New Horizons will stretch spacecraft engineering to new limits. This is a long mission! After a cruise phase of about 13 months New Horizons will fly by Jupiter and its system of moons and rings, from February 25 through March 2, 2007. The flyby will give New Horizons a gravitational boost for its journey to Pluto and beyond.
Then it will cruise. For another eight years. Most of this time New Horizons will slumber, waking occasionally so its handlers back home can make sure its systems are still working normally.
In 2015 New Horizons will make its historic flyby of Pluto and Charon. Ten weeks before flyby the spacecraft's images of Pluto and Charon will exceed the best possible resolution achieved by the Hubble Space Telescope. Daily observations will begin about four weeks before closest approach. And if all goes well, New Horizons will make its flyby of Pluto-Charon on July 14, 2015, passing within 11,000 km of Pluto and about 27,000 km of Charon at a velocity of about 14 km per second.
* * * *
The New Horizons spacecraft, with major instruments labeled.
"Ralph” and “LORRI” are the imaging instruments.
Illustration courtesy of Applied Physics Laboratory, Johns Hopkins University
* * * *
Even before the spacecraft reaches Pluto, astronomers will find candidate KBOs for the extended mission. “We don't want to pick a KBO target until as late as possible,” says Stern. He likens it to planning to take a trip to France in 2015 and eating dinner at a Parisian restaurant. Between now and 2015, thousands of new restaurants will open in Paris. So you don't pick a restaurant today; you wait until 2015 to make reservations.
Location is also important. “We need to find a KBO behind Pluto and a little to its left or right,” explains Stern. “Like shooting skeet, you have to find it and lead it.” After the Pluto flyby, New Horizons will still have enough maneuvering fuel for course changes that can get it to KBOs within its “trajectory cone.” Stern plans to do the search between 2011 and 2013 using the Keck and Subaru telescopes. They'll look for KBOs in the right place out to 55 AU and choose one or two finalists from a short list of about a half dozen. Two weeks after the Pluto encounter New Horizons will carry out a trajectory change maneuver—a “burn"—that will aim it towards its first Kuiper Belt minor planet.
* * * *
New Horizons’ path through the solar system from Pluto through KBO encounters.
Illustration courtesy of Applied Physics Laboratory, Johns Hopkins University
* * * *
After the Pluto flyby New Horizons will cruise again, for about one to three years. The first KBO flyby could occur as early as 2016 or as late as 2019. The spacecraft will take some optical navigation images of the target KBO about four or five weeks before the flyby. With that information, flight controllers on Earth will have the spacecraft make an additional burn to put it on its final path. New Horizons should fly past its target at a velocity of between 8 to 14 km per second, possibly as close as 3,000 km.
And what will New Horizons see? What information will it glean from the quick encounter with a tiny, icy Kuiper Belt object in the distant regions of the solar system? We will probably learn much more about the shape, composition, size, geology, and mass of a KBO than we've ever known before. And, we should remember this: Every—every—flyby we've carried out has revealed stunning surprises about the planet, moon, asteroid, or comet encountered. Without exception.
So when we finally get our first up-close look at Pluto and then a Kuiper Belt object, when we first stare at a chunk of matter left over from the formation of the solar system, we should expect surprises.
We should expect to see something ... astounding.
(c)Copyright 2006 by Joel Davis
[Back to Table of Contents]
* * *
The Skeekit-Woogle Test
by Carl Frederick
* * * *
Where is the line between a disease and a gift?
* * * *
Imagine,” said Kendrik, “a language that has the word skeekit and also the word woogle.” Standing in front of his boss's desk, data-tablet in hand, he paused. He hoped the man would invite him to sit, but Victor merely stared with his usual mixture of boredom and condescension.
“Why should I imagine it?” Victor said. “Does this have anything even remotely to do with epidemiology?”
“I believe we're on the verge of a pandemic.” Nervously, Kendrik cast his gaze around the trophy office before bringing them to rest on his data-tablet. “On the basis of epidemiological evidence"—Kendrik raised his head to meet the section chief's eyes—"I believe we're in the midst of an epidemic of synesthesia.”
