THE SOUTHWORTH PLANETARIUM
207-780-4249       www.usm.maine.edu/planet
70 Falmouth Street  Portland, Maine 04103
43.6667° N,                    70.2667° W
Founded January 1970
              "Low 70's and sunny: who says New England winters are harsh?!"


THE DAILY ASTRONOMER
Thursday, March 10, 2016
A Bad Day for Beanstalks  (R)

Yes, we're cheating today because of the latest maelstrom and sending a repeat.
Brand new quiz tomorrow!




Late that morning, if you had asked Frank Winters about his life, he
would have said it was just a little bit of all right.   A good time
to have made this inquiry would have been as he was about midway
across his backyard: a veritable miasma of intertwined plants, vines,
and all manner of flora that Frank cultivated infrequently, preferring
to leave nature to it own course to sort out the sprites from the
flotsam.     Frank Winters was delivering a bucket of cucumber peels,
egg shells and gnawed down corn cobs to his corner compost heap.    He
was an elderly, but by no means decrepit, gentlemen puttering through
his 82nd summer with a sense of cheerful contentment he wouldn't have
sold for a mansion littered with Nobel prizes.    To have seen him
that morning would have been to observe a kindly man whose motions,
though impeded slightly by advancing age, were nevertheless
inexorable: a man determined to distill the last vestiges of vitality
out of himself and have a hell of a lovely time doing it.

And, of course, as he proceeded from his porch to the compost heap, he
cast a quick eye on the sky, as he had always done.  And, as usual, he
winked.    For there, soaring somewhere behind the boundless blue, was
a small, some would even say minuscule, piece of himself on board the
Hubble Space Telescope.    For, Frank Winters was a retired engineer:
one of the myriad people responsible for the construction, deployment,
and continued operation of the world's most celebrated telescope.
Every time Frank ventured outside, he always looked toward the
horizon, wondering, perhaps, if that 8 foot assembly was at that
moment moving invisibly along his sight line.     At that latitude,
the HST did pass through, but only close to the horizon: jutting up
into the sky, every so often condescending to grant a fleeting
audience to the inhabitants of the mid-northern climes.
We can understand why Frank felt both a rush of pride and a sense of
humility that he had been part of such a grand project: one amongst
hundreds of anonymous contributors, of course, but, nevertheless, he
settled into life's twilight comforted by the notion that he
contributed a verse to the powerful play: an ambition he harbored
since he was an undergraduate student in 1955 and heard that the great
Einstein had moved on.  (Frank never used the phrase 'pass away,' as
it was too passive and involuntary.)     For awhile, after Einstein's
death,  Frank happily toyed with the prospect of achieving the fame
and prominence of the recently decreased physicist: an eminence he
would never ultimately achieve.    Despite this unrealized ambition,
he did carve out a prolonged and fulfilling career in various related
fields and was involved in the HST design since the late 70s, under
the employ of Perkins-Elmer.
After a few years of wrangling and pleading with Congress for funding-
funding secured only after a mirror size reduction shrank the cost by
more than a hundred million dollars-  the work began in earnest in
1977.  After more than a decade, in 1990, the HST was launched with
great fanfare soon followed by mortifying embarrassment - the
objective mirror was ground one micron too fine: enough to impair the
optics considerably.   The first images were fuzzy and the orbiting
telescope that had occupied the front and center of his life for years
was a global laughingstock.    In the few years prior to its
deployment, Frank was, by his own admission, a bit too vocal and
monomaniacal about it.    He spoke almost incessantly about "Spitzer's
Dream Scope," as he called it in honor or Lyman Spitzer, the Yale
astronomer who first conceived of an orbiting telescope: one that
would be unimpeded by Earth's obscuring atmosphere.     When the world
realized that NASA launched a high priced dud, Frank maintained a
stoic silence about the matter.   He was so stone-faced about the HST,
that nobody, not even his older brother -now deceased- fathomed the
depth of his shame and sorrow.     Only those who devoted their lives
to failed enterprises can appreciate what it is to experience such
emotional devastation.
In 1993,  Space Shuttle astronauts delivered a cargo of corrective
optics to the HST and transformed it from a joke to the miracle it was
intended to be.     Frank was near retirement, then, and, by his own
choice, not involved in this mission.  Truth be told, when he realized
he didn't want to have any part in it, he realized how much emotion he
had invested in that object orbiting more than 285 miles up.
Hubble's redemption was his own and the three years of ignominy and
shame was soon forgotten.    Ever since, the HST captured a plethora
of images: star clusters, colliding galaxies, even Saturnian storms;
the UV aurora on Jupiter and, of course, the Hubble Deep Field and,
later, the Hubble Ultra Deep Field.       It redeemed itself with a
fury and even when its expected life span had ended, it continued
expanding humanity's cosmic perspective.   Age was not going to impede
it by a millimeter.
After Frank winked toward the Hubble Space Telescope -though it was
passing over Algeria at that precise moment- he brought his decaying
organic material to the corner compost heap.   En route, he passed the
beanstalks, an array of poles that caused him almost as much pride as
that mirror assembly high above.     Each spring, with great effort,
he adjusted all the barren brown poles in a perfect 5 x 6 matrix, as
he liked to call it.    He planted the beans in May; felt the first
twinge of excitement in June when the sprouts first emerged and then
observed them daily as they gradually grew and Earth's rotation drew
them along repeated circuits around the stalk:   the perfect blend of
horticulture and astronomy.
Yes, Frank's life was a little bit of all right.   He was happy, even
though he would never know Einstein's fame and he never, despite a
close call that still engendered a dull, but curiously pleasant pain,
married.  Despite these disappointments, he enjoyed a quiet retirement
that allowed him to garden avidly, drink his various teas slowly and
work through various physics problems and logic puzzles at his own
speed. In so doing, he managed to keep his whole self active.      His
only job was his volunteer work at the local schools, where he would
speak about his work with the Hubble Space Telescope to different
classes.   His aim was to inspire young people to pursue similar
careers.  He knew, of course, that many students didn't care much, but
they always gave him a polite audience, quieted by their stern
teachers who likely threatened to mete out dire punishments to any of
those who behaved disrespectfully.   Yes, perhaps his speeches were
absorbed only by the back walls after passing without impediment
through the school children.      His last talk was less than a week
ago at a high school honors class:  forty minutes of speaking and ten
minutes of answering no questions.   Admittedly, the students seemed
more tiredly tolerant than inspired.     Ah, well, no matter. He could
enjoy life for two more weeks  before he would have to visit another
school.

