Cosmos (38 page)

The early universe was filled with radiation and a plenum of matter, originally hydrogen and helium, formed from elementary particles in the dense primeval fireball. There was very little to see, if there had been anyone around to do the seeing. Then little pockets of gas, small nonuniformities, began to grow. Tendrils of vast gossamer gas clouds formed, colonies of great lumbering, slowly spinning things, steadily brightening, each a kind of beast eventually to contain a hundred billion shining points. The largest recognizable structures in the universe had formed. We see them today. We ourselves inhabit some lost corner of one. We call them galaxies.

About a billion years after the Big Bang, the distribution of matter in the universe had become a little lumpy, perhaps because the Big Bang itself had not been perfectly uniform. Matter was more densely compacted in these lumps than elsewhere. Their gravity drew to them substantial quantities of nearby gas, growing clouds of hydrogen and helium that were destined to become clusters of galaxies. A very small initial nonuniformity suffices to produce substantial condensations of matter later on.

As the gravitational collapse continued, the primordial galaxies spun increasingly faster, because of the conservation of angular momentum. Some flattened, squashing themselves along the axis of rotation where gravity is not balanced by centrifugal force. These became the first spiral galaxies, great rotating pinwheels of
matter in open space. Other protogalaxies with weaker gravity or less initial rotation flattened very little and became the first elliptical galaxies. There are similar galaxies, as if stamped from the same mold, all over the Cosmos because these simple laws of nature—gravity and the conservation of angular momentum—are the same all over the universe. The physics that works for falling bodies and pirouetting ice skaters down here in the microcosm of the Earth makes galaxies up there in the macrocosm of the universe.

Within the nascent galaxies, much smaller clouds were also experiencing gravitational collapse; interior temperatures became very high, thermonuclear reactions were initiated, and the first stars turned on. The hot, massive young stars evolved rapidly, profligates carelessly spending their capital of hydrogen fuel, soon ending their lives in brilliant supernova explosions, returning thermonuclear ash—helium, carbon, oxygen and heavier elements—to the interstellar gas for subsequent generations of star formation. Supernova explosions of massive early stars produced successive overlapping shock waves in the adjacent gas, compressing the intergalactic medium and accelerating the generation of clusters of galaxies. Gravity is opportunistic, amplifying even small condensations of matter. Supernova shock waves may have contributed to accretions of matter at every scale. The epic of cosmic evolution had begun, a hierarchy in the condensation of matter from the gas of the Big Bang—clusters of galaxies, galaxies, stars, planets, and, eventually, life and an intelligence able to understand a little of the elegant process responsible for its origin.

Clusters of galaxies fill the universe today. Some are insignificant, paltry collections of a few dozen galaxies. The affectionately titled “Local Group” contains only two large galaxies of any size, both spirals: the Milky Way and M31. Other clusters run to immense hordes of thousands of galaxies in mutual gravitational embrace. There is some hint that the Virgo cluster contains tens of thousands of galaxies.

On the largest scale, we inhabit a universe of galaxies, perhaps a hundred billion exquisite examples of cosmic architecture and decay, with order and disorder equally evident: normal spirals, turned at various angles to our earthly line of sight (face-on we see the spiral arms, edge-on, the central lanes of gas and dust in which the arms are formed); barred spirals with a river of gas and dust and stars running through the center, connecting the spiral arms on opposite sides; stately giant elliptical galaxies containing
more than a trillion stars which have grown so large because they have swallowed and merged with other galaxies; a plethora of dwarf ellipticals, the galactic midges, each containing some paltry millions of suns; an immense variety of mysterious irregulars, indications that in the world of galaxies there are places where something has gone ominously wrong; and galaxies orbiting each other so closely that their edges are bent by the gravity of their companions and in some cases streamers of gas and stars are drawn out gravitationally, a bridge between the galaxies.

Some clusters have their galaxies arranged in an unambiguously spherical geometry; they are composed chiefly of ellipticals, often dominated by one giant elliptical, the presumptive galactic cannibal. Other clusters with a far more disordered geometry have, comparatively, many more spirals and irregulars. Galactic collisions distort the shape of an originally spherical cluster and may also contribute to the genesis of spirals and irregulars from ellipticals. The form and abundance of the galaxies have a story to tell us of ancient events on the largest possible scale, a story we are just beginning to read.

