although they may trouble whatever gods may be.
The dimensions of the Cosmos are so large that using familiar units of distance, such as
meters or miles, chosen for their utility on Earth, would make little sense. Instead, we measure
distance with the speed of light. In one second a beam of light travels 186,000 miles, nearly
300,000 kilometers or seven times around the Earth. In eight minutes it will travel from the Sun
to the Earth. We can say the Sun is eight light-minutes away. In a year, it crosses nearly ten
trillion kilometers, about six trillion miles, of intervening space. That unit of length, the distance
light goes in a year, is called a light-year. It measures not time but distances - enormous
distances.
The Earth is a place. It is by no means the only place. It is not even a typical place. No
planet or star or galaxy can be typical, because the Cosmos is mostly empty. The only typical
place is within the vast, cold, universal vacuum, the everlasting night of intergalactic space, a
place so strange and desolate that, by comparison, planets and stars and galaxies seem achingly
rare and lovely. If we were randomly inserted into the Cosmos, the chance that we would find
ourselves on or near a planet would be less than one in a billion trillion trillion* (1033, a one
followed by 33 zeroes). In everyday life such odds are called compelling. Worlds are precious.
* We use the American scientific convention for large numbers: one billion = 1,000,000,000 = 109; one
trillion = 1,000,000,000,000= 1012, etc. The exponent counts the number of zeroes after the one.
From an intergalactic vantage point we would see, strewn like sea froth on the waves of
space, innumerable faint, wispy tendrils of light. These are the galaxies. Some are solitary
wanderers; most inhabit communal clusters, huddling together, drifting endlessly in the great
cosmic dark. Before us is the Cosmos on the grandest scale we know. We are in the realm of the
nebulae, eight billion light-years from Earth, halfway to the edge of the known universe.
A galaxy is composed of gas and dust and stars billions upon billions of stars. Every star
may be a sun to someone. Within a galaxy are stars and worlds and, it may be, a proliferation of
living things and intelligent beings and spacefaring civilizations. But from afar, a galaxy reminds
me more of a collection of lovely found objects - seashells, perhaps, or corals, the productions of
Nature laboring for aeons in the cosmic ocean.
There are some hundred billion (1011) galaxies, each with, on the average, a hundred
billion stars. In all the galaxies, there are perhaps as many planets as stars, 1011 x 1011 = 1022, ten
billion trillion. In the face of such overpowering numbers, what is the likelihood that only one
ordinary star, the Sun, is accompanied by an inhabited planet? Why should we, tucked away in
some forgotten corner of the Cosmos, be so fortunate? To me, it seems far more likely that the
universe is brimming over with life. But we humans do not yet know. We are just beginning our
explorations. From eight billion light-years away we are hard pressed to find even the cluster in
which our Milky Way Galaxy is embedded, much less the Sun or the Earth. The only planet we
are sure is inhabited is a tiny speck of rock and metal, shining feebly by reflected sunlight, and at
this distance utterly lost.
But presently our journey takes us to what astronomers on Earth like to call the Local
Group of galaxies. Several million light-years across, it is composed of some twenty constituent
galaxies. It is a sparse and obscure and unpretentious cluster. One of these galaxies is M31, seen
from the Earth in the constellation Andromeda. Like other spiral galaxies, it is a huge pinwheel of
stars, gas and dust. M31 has two small satellites, dwarf elliptical galaxies bound to it by gravity,
by the identical law of physics that tends to keep me in my chair. The laws of nature are the same
throughout the Cosmos. We are now two million light-years from home.