As Frank brought the empty container back toward the house, he
reflected with amusement about the modern youth and its apparent lack
of motivation.  Imagine his surprise when he looked up at saw a youth
approaching him in his backyard.    Frank came to a dead stop and
realized to his shock that there was not merely one young person, but
three:  they emerged, as though choreographed, on either side of the
first youth as he approached.    Shockingly, after two more steps, two
others appeared.  Five in all, marching in coordinated steps in a
delta pattern toward Frank Winter.  They seemed vaguely familiar to
Frank initially, and then, when all five appeared he realized they
were some of the students who attended his last talk.     Though he
was unfailingly polite in all situations, his unsteady tone betrayed
his discomfort.

"Hello, boys.     Can I help you?"

The closest one, countenance hard and expression dark, replied at
once.   "We want the codes enabling us to access the Hubble Space
Telescope's death ray capabilities."
Frank laughed uneasily.    "I've never heard of anything so silly in
all my life, boys.   Why don't you go run and play?"

Frank felt a thrill of electricity along his arm as the first boy
raised an index finger toward a beanstalk and then fired a searing
white hot ray from its tip.    The stalk vaporized so rapidly, it left
only a smattering of charred grass around the suddenly vacant post
hole.  "Do not prevaricate!"  he demanded, seething.   The other boys
smiled menacingly, for they saw that Frank had dropped his container
and taken a few steps back.

The fair haired leader shouted.  "I say again that we want the Hubble
Space Telescope's death ray activation codes!"

Frank gulped.  "That was above my security clearance level."

The second boy,  brown haired and freckled, seethed.  "How do we know
he isn't lying?!"

Boy five, short, pudgy, and wearing cracked spectacles, drew a pen
from his pocket and pointed it at Frank, who instinctively ducked.

"Stay still! " Boy five demanded. "I have to get a vitals reading to
determine if you're speaking truthfully."

Abandoning all pretense of calmness, Frank trembled and raised himself
back to the vertical position.    "What are you?!"

"No questions!"  Fair hair snapped.  "I am the interlocutor!"

"He's telling the truth," Pudgy said as he put the pen in his pocket.
  "And, I have deployed a nano-agent into his iris that will become
luminous if he lies, so ask him something else to determine if its
working."

"We want to know what's in Area 51...."

"Props and ethanol supplies.   It's a decoy station to draw attention
away from the actual secret alien laboratory in Glendale, Arizona."