The development of high-speed computers makes possible numerical experiments on the collective motion of thousands or tens of thousands of points, each representing a star, each under the gravitational influence of all the other points. In some cases, spiral arms form all by themselves in a galaxy that has already flattened to a disk. Occasionally a spiral arm may be produced by the close gravitational encounter of two galaxies, each of course composed of billions of stars. The gas and dust diffusely spread through such galaxies will collide and become warmed. But when two galaxies collide, the stars pass effortlessly by one another, like bullets through a swarm of bees, because a galaxy is made mostly of nothing and the spaces between the stars are vast. Nevertheless, the configuration of the galaxies can be distorted severely. A direct impact on one galaxy by another can send the constituent stars pouring and careening through intergalactic space, a galaxy wasted. When a small galaxy runs into a larger one face-on it can produce one of the loveliest of the rare irregulars, a ring galaxy thousands of light-years across, set against the velvet of intergalactic space. It is a splash in the galactic pond, a temporary configuration of disrupted stars, a galaxy with a central piece torn out.

The unstructured blobs of irregular galaxies, the arms of spiral galaxies and the torus of ring galaxies exist for only a few frames in the cosmic motion picture, then dissipate, often to be reformed
again. Our sense of galaxies as ponderous rigid bodies is mistaken. They are fluid structures with 100 billion stellar components. Just as a human being, a collection of 100 trillion cells, is typically in a steady state between synthesis and decay and is more than the sum of its parts, so also is a galaxy.

The suicide rate among galaxies is high. Some nearby examples, tens or hundreds of millions of light-years away, are powerful sources of X-rays, infrared radiation and radio waves, have extremely luminous cores and fluctuate in brightness on time scales of weeks. Some display jets of radiation, thousand-light-year-long plumes, and disks of dust in substantial disarray. These galaxies are blowing themselves up. Black holes ranging from millions to billions of times more massive than the Sun are suspected in the cores of giant elliptical galaxies such as NGC 6251 and M87. There is something very massive, very dense, and very small ticking and purring inside M87—from a region smaller than the solar system. A black hole is implicated. Billions of light-years away are still more tumultuous objects, the quasars, which may be the colossal explosions of young galaxies, the mightiest events in the history of the universe since the Big Bang itself.

The word “quasar” is an acronym for “quasi-stellar radio source.” After it became clear that not all of them were powerful radio sources, they were called QSO’s (“quasi-stellar objects”). Because they are starlike in appearance, they were naturally thought to be stars within our own galaxy. But spectroscopic observations of their red shift (see below) show them likely to be immense distances away. They seem to partake vigorously in the expansion of the universe, some receding from us at more than 90 percent the speed of light. If they are very far, they must be intrinsically extremely bright to be visible over such distances; some are as bright as a thousand supernovae exploding at once. Just as for Cyg X-1, their rapid fluctuations show their enormous brightness to be confined to a very small volume, in this case less then the size of the solar system. Some remarkable process must be responsible for the vast outpouring of energy in a quasar. Among the proposed explanations are: (1) quasars are monster versions of pulsars, with a rapidly rotating supermassive core connected to a strong magnetic field; (2) quasars are due to multiple collisions of millions of stars densely packed into the galactic core, tearing away the outer layers and exposing to full view the billion-degree temperatures of the interiors of massive stars; (3) a related idea, quasars are galaxies in which the stars are so densely packed that a supernova explosion in one will rip away the outer layers of
another and make it a supernova, producing a stellar chain reaction; (4) quasars are powered by the violent mutual annihilation of matter and antimatter, somehow preserved in the quasar until now; (5) a quasar is the energy released when gas and dust and stars fall into an immense black hole in the core of such a galaxy, perhaps itself the product of ages of collision and coalescence of smaller black holes; and (6) quasars are “white holes,” the other side of black holes, a funneling and eventual emergence into view of matter pouring into a multitude of black holes in other parts of the universe, or even in other universes.

