Centauri Dreams

Will 2026 be the year we detect life elsewhere in the universe? The odds seem against it, barring a spectacular find on Mars or an even more spectacular SETI detection that leaves no doubt of its nature. Otherwise, this new year will continue to see us refining large telescopes, working on next generation space observatories, and tuning up our methods for biosignature detection. All necessary work if we are to find life, but no guarantee of future success.

It is, let’s face it, frustrating for those of us with a science fictional bent to consider that all we have to go on is our own planet when it comes to life. We are sometimes reminded that an infinite number of lines can pass through a single point. And yes, it’s true that the raw materials of life seem plentiful in the cosmos, leading to the idea that living planets are everywhere. But we lack evidence. We have exactly that one data point – life as we know it on our own planet – and every theory, every line we run through it is guesswork.

I got interested enough in the line and the data point quote that I dug into its background. As far as I can find, Leonardo da Vinci wrote an early formulation of a mathematical truth that harks back to Euclid. In his notebooks, he says this:

“…the line has in itself neither matter nor substance and may rather be called an imaginary idea than a real object; and this being its nature it occupies no space. Therefore an infinite number of lines may be conceived of as intersecting each other at a point, which has no dimensions…”

It’s not the same argument, but close enough to intrigue me. I’ve just finished Jon Willis’ book The Pale Blue Data Point (University of Chicago Press, 2025), a study addressing precisely this issue. The title, of course, recalls the wonderful ‘pale blue dot’ photo taken from Voyager 1 in 1990. Here Earth itself is indeed a mere point, caught within a line of scattered light that is an artifact of the camera’s optics. How many lines can we draw through this point?

We’ve made interesting use of that data point in a unique flyby mission. In December, 1990 the Galileo spacecraft performed the first of two flybys of Earth as part of its strategy for reaching Jupiter. Carl Sagan and team used the flyby as a test case for detecting life and, indeed, technosignatures. Imaging cameras, a spectrometer and radio receivers examined our planet, recording temperatures and identifying the presence of water. Oxygen and methane turned up, evidence that something was replenishing the balance. The spacecraft’s plasma wave experiment detected narrow band emissions, strong signs of a technological, broadcasting civilization.

Image: The Pale Blue Dot is a photograph of Earth taken Feb. 14, 1990, by NASA’s Voyager 1 at a distance of 3.7 billion miles (6 billion kilometers) from the Sun. The image inspired the title of scientist Carl Sagan’s book, Pale Blue Dot: A Vision of the Human Future in Space, in which he wrote: “Look again at that dot. That’s here. That’s home. That’s us.” NASA/JPL-Caltech.

So that’s a use of Earth that comes from the outside looking in. Philosophically, we might be tempted to throw up our hands when it comes to applying knowledge of life on Earth to our expectations of what we’ll find elsewhere. But we have no other source, so we learn from experiments like this. What Willis wants to do is to look at the ways we can use facilities and discoveries here on Earth to make our suppositions as tenable as possible. To that end, he travels over the globe seeking out environs as diverse as the deep ocean’s black smokers, the meteorite littered sands of Morocco’s Sahara and Chile’s high desert.

It’s a lively read. You may remember Willis as the author of All These Worlds Are Yours: The Scientific Search for Alien Life (Yale University Press, 2016), a precursor volume of sorts that takes a deep look at the Solar System’s planets, speculating on what we may learn around stars other than our own. This volume complements the earlier work nicely, in emphasizing the rigor that is critical in approaching astrobiology with terrestrial analogies. It’s also a heartening work, because in the end the sense of life’s tenacity in all the environments Willis studies cannot help but make the reader optimistic.

Optimistic, that is, if you are a person who finds solace and even joy in the idea that humanity is not alone in the universe. I certainly share that sense, but some day we need to dig into philosophy a bit to talk about why we feel like this.

