have more about the Moon and Taurus tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

For the kings of ancient Egypt, the Sun was much more than just a glowing orb in the daytime sky. It was the god Ra, one of the most important of all the gods. Ra was a creator of life, the king’s father, and a representation of the king as a god himself. So the kings of the Fifth Kingdom, about 4500 years ago, built temples to honor the Sun. Archaeologists have recently excavated about half of the largest one yet discovered – a massive complex that might have been topped by a spot for watching the Sun and stars. The temple is named “Joy of Ra” or “Joy of the Heart of Ra.” It’s at Abu Gorab, about 10 miles from Cairo, near the ancient capital, Memphis. It was built by King Nyuserre, who reigned for two or three decades. At the time, the kings identified themselves with Ra – as eternal gods. So the temple was a place to honor both Ra and the king. Excavations have uncovered two large enclosures. The upper level was discovered 125 years ago, but the lower one was found just recently. The upper level included an altar for making offerings to Ra. And one end featured an obelisk that would have towered high above the courtyard and the surrounding landscape. It had a perfect east-west alignment – the directions of the rising and setting Sun. The recent work also uncovered a stairway to the roof. The rooftop probably served as an observatory – helping Nyuserre follow his “father” across the sky. Script by Damond Benningfield

An astronomer greets visitors to a science museum in Canberra, Australia. He’s made of riveted iron plates, and he stands atop a wide ring, gazing skyward through a smaller ring in his right hand. He’s the last remnant of an historic telescope that was destroyed in a massive wildfire. The fire blazed across Australia in January of 2003. It destroyed most of Mount Stromlo Observatory, one of the major astronomy research centers in the southern hemisphere. The fire consumed five telescopes, plus a laboratory where scientists and engineers built astronomical instruments. One of the casualties was the Yale-Columbia Telescope. It was a 26-inch refractor – a type of telescope that uses lenses to gather and focus starlight. It was built in 1924, and had been operating at Mount Stromlo for half a century. Astronomers had used it to measure the distances to stars, to study double stars, and more. After the fire, an Australian science institute commissioned a sculptor, Tim Wetherell, to create an artwork from the telescope’s remains. The result was “The Astronomer” – the piece on display in Canberra. The figure stands on a setting circle – a wide ring that indicated where the telescope was pointing. It has numbers at 10-degree intervals, from zero to 180. The astronomer is holding a smaller version of the ring in his hand – continuing to look at the stars long after the telescope’s demise. Script by Damond Benningfield

The crescent Moon and the planet Venus team up in the evening twilight tonight. Venus is the brilliant “evening star.” It’s below the Moon, and it sets by the time the sky gets fully dark. Venus is enveloped by an unbroken layer of clouds – one of the reasons the planet looks so bright. The clouds are a few dozen miles above the surface. And they’re speedy – they race around the planet at up to 335 miles per hour – twice as fast as the winds in a category-5 hurricane. They make a full turn around Venus every four days. That’s more than 50 times faster than the planet is turning on its axis. That high-speed motion is called super-rotation. No one knows for sure what causes it. A study a few years ago said it might be powered by the Sun. The clouds are hottest at the equator, where the sunlight is strongest. The hotter atmosphere flows outward, toward the poles and toward the nightside – reaching super-fast speeds. Super-rotation doesn’t extend all the way to the surface, though. Below the clouds, the wind speed drops dramatically. At the surface, there’s almost no wind at all. But the atmosphere is quite dense – more than 90 times the density of Earth’s atmosphere. Any wind at all exerts a lot of pressure, so it can erode the surface. That can wear away mountains, and gouge channels that look like they were carved by flowing water – all below the speedy clouds of the planet Venus. Script by Damond Benningfield

Spring arrives in the northern hemisphere tomorrow morning, when the Sun crosses the celestial equator from south to north – the vernal equinox. Over the next three months, the Sun will travel ever farther northward, bringing longer, warmer days north of the equator. Vernal comes from the Latin word for spring. And equinox means “equal nights.” Theoretically, all points on Earth should see equal amounts of daylight and darkness on the equinox. But for several reasons, the interval between sunrise and sunset – which should be exactly 12 hours – varies by a few minutes. The vernal equinox marks the starting point for the system that astronomers use to plot the sky. They measure the positions of astronomical objects using coordinates called right ascension and declination – the equivalent of longitude and latitude. Right ascension is measured in hours. The point where the Sun crosses the celestial equator – the projection of Earth’s equator on the sky – on the vernal equinox is designated as zero hours. It’s the equivalent of zero degrees longitude – the line that runs through Greenwich, England. And just as Earth’s equator marks zero degrees latitude, the celestial equator is designated zero degrees declination. So at the moment of the vernal equinox, the Sun stands at celestial coordinates zero-zero – beginning a new cycle through the stars. Tomorrow: the Moon and a bright companion. Script by Damond Benningfield