In considering the quasars, we confront profound mysteries. Whatever the cause of a quasar explosion, one thing seems clear: such a violent event must produce untold havoc. In every quasar explosion millions of worlds—some with life and the intelligence to understand what is happening—may be utterly destroyed. The study of the galaxies reveals a universal order and beauty. It also shows us chaotic violence on a scale hitherto undreamed of. That we live in a universe which permits life is remarkable. That we live in one which destroys galaxies and stars and worlds is also remarkable. The universe seems neither benign nor hostile, merely indifferent to the concerns of such puny creatures as we.

Even a galaxy so seemingly well-mannered as the Milky Way has its stirrings and its dances. Radio observations show two enormous clouds of hydrogen gas, enough to make millions of suns, plummeting out from the galactic core, as if a mild explosion happened there every now and then. A high-energy astronomical observatory in Earth orbit has found the galactic core to be a strong source of a particular gamma ray spectral line, consistent with the idea that a massive black hole is hidden there. Galaxies like the Milky Way may represent the staid middle age in a continuous evolutionary sequence, which encompasses, in their violent adolescence, quasars and exploding galaxies: because the quasars are so distant, we see them in their youth, as they were billions of years ago.

The stars of the Milky Way move with systematic grace. Globular clusters plunge through the galactic plane and out the other side, where they slow, reverse and hurtle back again. If we could follow the motion of individual stars bobbing about the galactic plane, they would resemble a froth of popcorn. We have never seen a galaxy change its form significantly only because it takes so long to move. The Milky Way rotates once every quarter billion years. If we were to speed the rotation, we would see that the Galaxy is a dynamic, almost organic entity, in some ways resembling
a multi-cellular organism. Any astronomical photograph of a galaxy is merely a snapshot of one stage in its ponderous motion and evolution.
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The inner region of a galaxy rotates as a solid body. But, beyond that, like the planets around the Sun following Kepler’s third law, the outer provinces rotate progressively more slowly. The arms have a tendency to wind up around the core in an ever-tightening spiral, and gas and dust accumulate in spiral patterns of greater density, which are in turn the locales for the formation of young, hot, bright stars, the stars that outline the spiral arms. These stars shine for ten million years or so, a period corresponding to only 5 percent of a galactic rotation. But as the stars that outline a spiral arm burn out, new stars and their associated nebulae are formed just behind them, and the spiral pattern persists. The stars that outline the arms do not survive even a single galactic rotation; only the spiral pattern remains.

The speed of any given star around the center of the Galaxy is generally not the same as that of the spiral pattern. The Sun has been in and out of spiral arms often in the twenty times it has gone around the Milky Way at 200 kilometers per second (roughly half a million miles per hour). On the average, the Sun and the planets spend forty million years in a spiral arm, eighty million outside, another forty million in, and so on. Spiral arms outline the region where the latest crop of newly hatched stars is being formed, but not necessarily where such middle-aged stars as the Sun happen to be. In this epoch, we live between spiral arms.

The periodic passage of the solar system through spiral arms may conceivably have had important consequences for us. About ten million years ago, the Sun emerged from the Gould Belt complex of the Orion Spiral Arm, which is now a little less than a thousand light-years away. (Interior to the Orion arm is the Sagittarius arm; beyond the Orion arm is the Perseus arm.) When the Sun passes through a spiral arm it is more likely than it is at present to enter into gaseous nebulae and interstellar dust clouds and to encounter objects of substellar mass. It has been suggested that the major ice ages on our planet, which recur every hundred million years or so, may be due to the interposition of interstellar matter between the Sun and the Earth. W. Napier and S. Clube have proposed that a number of the moons, asteroids, comets and circumplanetary rings in the solar system once freely wandered in
interstellar space until they were captured as the Sun plunged through the Orion spiral arm. This is an intriguing idea, although perhaps not very likely. But it is testable. All we need do is procure a sample of, say, Phobos or a comet and examine its magnesium isotopes. The relative abundance of magnesium isotopes (all sharing the same number of protons, but having differing numbers of neutrons) depends on the precise sequence of stellar nucleo-synthetic events, including the timing of nearby supernova explosions, that produced any particular sample of magnesium. In a different corner of the Galaxy, a different sequence of events should have occurred and a different ratio of magnesium isotopes should prevail.