Willis, though, is not into philosophy, but rather tangible science. The deep ocean pointedly mirrors our thinking about Europa and the now familiar (though surprising in its time) discovery by the Galileo probe that this unusual moon contained an ocean. The environment off northwestern Canada, in a region known as the Juan Fuca Plate, could not appear more unearthly than what we may find at Europa if we ever get a probe somehow underneath the ice.

The Endeavor hydrothermal vent system in this area is one of Earth’s most dramatic, a region of giant tube worms and eyeless shrimp, among other striking adaptations. Vent fluids produce infrared radiation, an outcome that evolution developed to allow these shrimp a primitive form of navigation.

Image: A black smoker at the ocean floor. Will we find anything resembling this on moons like Europa? Credit: NOAA.

Here’s Willis reflecting on what he sees from the surface vessel Nautilus as it manages two remotely operated submersibles deep below. Unfolding on its computer screens is a bizarre vision of smoking ‘chimneys’ in a landscape he can only describe as ‘seemingly industrial.’ These towering structures, one of them 45 feet high, show the visual cues of powering life through geological heat and chemistry. Could a future ROV find something like this inside Europa?

It is interesting to note that the radiation produced by hydrothermal vents occurs at infrared wavelengths similar to those produced by cool, dim red dwarf stars such as Proxima Centauri, the closest star to our Sun and one that hosts its own Earth-sized rocky planet. Are there as yet any undiscovered terrestrial microbes at hydrothermal vents that have adapted the biochemistry of photosynthesis to exploit this abundant supply of infrared photons in the otherwise black abyss? Might such extreme terrestrial microbes offer an unexpected vision of life beyond the solar system?

The questions that vistas like this spawn are endless, but they give us a handle on possibilities we might not otherwise possess. After all, the first black smokers were discovered as recently as 1979. Before that, any hypothesized ocean on an icy Jovian moon would doubtless have been considered sterile. Willis goes on:

It is a far-out idea that remains speculation — the typical photon energy emitted from Proxima Centauri is five times greater than that emerging from a hydrothermal vent. However, the potential it offers us to imagine a truly alien photosynthesis operating under the feeble glow of a dim and distant sun makes me reluctant to dismiss it without further exploration of the wonders exhibited by hydrothermal vents.

We can also attack the issue of astrobiology through evidence that comes to us from space. In Morocco, Willis travels with a party that prospects for meteorites in the desert country that is considered prime hunting ground because meteorites stand out against local rock. He doesn’t find any himself, but his chapter on these ‘fallen stars’ is rich in reconsideration of Earth’s own past. For just as some meteorites help us glimpse ancient material from the formation of the Solar System, other ancient evidence comes from our landings at asteroid Ryugu and Bennu, where we can analyze chemical and mineral patterns that offer clues to the parent object’s origins.

It’s interesting to be reminded that when we find meteorites of Martian origin, we are dealing with a planet whose surface rocks are generally much older than those we find on Earth, most of which are less than 100 million years old. Mars by contrast has a surface half of which is made up of 3 billion year old rocks. Mars is the origin of famous meteorite ALH84001, briefly a news sensation given claims for possible fossils therein. Fortunately our rovers have proven themselves in the Martian environment, with Curiosity still viable after thirteen Earth years, and Perseverance after almost five. Sample return from Mars remains a goal astrobiologists dream about.

Are there connections between the Archean Earth and the Mars of today? Analyzing the stromatolite fossils in rocks of the Pilbara Craton of northwest Australia, the peripatetic Willis tells us they are 3.5 billion years old, yet evidence for what some see as cyanobacteria-like fossils can nonetheless be found here, part of continuing scientific debate. The substance of the debate is itself informative: Do we claim evidence for life only as a last resort, or do we accept a notion of what early life should look like and proceed to identify it? New analytical tools and techniques continue to reshape the argument.

Even older Earth rocks, 4 billion years old, can be found at the Acasta River north of Yellowknife in Canada’s Northwest Territories. Earth itself is now estimated to be 4.54 billion years old (meteorite evidence is useful here), but there are at least some signs that surface water, that indispensable factor in the emergence of life as we know it, may have existed earlier than we thought.