“Of what?”
“Synesthesia. The most common form is ‘colored hearing.’ Music perceived as having colors, or a particular word having a particular shape. That sort of stuff. A cross-wiring of the senses.”
Victor leaned back in his plush executive's chair, clasped his hands behind his neck, gazed up at the ceiling for a few seconds, then shook his head. “No. That's a mental condition, not a disease.” He scowled. “Pandemic, indeed.”
“Jeffert's Paranoia is caused by a virus,” said Kendrik. “This could be, too.”
“I doubt it.”
“The contagion model is a good fit.” Kendrik tapped his data-tablet. “And, in its early stages at least, it's exceptionally common.”
Victor snapped upright. “Well, I don't have it.”
“Maybe you do. Take the skeekit-woogle test and find out.”
“The what?”
“Just a simple question and answer.”
Victor let out a sigh and pointed to a chair. “All right, fine. But quickly, please.”
“Okay.” Kendrik sat. “Skeekit and woogle. One word means a hard-boiled egg, and the other means a shard of broken glass.” He slid forward on the chair. “The test is to tell me which word means what.”
“It's obvious,” said Victor without pause. “A woogle is the egg and a—what is it?—a skeekit is the shard of glass.”
“Well, there you go, then.” Kendrik smiled. “You've passed the SW test. I'm afraid you've caught a case of synesthesia. You're identifying the sound of a word with a shape.”
“I don't buy it.” Victor shook his head. “Everyone would pass that test.”
“I didn't.”
“Really?” Victor raised his eyebrows, then smiled. “You data miners just have no imagination.”
Kendrik bristled. “Which is good. I deal in facts.”
“All right, all right.” Victor crossed his hands on his desk. “Give me facts about this disease of yours.”
Kendrik didn't think Victor was really interested, but was just trying to make amends for the “no imagination” comment. “Well, you're right. Almost everyone has it in some form.” He activated the tablet. “I've run Deep Miner and it shows a rapidly growing incidence of synesthesia among the general population.” He read aloud some of the findings. “The condition in its severe manifestation correlates with dyslexia, left-handedness, enhanced imagination and creativity, superior memory, poor sense of direction, left-right confusion. It develops in the limbic system and the hippocampus, and it is a potentially fatal condition.”
“What was that?” Victor unclasped his fingers and jerked forward with an alert expression. “Did you say fatal?”
“That's what Deep Miner yielded.”
“How long?” said Victor. “What's the duration from onset to death?”
“Um.” Kendrik fidgeted, focusing on the data-tablet. “Well, DM projects, um, about 300 years.”
“What?” Victor raised his eyebrows. “Did you say 300 years?”
“That's what DM says.”
“Would you mind telling me,” said Victor, clearly stifling a laugh, “why should we care about a disease that might kill us way after we're already dead?”
“I don't know.” Kendrik shrugged. “Aesthetics?”
“The federal government,” said Victor, archly, “is n
ot paying us to study the aesthetics of disease.” He shook his head, his brow furrowed. “I can't believe DM ranked this a disease,” he said, softly, almost to himself. He rubbed his chin then glared at Kendrik. “What was the confidence factor?”
“Fifty-three percent.”
Victor pounded a fist on the desk. “You're basing this on a mere 53 percent?”
“And also on my interpretation of the data.”
“Interpretation?” Victor pounded the other fist. “Look. If I wanted interpretation, I'd have hired a ... a...” Victor made soft grunting noises.
“A Tarot card reader?” said Kendrik, hoping that by finishing the sentence, he could calm his boss.
Victor cast a fleeting glance to the ceiling, then let out a long breath. “A year out of college,” he said. “Young and eager. I admire your zeal, but—”
Kendrik stood. “Look. I know you don't believe any of this. And DM says that's one of the symptoms—denial: thinking everything's fine.”
Victor looked up at him. “Are you saying one of the symptoms is denying there's a symptom?”
