Every other Tuesday, Elvis* – who’s living on Mars disguised as a walrus – drops in for a burger from the slider joint just down the road, because nobody on Mars knows how to make a good one. This week, as we chowed down on Chicken Anchovy Supreme, I mentioned that somebody’d posted a comment on my blog about Scholz’s Star – the red dwarf that skidded past the solar system around 70,000 years ago.
By this guy’s proposal the star – sorry, ‘Nibiru’ – hosted a planet with intelligent life who’d come to Earth and coded secrets into our genes, and he pointed me to a website that – er – proved it.
Actually, when I looked at the site, it was filled with stuff about aliens – aka Sumerian gods – wanting to steal Earth’s gold in order to warm their planet. A prelude, I suppose, to the way aliens always wanted to steal women and water in the 1950s.
Elvis wasn’t worried. Between mouthfuls, he told me this sort of argument is common enough among the woo brigade. There’s no point trying to counter-argue using science because the people who peddle this stuff believe what they say as an act of their own faith in it and merely get angry if you question it.
I still thought science might offer something and pointed out that red dwarfs are the smallest and most innocuous looking stars ever, but they have an unfortunate habit of suddenly exploding into a wild fury. Their brightness can increase 400 times or more on the back of a major flare. They make our local solar flares, even the biggest, look feeble. And if you’re in the way of that licking – well, there you are, an innocent little cell just starting out on the evolutionary tree, and suddenly you get the world’s worst dose of radiation poisoning and die. Oops. And before life can re-develop, the broken bits get radiated. And again…and again…and again…
That happened on early Earth, too, when our Sun was young and boisterous. Life didn’t start developing until after the Sun had stopped lashing us. Turns out that life needs a stable environment. Red dwarfs don’t offer one – ever. And that, I explained to Elvis, was quite apart from the fact that alien life is – well, alien. The chances of an alien planet producing a biota identical to ours is pretty low.
Not to mention that Scholz’s Star is orbited by a brown dwarf companion at the distance of Venus – a companion that has three-quarters the mass of the star, meaning they’re actually orbiting a mutual point in space where their gravitation balances, the barycentre. Planets could stably orbit the barycentre, providing they were further out again – but that would put them too far away to have human-type life on them.
And the other problem is the travel. Sure, Scholz’s Star came close by astronomical standards. But that’s the point. Astronomical. It never came closer than 0.82 light years. Yup, light – the fastest thing you can get – still took eight-tenths of a year to reach it. In everyday terms, that’s 7,800,000,000,000 kilometres. Woah! As I told Elvis, our fastest space probe, New Horizons, would take 16,000 years to cross that distance.
He nodded throughout. Obviously he didn’t dispute it. But I hadn’t addressed his basic point.
‘The problem,’ Elvis suddenly said, ‘is that as a species we humans suffer terrible delusions about self-importance.’
‘Don’t say that too loudly,’ I said ‘you’ll upset people.’
‘What do I care? I live on Mars.’ He crumpled his burger wrapper.
Copyright © Matthew Wright 2015
*Well, he says he’s Elvis, anyway. But even if he’s AN Elvis (as I actually suspect) rather than THE Elvis, who cares? He talks sense, which isn’t bad for someone who lives on Mars most of the time and has to hide inside a walrus costume to avoid being mobbed by Elvis impersonator fans.