The heart of the galaxy Messier 87 is a cosmic maelstrom. A disk of super-heated gas that’s hundreds of times the size of our solar system encircles a monster black hole. Gas at the inner edge of the disk spirals into the black hole, producing huge amounts of X-rays. Enormous magnetic fields channel some of the gas into powerful “jets.” It’s not a place you’d ever want to visit. But it’s a fascinating region to study from far away. M87 is a giant elliptical galaxy. It looks like a fat, fuzzy rugby ball. It’s bigger than our home galaxy, the Milky Way. It has many more stars, and could be up to 200 times as massive as the Milky Way. The black hole at its heart is impressive, too. It’s roughly 1400 times the mass of the black hole at the center of the Milky Way. It’s pulling in gas, dust, and other debris. That material forms a disk that’s hundreds of times wider than the orbit of Neptune, the Sun’s most-distant planet. A recent study found that material in the disk is falling into the black hole at a quarter of the speed of light. And the black hole itself is rotating at 80 percent of lightspeed or faster. That rotation generates a powerful magnetic field. The field catches some of the infalling material and shoots it back into space. That creates a “jet” of charged particles that’s thousands of light-years long – a beam of deadly radiation from the heart of Messier 87. Script by Damond Benningfield

A galaxy cluster is like a cosmic blender. It stirs up the galaxies and the space between them. Nothing is left undisturbed. A perfect example is the Virgo Cluster. It consists of more than 1500 individual galaxies, centered about 55 million light-years away. Most of them are fairly small and faint. But a few are monsters – many times the size and mass of our home galaxy, the Milky Way. The cluster’s galaxies are packed fairly close together. So the gravity of each galaxy pulls at its neighbors. That distorts the shape of some of the neighbors, making them lopsided. It also causes big clouds of gas to collapse and give birth to new stars. And it pulls many stars out of the galaxies, into the space between them. In fact, up to one-tenth of the stars in the cluster may be roaming through intergalactic space. The cluster’s brightest galaxy is Messier 49. It was the first to be discovered, in 1771. It’s a giant elliptical, so it looks like a fat, fuzzy rugby ball. It’s much bigger than the Milky Way, and many times its mass. And a supermassive black hole inhabits its heart. The biggest and heaviest member of the cluster is Messier 87, and we’ll talk about it tomorrow. The Virgo Cluster is centered along the border between Virgo and Leo. That spot is low in the east at nightfall and climbs high across the sky later on. Many of the galaxies are easy targets for small telescopes. Script by Damond Benningfield

Snow blanketed the launch pad, and the rocketeers sipped hot malted milk to ward off the chill. But the launch they conducted a century ago today turned the idea of space travel from fantasy to possibility – and provided the first small step toward the Moon. The rocket was designed by Robert Goddard, a physics professor at Clark University in Massachusetts. Goddard was brilliant but secretive. He refused to collaborate with other scientists, and seldom even talked about his research. Instead, he spent his time building, testing, and flying rockets. At the time he started, all rockets were powered by solid fuels, such as gunpowder. But solid fuels are inefficient and hard to control. So Goddard built a rocket powered by liquid fuels – gasoline and liquid oxygen. It was a potent mixture that provided far more energy per pound than solids. Goddard and his wife and assistants launched the first liquid-fueled rocket in history on March 16th, 1926. It was airborne for just two and a half seconds, and climbed just 41 feet. But it proved that liquid fuels could propel a rocket skyward. Goddard spent two more decades experimenting with rockets. German engineers used many of his innovations in the V-2, which bombarded England during World War II. Transplanted to the United States after the war, many of these engineers developed the rockets that boosted satellites into space – and sent astronauts to the Moon. Script by Damond Benningfield