“Well, yeah.” Kendrik pawed a shoe against the plush carpet. “Maybe it's a survival trait of the bacterium that causes the disease.”
“So, it's a bacterium, now.”
“Or a virus. Or a prion, maybe.”
“I don't buy it.” Victor gave a sharp snort. “Hard to debate the issue when the mere fact that I'm arguing proves your point.” He stood. “Look, Kendrik. I can't do anything without evidence, not even open a watch-file. You'll have to provide me with an example—a pod of advanced cases, a disease vector.” He walked Kendrik toward the door. “That's reasonable, isn't it?”
“Yeah. I guess.” Kendrik noticed Victor's bright, vibrant, new-car smell—a popular deodorant scent of late. But “vibrant” was hardly the word he'd use to describe his boss. Kendrik considered Victor the least imaginative man he'd ever encountered. And if I'm dull compared to Victor, it's a wonder I can even get a phone to give me a dial tone.
In his office, Kendrik glowered at the control monitor as he initiated Deep Miner, had it search for a concentration of the synesthesia disease, and set a trigger for a vector he could drive to. He had an ulterior motive.
While he waited for DM to do its work, he fumed. He hated to admit it, but Victor's “no imagination” comment galled. And, even though he liked to pretend to the contrary, it was probably on the mark; he was, simply, unimaginative. His mother had been an artist, a painter. But despite her prodding, and his being given paint sets on almost every birthday, her creative imagination had not been passed down to him. He couldn't paint a stroke.
But now, maybe he could do something about it. People with synesthesia were generally imaginative and creative. And Kendrik believed it was causal; synesthesia engendered imagination. All those people out there who could instinctively tell a woogle from a skeekit: they were creative—and just because they were lucky enough to contract synesthesia. Kendrik was determined to contract it as well. He knew he was a likely candidate: left-handed, lousy sense of direction, and even dyslectic.
“Geez,” he said aloud. “I hunt diseases. You'd think I'd be able to catch one.”
His computer beeped. Deep Miner had completed its “Inductive Reasoning” search of the nation's newspapers, newsgroups, and data networks. Kendrik peered at the LCD data-wall.
“Yes!” DM had found a pod of heavy synesthesiacs. Better still, the site was nearby—less than an hour drive away. Kendrik downloaded the driving instructions to his car and then did a simple net search for information about the pod—The Canvas Cooperative.
The coop, he discovered, was a residential facility for artists—mainly painters of large works. As he scanned the search results, one entry all but leapt out at him. He whistled, scarcely able to believe his luck; the Canvas Cooperative had biweekly open-house parties, and there was one this very evening.
Kendrik leaned back, put his feet on his desk, and planned: To have the best shot at contracting synesthesia, he'd have to spend as much time there as he could. Maybe he could pose as an art connoisseur—a buyer for a museum, perhaps. He smiled. Even though he didn't have an artist's creativity, he could tell a Delacroix from a Gericault at twenty paces. His mother had seen to that.
He thunked his feet back to the floor. It was ridiculous, really—going to an artist colony in hopes of contracting creativity.
Still...
* * * *
“Imagine a language that has the word skeekit and also the word woogle.”
“I'm not programmed to imagine,” said the car.
“Just as well, maybe.” Kendrik sat in the nominal driver's seat, watching out the window as his car drove him to the cooperative. It would be rather demoralizing to find that even my car has more imagination than I do.
“We're at your destination,” said the car, slowing down. “Please assume manual mode for parking.”
Kendrik disengaged “automatic,” feeling the slight lurch as he took control, and eased the car into a curbside parking spot only a half block from the coop. He was surprised at how easy it was to find parking, especially since it was already eight o'clock—the announced start time for the party. But then again, artists weren't generally known for their promptness. He'd learned that often enough from his mother.
Kendrik said goodbye to his car and walked toward the door of the old brownstone. He wasn't wearing a tie. He felt naked without a tie.
At the door, Kendrik knocked and was admitted by an energetic man who looked to be in his early thirties.
