https://literallystories2014.com/2026/06/17/nickel-by-steve-eckroad/

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Why is there evil? Why do humans hurt themselves, destroy things, live selfishly?

The evolution of Homo sapiens must finally involve an understanding and accomplishment of the eternal. This life is a time of testing to bring humanity to that end. It may not have been the original plan but accepting that evil is part of the present existence and moving above its influence is the only beneficial response.

Humanity is being nurtured for a role and position in a greater world. It is almost an experiment. Choices made that end up defining what you become in that new world or age.

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Carl Sagan and Ann Druyan, in their book, Shadows of Forgotten Ancestors, write: “…every part of the body, every aspect of life, is instructed by a particular DNA sequence. Every sequence is vulnerable to mutation. … Most [mutations] are harmful, a few are helpful, and even the helpful ones may–like the sickle cell mutation–represent a tradeoff, a compromise. This is a principal means by which life evolves–exploiting imperfections in copying despite the cost. It is not how we would do it. It does not seem to be how a Deity intent on special creation would do it. The mutations have no plan, no direction behind them; their randomness seems chilling; progress, if any is agonizingly slow. The process sacrifices all those beings who are now less fit to perform their life tasks because of the new mutation…” [p.84]

Comment: The authors point to the imperfection, even the cruelty perhaps, of the evolution process. They aver that this is not the way “we” (i.e., humans) would do it. However, can we be so sure that our conception of the best way to do something, our idea of beauty or excellence in design, is better? What if a presumed “Deity intent on special creation” were to have made the process the way we think it should better have been made? What if there were no imperfections in the process, every step predetermined and carried out according to a “perfect” plan? Then would not this process in time evolve upward to the complete human being, a being having no power of choice? Every thought, every action carried out according to the plan of Someone else.

Yet we hold that humans DO have the power of choice. It is the one thing we do have that enables us to take advantage of opportunity or save us from calamity, if such should strike. That is, in the event of circumstances or events that hurt us or others we have the power to choose our response: inner peace or outward retaliation. Moreover our individual maturity is aided by the lessons we learn when we make the wrong response and must deal with the consequences. Learning by mistake, by imperfections. Or make the right response and garner the benefit for ourselves or others.

The power of choice is also the power to respond to the actions of the Deity who has allowed life, all life, to come into existence and then be driven by random, seemingly mindless alterations in its mechanisms, from the chemical behavior of the precursors to our DNA all the way up to the process of human maturation. The power to choose to believe in this Deity. To believe that despite appearances things will work out in accordance with a Divine plan, inscrutable as that plan may be. At least in an ultimate sense, acknowledging that many things that happen to us are out of our control. Except how we respond. That, and perhaps that alone is what WE control, what we CAN control. Our power to love instead of hate, to trust instead striking back, to believe instead of despair.

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That’s what I think about when I’m active in doing astrophotography with one of my two telescopes. Because the light of the moon can swamp the dimmer light of the nebula that I’m trying to catch digitally. There are filters, of course that you can use and I do use them. But they cut down the amount of light reaching the sensor in the camera that I use so that means I have to take more exposures to get a decent picture.

The moon itself, of course, is fascinating, especially when viewed through a telescope. With enough imagination, you can see yourself walking on its surface. Exploring its many craters. Kicking up dust. Jumping. But be careful! Jump too high and you’ll go into orbit.

Here you can see some of my astrophotographs

These were taken before the moon got too high…

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What do those four things have in common? Not much. Except three of the four things required the user to think about and know what they were doing. Can you guess which of the four those three are? Hint: those three no longer exist in common use, having been replaced by technologies based on the 14th element of the Periodic Table. Silicon.

So isn’t that a good thing today that if I want to write a research paper on aardvarks, I can quickly search the Internet with Firefox or Google Chrome on my laptop instead of trekking to the library to find a book or an encyclopedia article on that subject. A handheld calculator is much easier to use than a slide rule and generally much more accurate. Digital cameras, these days produce photographs arguably just as good or better than film cameras, and you don’t have to send the roll of film off to a laboratory and wait a week to get your pictures back. In fact, if you are reading this post on your smart phone you can do all three in just a matter of a few minutes.