A three-way tug-of-war isn’t a common sight – unless you look toward the constellation Leo. Three galaxies there are tugging at one another, producing some spectacular results. The galaxies are M65, M66, and NGC 3628 – the Leo Triplet. All three galaxies are about the same size as our home galaxy, the Milky Way. And each may resemble the Milky Way – a beautiful spiral with a long “bar” of stars across its middle. The triplets are close enough together that the gravity of each galaxy exerts a strong pull on the others. That’s given M66 a slightly “wonky” look. The galaxy’s core is a little off-center. Its spiral arms are loosely wound, and they aren’t symmetrical. And the arms are lined with knots of starbirth. Some of the stars in these regions are huge. Such a star burns out quickly, then explodes as a supernova. And since 1973, we’ve seen five supernovas in M66 – compared to zero in the Milky Way. We see NGC 3628 edge-on, so it’s hard to know its exact shape. What we do see is a lane of dark dust sandwiched between brighter layers. We also see a “tail” that’s 300,000 light-years long – three times the size of the galaxy itself. It’s a ribbon of stars pulled out by the other galaxies in their ongoing “tug-of-war.” Leo is in the east at nightfall. The triplet is to the upper right of Denebola, the star at the lion’s tail. It’s an easy target for a small telescope. Script by Damond Benningfield

It sounds like a toddler’s attempt to say “Friday” or, even better, a day to gorge on apple crumb or coconut cream. Alas, “Pi Day” is something completely different. It’s a commemoration of a mathematical constant that’s represented by the Greek letter pi – one of the most important quantities in science. Pi is the ratio of a circle’s diameter to its circumference. When it’s rounded off to two digits, it’s 3.14 – the numerical equivalent of March 14th. Astronomers use pi to calculate the volume and density of a star or planet, the details of an orbit, and much more. Other scientists use it as well. But pi is an “irrational” number. That means that no matter how long you calculate its exact value, you never reach the end – whether you go to a thousand decimal places, a million, or even eleventy-jillion. There’s never a conclusion, and no group of numbers ever repeats. Mathematicians have used various techniques to try to calculate the exact value, without success. The record so far is more than a hundred trillion places to the right of the decimal. Trying to calculate an exact value has been an important plot point in science fiction. Any time a computer is getting too uppity, it’s commanded to calculate pi to the last digit. That impossible task overloads the computer, allowing the heroes to regain control. Whether we’ll need it to rein in A-I – well, have a slice of pie – the tasty variety – while you ponder it. Script by Damond Benningfield

To the eye alone, the brightest star in the night sky is Sirius, the leading light of Canis Major, the big dog. It’s well up in the south at nightfall – a brilliant beacon less than nine light-years away. If we could shift the sensitivity of our eyes to shorter wavelengths, the brightest star would appear a little below Sirius. Adhara is already the second-brightest star in the constellation. But it produces most of its energy in the extreme ultraviolet – wavelengths that are far too short to see with the human eye. At those wavelengths, Adhara would be the brightest object in the entire night sky. The star is an ultraviolet powerhouse because it’s tens of thousands of degrees hotter than the Sun. The hotter an object, the more U-V it produces. And Adhara is huge – more than 10 times the Sun’s diameter. So there’s a lot of real estate for beaming its radiation into space. The U-V zaps molecules of gas and dust anywhere close to the star, splitting them apart and making them glow. But the star has been around long enough that it’s already cleared out most of the space around it. More than four million years ago, Adhara was much closer to the Sun than it is today. That made it the brightest star at visible wavelengths as well. It shined as brightly as Venus, the morning or evening star. But Adhara’s motion through the galaxy has carried the star much farther from us – allowing Sirius to outshine this sizzling star. Script by Damond Benningfield

For Charles Messier, star clusters were a nuisance. The French astronomer was mainly interested in comets. In the 18th century, finding a comet could bring fame and fortune – kings sometimes awarded medals and fat stipends for their discovery. Through a telescope, star clusters could resemble comets. Messier and others might spend time following a cluster, only to find out that it wasn’t the prize. So Messier compiled a catalog of clusters and similar nuisances – a list of objects to ignore. Four of the clusters follow a narrow path near Canis Major, the big dog: M46, 47, 48, and 50 – a Messier “highway.” Although they’re close together in our sky, the clusters are not close together in space. Their distances range from about 1600 light-years to more than five thousand. So there’s no relationship among them. They appear close together because they all lie along the Milky Way – the glowing outline of the disk of the Milky Way Galaxy. In that direction, we’re looking into the most densely populated region of the galaxy, so we see many more stars and star clusters – including the “pesky” clusters cataloged by Charles Messier. The clusters are in the southeastern quadrant of the sky as night falls. Look for Sirius, the brightest star in the night sky, due south. The clusters spread out to the left and upper left of Sirius. All of them are easy targets for binoculars. Script by Damond Benningfield