“Welcome to the Canvas Cooperative.” The man spoke in a heavy southern accent. “My name's Jacques.” He shepherded Kendrik inside.
“Jacques?”
Jacques laughed. “Yes. From Tennessee, not Paris,” he said, giving the French pronunciation to Paris. “I'm afraid my father's a francophile.”
Walking into a cavernous, well-lit studio, Kendrik inhaled the layered, richly colored aroma of oil paints so familiar to him from his childhood.
A couple of large, incomplete paintings hung from the walls at a height low enough that they could be worked on in place. In the center of the studio, a table held little snacks, bottles of wine, and a decanter of a purplish liquid that was far too opaque to be wine. Kendrik would have thought they'd have genteel crystal stemware, but instead there were only mug-like drinking glasses. Kendrik smiled. Either the coop members were unconcerned about appearances, were extraordinarily clumsy, didn't have much money, or they all drank like fish.
Only six or seven people graced the room which could have easily accommodated thirty. Jacques explained that the stated eight o'clock start was a code; it was an absolute prohibition against arriving any earlier and an indication that anyone arriving in the first hour might be called upon to move furniture.
At the food table, Jacques offered a glass.
“Thanks,” said Kendrik, noticing that Jacques was left-handed, “but I don't drink wine.” He was embarrassed to tell the man that he didn't drink anything alcoholic.
“Do try it.” Jacques forced the tumbler into Kendrik's hand. “The Riesling is exceptionally good. And you'll find it makes the canapés taste almost edible.”
Kendrik chuckled, then pointed to the decanter. “That's a strange-looking wine.”
“Borscht.” Jacques nodded toward a distant canvas—an angular abstract rendered in bright colors. In front of the painting, a swarthy man stood contemplating it, his hands in the back pockets of his pants. Standing next to him was a slender woman with Asian features.
“Vladdy will drink nothing else,” said Jacques. He pointed. “Vladimir Mussorgsky. That's him standing there admiring his painting. He's just come here from St. Petersburg—that's Russia, not Florida.”
Kendrik reached for the decanter. “I'll try the borscht, then.”
“A brave soul.”
“And the young woman?” said Kendrik as he poured the dull purple liquid.
“Suki. S
he, Vladimir, and I are the resident managers here.” Jacques waited until Kendrik had filled his glass. “Come. I'll introduce you.” He clapped Kendrik softly on the shoulder. “Vladdy will be glad to see another borscht lover. By the way, do you paint?”
“My mother was a painter.” Kendrik thought it better not to add that she hated abstracts. “But I don't.” He took a swig of the borscht. “The creativity gene must have somehow not been passed down to me.”
Jacques uttered a snort. “Creativity is a disease!”
“No, it's not,” said Kendrik as they walked toward the huge canvas. “Synesthesia is the disease.”
Jacques froze for an instant, like a teacher might do when struck in the back of the neck with a spitball. “Indeed,” he said.
In front of the painting, Jacques made introductions, but he seemed distracted.
“Ah,” said Vladimir, taking a hand from his pocket and extending it. “You drink borscht. Good! Wine is terrible!”
Laughing, Kendrik shook the proffered hand. “The drink of choice of the beet generation.”
“Is true,” Vladimir insisted. “Wine not even fit for cleaning brushes.”
Kendrik nodded toward the painting. “Very nice,” he said. “Somewhat reminiscent of a Kandinsky landscape.”
“You really think so? Thank you.” Vladimir glanced up at his work. “I call it ‘Great Gate at Kiev.'”
“I see it,” said Kendrik. “Close to full scale. Impressive.” He took a deep draft of his borscht. “The painting has something of a skeekit flavor about it.”
“Skeekit? Shto eta, skeekit?” said Vladimir, lapsing into what was probably Russian.
“As opposed to a woogle, that is.”
“Ah. I see what you mean.”
Kendrik looked down at his glass. “What is in this borscht?”
“Is simple. Just crushed beets, sour cream, and vodka.” Vladimir shrugged. “And maybe little secret ingredient.”
Analog SFF, March 2006 Page 9