How does AI relate to all of this? Consider this. If I want a picture of a beautiful sunset or waves crashing on a beach, I can just have an AI application create one for me. Nice. And I don’t even have to go out of the house and risk enjoying the brisk weather on the seashore or the solitude of an evening walk. Maybe an AI math app can give me the orbital speed of a planet and I don’t have to bother with understanding Kepler’s laws. After all, the answer looks logical. As far as a research paper on aardvarks all I have to do is ask ChatGPT to write it for me and I will have more time with my leisure activities.

Of course, AI can be very useful, but like improperly using the technologies that replaced encyclopedias, slide rules and film cameras you can still easily get something that looks right, but isn’t. On all of these examples, you get the idea — I hope.

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Much of the science fiction genre known as Space Opera uses locations in the galaxy far from Earth. That is many lightyears distant. Generally, for a satisfying read, the story’s characters need to get to or move around in these locations with the same ease and timeliness that they would on Earth. Hence, the familiar trope: FTL. Faster than light travel. Authors of these stories vary widely in how they treat the ability to exceed the speed of light.

How much help does the writer give to their readers to support the needed suspension of disbelief? Because, FTL within a normal galaxy such as ours is impossible. Not just because it violates the Einstein theory of Special Relativity. FTL violates logic. For example, suppose a new type of baseball bat makes a ball travel faster than light. Fans in the bleachers would see the outfielder catch the ball before the batter hit it. Or fumble it. In either case, effect before cause. Travel to the past would also be possible with embarrassing or even disastrous consequences. Remember the familiar Grandfather Paradox. You could go back to the past and change something that would result in you not being born.

Even if technology someday overcomes Einstein and we can, in fact, achieve FTL, how do we deal with the illogic of FTL? There are some creative solutions that are believable. One is to use parallel universes with alternate timelines. The characters or events exist in both with little or no interaction. Another is to posit a dimension in which time does not exist but which is accessible to the protagonists. I have used both techniques in my stories.

Of course, many sci-fi stories simply ignore the logical implications. Other writers treat readers with mind-bending logical paradoxes as if they were obvious to anyone with a high school education. More recent episodes of Star Trek are especially guilty of this. I wonder what Gene Roddenberry would think?

How about the science of FTL? Here, science fiction stories vary from simply assuming FTL to be possible without further explanation to rather creative, and in some cases, nearly believable machines and theories. Take your pick—there are great stories out there all over that spectrum. And there are some that aren’t so great. These are often written by authors who do not have a science background or have failed to get expert help. They just wing it with facile references to or complex descriptions of FTL that get in the way of our ability to enjoy the story. A story does not have to either explain or justify FTL in order to be good. But if an explanation is attempted there should be something about it that appeals to our imagination, whether or not we are scientifically inclined.

One of the best explanations of how spacecraft achieve FTL use the theories propounded by the astrophysicist Miguel Alcubierre. By assuming the existence of negative mass (not that remarkable) Alcubierre showed that a ship could warp space in such a way that it could get to distant reaches of space without moving at all in its own spacetime location. Make distant space locations come to you more or less instantly instead going there at impossible speeds. That’s not really FTL but the effect is the same. And there is no violation of the Einsteinian dictum. A similar mechanism is the use of wormholes, which may be found to exist in our universe someday. Except that current physics suggests that the only way to keep a wormhole open is to salt it with Alcubierre’s negative mass. So travel through a wormhole is not much different than using a warp drive.

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Lilith’s Brood, a trilogy by Hugo and Nebula Award winner Octavia E. Butler, is a compelling read about saving humankind by genetic manipulation. Manipulation, that is, by an alien species. The Oankali have come to Earth to save a remnant of its population after its near extinction by nuclear war.

