I’ve never had more fun as a science writer than during those weeklong encounters in Pasadena, when my colleagues and I — a little older and grayer ourselves, humbler but no wiser about the tricks that nature might be up to out there in the realm of dark and ice — gathered to watch the scientists watch their new worlds.
The television screens in the press room showed the latest images as they came in from the Voyager spacecraft. We had the same view as the scientists.
If on some distant world there had been a sign saying “Drink Coke,” or a pyramid, what we liked to call “the press room imaging team” would have had a chance to see it first.
Casting aside years of learned reserve and an addiction to speaking and writing in the passive voice, Voyager scientists had to parade to daily news briefings and venture explanations that they knew they would have to take back a few days later about things they (and we) had seen for the first time only a few hours before.
Part of the joy of “The Farthest: Voyager in Space,” a documentary recently shown on PBS, is reliving those moments of bafflement and intellectual ambition.
It was at the Voyager encounters that I first got to know my colleagues in the newspaper business, and learned by going out to dinner with them that they could drink me under the table before the appetizers arrived.
Other nights were spent in the bluesy, smoky company of science writers and planetary astronomers listening to the space ballads of Jonathan Eberhart, the late correspondent for Science News and a well-known folk singer. A rock band named for a feature of Titan, The Titan Equatorial Band, played at parties and gatherings.
The music stopped the morning after Voyager 2 passed by Uranus, on Jan. 28, 1986, when the Space Shuttle Challenger blew up with seven astronauts aboard, including Christa McAuliffe, the teacher in space.
That morning the televisions in a hushed newsroom at J.P.L. had Uranus on one screen and the Y-shaped cloud of the explosion on the other. By noon, my newspaper friends had packed their bags and headed for Houston or Cape Canaveral.
Voyager 2 went on. By the time it reached Neptune — the gatekeeper of our planetary realm, now that Pluto doesn’t count — the engineers at J.P.L. had enlisted antennas around the Earth to listen in unison, catching the trickle of data bits flowing from almost three billion miles away.
Chuck Berry, whose music was included on the spacecraft records, came to the lab to play for a Voyager farewell party.
There would be one last act. In 1990, as it ascended the void, Voyager 1’s crew commanded it to turn its cameras backward and snap a family portrait of the worlds it was leaving forever behind.
The Earth appears on this picture as the famous “pale blue dot” in a wash of scattered sunlight, a “mote of dust suspended in a sunbeam,” as the astronomer and cosmic sage Carl Sagan later described it.
Voyagers’ cameras are now turned off, but the probes continue to report back on the conditions in deepest space.
In October 2012, magnetic field and cosmic ray measurements indicated that Voyager 1 had reached the edge of the magnetic bubble that the sun extends like an umbrella over the planets, blocking outside radiation.
Voyager 1 was in interstellar space, the first human artifact to escape the solar system. It and its twin will go on circling the galaxy, long after it has ceased speaking to us.
In the fullness of galactic time, the Voyagers may be found, but by then the human race may be long extinct. The Voyager record might be the only physical remnant, the last lonely evidence that we, too, once lived in this city of stars, among these islands of ice and rock.
Back then, we were looking forward to an exploration of space that would go on forever. It was magic, and we were all on the spaceship.
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