"Wow," Boy Three said with grudging respect.   "That is impressive."
By this time, only ten feet separated Frank from the gang of five.
Now that they were closer, Frank saw they all looked expressionless,
almost plastic:  like sociopaths devoid of all emotion, except for
those blood chilling smiles...the rapacious grimaces of predators who
revel in the prey's distress.
"Very well," Fair hair said, stepping away from the others.  They
remained steadfast while he came up to within an arm's length of the
frightened, ashen faced Frank Winters.    "Now, Franklin Pierce
Winters...we demand that you take us to your King."

"We're a constitutional republic," Frank answered with a feeble cry as
he turned around and, despite his aging ligaments, ran with all his
might, "...we don't have a king!!!"

"Seize him!"  Fair hair commanded, pointing a stiff arm toward the
retreating octagenarian.      The old man had almost reached his porch
door when eight hands grabbed him and, to his horror, hoisted him into
the air.    With the fair haired leader looking on ecstatically, the
other four boys, like pall bearers, carried the screaming Frank White
above them and danced with a frenzy into the front yard: a front yard
that once contained a flower gardens, but now was a nightmarish scene
of blazing hot torches, drafty bamboo shacks and, to Frank's
unconcealed horror, a boar's head on a pike encircled by fresh baby's
breath.

"Now, my comrades," Fair Hair shouted with exultation, "We await the
arrival of the mother ship which shall convey us and our new volunteer
engineer into orbit.     If he was not able to give us the codes of
the Hubble Space Telescope, we shall just have to steal it ourselves
and will persuade our new guest to figure out how to exploit its
various capabilities."

Boy four, showing the strain of his burden,  groaned "What do we do
until it arrives?!"

Fair hair smiled.   "We celebrate!   We dance around the flames; chant
hymns to the cold fruitless moon; bark and howl and become bacchanal
in our unbridled frenzies.   We drink and eat and stomp and, as a
culmination, our new friend will finally know true happiness as we'll
marry him off to our lovely goddess Bertha!  Ra ha!!!"     Fair hair
exclaimed, pointing to the severed Boar's head that appeared all the
most ghastly when cast in the interplay of shadow and flame light.

To say that Frank screamed after catching sight of his new bride would
be an understatement.   He bellowed and kicked as his excited captors
carried him around as they danced and hopped in wide circles and sang
sea shanties.  A parody of laughter and hollering that sounded as
though it issued from Earth's bowels.   The more they sang and
stomped, the louder and more boisterous it became...and drowned out
Frank's imploring hollers for help.

"Let's start the Wedding ceremony now!"  Fair hair yelled to a chorus
of answering roars.  And, more dancing commenced: loud enough to not
only shake the ground, but perturb Earth it is very orb...


"What on Earth are you boys doing?!"

"Oh, hi, Dad," Jeffrey said innocently, as the four other boys
suddenly stopped and looked at Jeffrey''s father.
"What's with all the noise?!
I've been knocking on your door for the last three minutes and nobody
has heard me.     Sounds like a riot!  I'm surprised none of our
neighbors has called the cops."

"We're playing a game."

"What kind of game?"

"Oh, it would take too long to explain."

Jeff's Dad, named Roger, came into his bedroom and closed the door
swiftly.  All the boys hastily returned to their seats after
depositing the life-sized Captain Kirk cardboard cut out -the same one
they had above their heads- onto the bed.    Jeff's father smirked.
"Take the time to explain it."

"Well, you see, this is my Dungeons and Dragons group and, well, like,
we kinda got tired of being back in the middle ages with all the
dragons and monsters and thought we would, well, um, make characters
that go around in this world and have adventures in the town.  You
know.....like well, um.....to different places and we give ourselves
powers we don't have in real life, so we get along with people
better."

Roger jabbed a finger toward the upturned Kirk cutout  "Who were you
carrying around?"

"Mr. Winters..."

Roger balked.  "You mean that nice old guy down the street who gives
us free vegetables in the fall?"

George, a pudgy kid, interjected   "Yeah, well, he also made us all
sit through a boring talk last week so we wanted him to marry a pig."

Roger had to process that statement for a moment.   And, even after a
moment, couldn't think of an appropriate response.     He rubbed his
eyes, stood up and said,  "Ok, look...you guys can play
your...ah...game without making all that noise I should think.  Yes?!"

"Ok, Dad.."

"Good," Roger said with relief as he opened the bedroom door.    "Just
try to be a bit nicer to people...even if it is just a game."

"Yes, Dad.  Oh, Dad?"

"Yes, Jeff," Roger asked tiredly as he turned around.

"I finished studying all the SAT words and I've even used some."

"Wonderful..." Roger murmured as he left the room. "I'm so glad you're
not wasting your time."