Winter brings out the big dogs – some of the most prominent constellations of all. And one of those really is a dog: Canis Major, the big dog. It’s best known for Sirius, the Dog Star – the brightest star in the night sky. It’s a third of the way up the southern sky at nightfall. But there’s much more to Canis Major than just Sirius. It includes several bright stars, most of which are below or to the right of Sirius. When you link them up, they do form the outline of a dog. Like all constellations, Canis Major consists of more than just a connect-the-dots pattern of stars, though. It covers a patch of sky that includes everything within its borders. And in that area, you can find several deep-sky objects – objects like star clusters, which are far beyond most of the individual stars visible in Canis Major. Perhaps the best known is Messier 41. It’s not far below Sirius, and it’s an easy target for binoculars. It’s about 2300 light-years away, and includes a hundred or more stars. The cluster probably is about 200 million years old. At that age, its biggest, heaviest stars have expired. They’ve left behind small, dense corpses known as white dwarfs. The next-heaviest stars soon will follow the same path. Those stars have puffed up to become red giants. They’re easily visible through binoculars – sparkling red and orange jewels along the “collar” of the big dog. More about Canis Major tomorrow. Script by Damond Benningfield

A magazine that first hit newsstands 100 years ago today was unlike anything readers had seen before. Its cover featured a brightly-colored painting of people ice-skating on a comet as it zoomed past Saturn. Its founding editor, Hugo Gernsback, called it “a new sort of magazine” – “a magazine of ‘scientifiction'” – a genre known today as science fiction. Amazing Stories was the first magazine dedicated solely to the genre. Its debut issue, which was dated April 1926, carried reprints of stories by Jules Verne, H.G. Wells, Edgar Allen Poe, and others. The story titles included “The Man from the Atom” and “The Thing from – Beyond.” The magazine was an instant hit. Within a year, monthly circulation was at 150,000. Other publishers quickly caught on, and began publishing many more sci-fi magazines. Over the decades, they included such titles as Fantastic, Astonishing, and Astounding. They featured many of the major figures of science fiction’s “golden age.” Their inventive stories and eye-catching covers caught the attention of lots of youngsters. The magazines inspired many of them to pursue careers in astronomy, physics, engineering, and related fields. They also inspired future filmmakers, who expanded “scientifiction” far beyond the printed page. Few science-fiction magazines have survived. But their influence is still felt today – on Earth – and beyond. Script by Damond Benningfield

A future super-giant “onion” perches close to the Moon at dawn tomorrow. It’s the star Antares, the bright heart of the scorpion – one of the most impressive stars in the galaxy. Antares is a supergiant. It’s roughly a dozen times as massive as the Sun, and hundreds of times wider. Because it’s so heavy, gravity squeezes its core tightly. That revs up the nuclear fusion in the core. Like all stars, those reactions initially fused hydrogen to make helium. In the Sun, hydrogen fusion will last about 10 billion years. In Antares, though, it lasted a little more than 10 million years. When the hydrogen in the core was gone, the core shrank, making it hotter – hot enough for the helium to fuse to make carbon and oxygen. That process will last about one million years. Then the carbon will fuse to make heavier elements, and so on. Each step takes less time than the one before. In the final step, silicon will fuse to make iron – a step that takes just a few days. The lighter elements won’t all go away, though. Instead, the “ash” from each step will form layers around the core – like an onion. But that structure won’t last. The core can’t get hot enough to fuse the iron. Gravity will win out, and the core will collapse – forming an ultra-dense neutron star. Everything outside the core will blast outward at a few percent of the speed of light. Supergiant Antares will explode as a supernova – an impressive end for an impressive star. Script by Damond Benningfield

Canopus would be a terrible neighbor. The star is big, bright, and hot, so it might blow away any planet-making materials around nearby stars. Even worse, it may be destined to explode. That would zap any existing planets with radiation – perhaps endangering any life in nearby star systems. Canopus is the second-brightest star in the night sky. At this time of year, it’s visible from the southern third of the United States in early evening. It’s low in the south, well below Sirius, the brightest star. Canopus is at least eight times the mass of the Sun. So even though it’s billions of years younger than the Sun, it’s already completed the main phase of life. Within a few million years, its core will collapse, perhaps forming an ultra-dense neutron star. If so, then its outer layers will blast into space as a supernova. Such an outburst would produce enormous amounts of X-rays and gamma rays – the most powerful forms of energy. That could strip away the ozone layer of any planet within a few dozen light-years, subjecting the surface to high levels of radiation. So far, we know of only one planet within that range where conditions are most suitable for life. The planet itself isn’t likely to host life. But any big moons might be more comfortable homes – at least until the demise of Canopus. Luckily for us, Canopus is 300 light-years away. So Earth is well outside the “danger zone” of this not-so-neighborly neighbor. Script by Damond Benningfield