The Oankali are starfaring traders. They trade genes with species they find—species with whom they interbreed to the benefit of both them and those they breed with. In appearance they are altogether disgusting looking. In genetic science and understanding human anatomy they are masters—their accomplishments far beyond anything the people of Earth have achieved. They are also humane, if by definition of the word one means motivated always to heal and preserve rather than hurt and destroy. So, when they find the broken remains of humanity they are driven by two impulses. They want to preserve what is left of humanity. But when they study the human genome (by painlessly penetrating the human body with almost microscopic tentacles) they find that humans are genetically defective.

Butler posits humans as having a genetic disposition to two warring characteristics. One, the older genetic impulse, is our hierarchical nature. She never fully defines this but by the end of the trilogy you get the idea. It is the urge to create a dominant order based on factors such as strength, cunning, or gender—leading to violence, greed, and selfishness. The newer genetic strain, one that the Oankali want to preserve, is human intelligence—a creativity that they have not before encountered in their millennially-long existence.

Humankind’s defectiveness both attracts the Oankali and repels them, but one they are compelled to repair. They do so by genetically merging with human beings, something they have done with species they have found in the past. They are traders, exchanging their genes with those of species they find. The children of their interbreeding program will preserve the essence of humanity—the good that we are—while ending human brokenness. Both parties of the trade will benefit—supposedly.

In Butler’s view, the problem with humanity is that intelligence has been made to serve hierarchy. It is a view that I have adopted in my book Archoi, though I have advanced the idea in a different way. And with a different, far more hopeful outlook. In Lilith’s Brood, Butler’s solution is one that is troublesome because what is left after the alien intervention does not look very human at all. Far from it, “unimaginably alien” in the words of the publisher. Lilith’s Brood is a disturbing book, but one well worth reading since it challenges some basic human flaws that we would do well to acknowledge, if not overcome. I recommend it, as long as you can stomach things like having very pleasurable, non-physical (i.e., no actual physical touching) group sex with another human and three worm-like aliens. PG-13 only—Butler is totally non-explicit in her descriptions of these activities. When you finish the book you may share with Lilith, the novel’s brave protagonist, the contradictions of her redemption: helpless anger versus impenetrable hope.

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I always thought that the logo on Subaru cars (we own one) was incorrect in the number of stars shown (there are six: five small ones and one large one). Afterall, in Japan the Pleiades is also known as “Subaru,” and in popular jargon the star cluster is also known as the “Seven Sisters.” The Seven Sisters were part of Greek myth and there were seven stars that they became. (I won’t go into the reasons for that. Google it.) The reason the star cluster was associated with the myth (or vice-versa) was the prominence of seven stars in the cluster that are visible to the naked eye. Unless you live near Los Angeles as I do. I can’t see any of them thanks to the non-star-friendly local governments which do not limit light pollution from streetlights, building lights and residential lights. Actually, unless you have very good eyes you can only see six stars today—even under dark skies. However, in my telescope I can see a lot more than seven. But that is neither here nor there for the present post.

So why did the ancients with normal eyesight name the star cluster Pleiades if they would have only seen six stars? The answer is that back in those days they could see seven stars with the naked eye. And the reason wasn’t because the skies were darker. They were darker, and significantly so, but as with my telescope that is neither here nor there.

Would you believe that one of the seven originally visible to the naked eye has declined in brightness so that it can no longer be seen? Or, would you believe that one of the seven stars has, since Greek or Babylonian times, moved so that it is so close to one of the other seven as to be indiscernible as a separate star? If you believe both of those explanations you get an “A” because both are true. (Of course, in my telescope the two stars in question are both quite distinct from one another. But again, that is neither… Okay, I’ll stop repeating that.)

The star which has declined in brightness is Pleione. And Pleione has also moved! A much brighter star, Atlas, is near Pleione. Over the millennia Pleione has moved closer to Atlas. So, they appear as one.

Why have these two things happened? First the dimming. Pleione is known as a shell star, which apparently is a convenient abbreviation for “a star with an extended atmosphere.”[i] Shell stars have rotationally broadened photospheric spectral lines in combination with very narrow absorption lines. Some stars with “extended atmospheres” rotate so fast as to smear out the light absorption spectrum and are variable in both brightness and spectra.[ii] Moreover the shell features may appear or disappear over time leading to changes in brightness. So, it seems that today Pleione’s shell has led to a dimming compared to the situation in antiquity.

As for the movement of the star—well that happens. Stars are not fixed, no matter what people used to think. Or still do. Stars have what is called “proper motion,” which does not refer to the motion you see on any given night as the hours go by. Or to polite behavior. A typical star has a proper motion of about 0.1 arc-second per year.[iii] That is imperceptible to the casual observer. But over millennia, say 4000 years since the Babylonians did their thing with observing and naming stars, a typical star would have moved (relative to other stars) by one degree, or twice the width of the moon. Very noticeable. Except not, unless someone took a photograph of the sky 4000 years ago and posted it on the internet. Just kidding. However, the constellation shapes that are familiar to us today would have appeared quite different to ancient observers of the skies. Perhaps some of the names of constellations and myths about them that have come down to us would be more understandable if we knew what star configurations looked like that long ago. I have not researched this. Maybe I will someday. Maybe someone else already has.

Now, back to the Subaru automobile. As I stated at the start of this post the Subaru logo (on the front of their cars) has one large star and five smaller ones. The natural interpretation is that the Subaru logo is meant to signify the Pleiades. It’s not and here’s why.

In the West the Pleiades refers to the “Seven Sisters” of Greek myth (as already stated, in case you forgot). In Japan the Pleiades cluster is named Mutsuraboshi (“six stars”) in an eighth-century chronicle of myths. But Western influence has associated the “Seven Sisters” with the Japanese “Subaru,” so the terms are often used interchangeably. They probably shouldn’t be but it’s too late to change that. Things got clearer for me when I found out that in Japanese the word “subaru” means “united.”  That probably explains why the Pleiades are called the Subaru in Japan. (Get it? Cluster = united.) But why the car company? The reason the Subaru logo shows one bright star and five smaller ones simply reflects the fact that the origins of the firm was the joining (“uniting”) of five companies to form one large one. So, the name Subaru can refer to the star cluster or to the auto maker, but not to both in the same breath. It wouldn’t be proper.

[i] https://www.cambridge.org/core/services/aop-cambridge-core/content/view/24B431E081CD82ECA7BC7F121B391787/S0074180900011104a.pdf/introductory_address.pdf

[ii] https://en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Shell_star

[iii] https://www.universetoday.com/135453/stars-move-tracking-movements-across-sky/

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I spent the last 15 years of my professional career doing research in the design, development and demonstration of superconducting power systems. Superconductors are new to the power industry, as in not yet commercial. In the belief that they will be someday, I continue in retirement to keep a low level of engagement. So, when I was asked by Pam Hoffman, a fellow astronomer, to join her and her boyfriend Jeff Miller on their Friday night Everyday Spacer show, I saw an opportunity to both get myself more up to date and also to “spread the word.” The two-hour show I did, complete with a lot of fun ad-libbing by hosts Pam and her other guest, Cliff Watson, was recorded for YouTube. You can watch it anytime at this link: Superconductivity.

By the way, I recommend Pam’s and Jeff’s Friday evening show (9 pm Pacific). They cover a lot of interesting topics in astronomy and science in general. As Pam states: “Everyday Spacer – Showing Regular Folks How to Personally and Directly Participate in Space Exploration, Science and Astronomy.” The Friday night show is broadcast on FaceBook and YouTube – just look for Everyday Spacer on either platform.

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I used my homemade Pinhole Camera telescope again to capture photos of the solar eclipse today (4/8/24). Here in LA area it was less than 50% at maximum (about 1115 am). The problem with this Camera is the translucent window I used. It has a wavy surface that distorts the image. Someday I’ll put in a better view screen. See other photos and stories of times I have used this camera in other of my posts here, and on my Facebook page.

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