We’re way into the bleeding edge here, but there are some zircon crystals that date back to 4.4 billion years, and in a controversial article in Nature from 2001, oceans and a continental crust are argued to have existed at the 4.4 billion year mark. This is a direct challenge to the widely accepted view that the Hadean Earth was indeed the molten hell we’ve long imagined. This would have been a very early Earth with a now solid crust and significant amounts of water. Here’s Willis speculating on what a confirmation of this view would entail:

Contrary to long-standing thought, the Hadean Earth may have been ‘born wet; and experienced a long history of liquid water on its surface. Using the modern astrobiological definition of the word, Earth was habitable from the earliest of epochs. Perhaps not continuously, though, as the Solar System contained a turbulent and violent environment. Yet fleeting conditions on the early Earth may have allowed the great chemistry experiment that we call life to have got underway much earlier than previously thought.

We can think of life, as Willis notes, in terms of what defines its appearance on Earth. This would be order, metabolism and the capacity for evolving. But because we are dealing with a process and not a quantity, we’re confounded by the fact that there are no standard ‘units’ by which we can measure life. Now consider that we must gather our evidence on other worlds by, at best, samples returned to us by spacecraft as well as the data from spectroscopic analysis of distant atmospheres. We end up with the simplest of questions: What does life do? If order, metabolism and evolution are central, must they appear at the same time, and do we even know if they did this on our own ancient Earth?

Willis is canny enough not to imply that we are close to breakthrough in any area of life detection, even in the chapter on SETI, where he discusses dolphin language and the principles of cross-species communication in the context of searching the skies. I think humility is an essential requirement for a career choice in astrobiology, for we may have decades ahead of us without any confirmation of life elsewhere, Mars being the possible exception. Biosignature results from terrestrial-class exoplanets around M-dwarfs will likely offer suggestive hints, but screening them for abiotic explanations will take time.

So I think this is a cautionary tone in which to end the book, as Willis does:

…being an expert on terrestrial oceans does not necessarily make one an expert on Europan or Enceladan ones, let alone any life they might contain. However…it doesn’t make one a complete newbie either. Perhaps that reticence comes from a form of impostor syndrome, as if discovering alien life is the minimum entry fee to an exclusive club. Yet the secret to being an astrobiologist, as in all other fields of scientific research, is to apply what you do know to answer questions that truly matter – all the while remaining aware that whatever knowledge you do possess is guaranteed to be incomplete, likely misleading, and possibly even wrong. Given that the odds appear to be stacked against us, who might be brave enough to even try?

But of course trying is what astrobiologists do, moving beyond their individual fields into the mysterious realm where disciplines converge, the ground rules are uncertain, and the science of things unseen but hinted at begins to take shape. Cocconi and Morrison famously pointed out in their groundbreaking 1959 article launching the field of SETI that the odds of success were unknown, but not searching at all was the best way to guarantee that the result would be zero.

We’d love to find a signal so obviously technological and definitely interstellar that the case is proven, but as with biosignatures, what we find is at best suggestive. We may be, as some suggest, within a decade or two of some kind of confirmation, but as this new year begins, I think the story of our century in astrobiology is going to be the huge challenge of untangling ambiguous results.

One way to examine problems with huge unknowns – SETI is a classic example – is through the construction of a so-called ‘toy model.’ I linger a moment on the term because I want to purge the notion that it infers a lightweight conclusion. A toy model simplifies details to look for the big picture. It can be a useful analytical tool, a way of screening out some of the complexities in order to focus on core issues. And yes, it’s theoretical and idealized, not predictive.

But sometimes a toy model offers approaches we might otherwise miss. Consider how many variables we have to work with in SETI. What kind of signaling strategy would an extraterrestrial civilization choose? What sort of timeframe would it operate under? What cultural values determine its behavior? What is its intent? You can see how long this list can become. I’ll stop here.

The toy model I want to focus on today is one David Kipping uses in a new paper called “The Eschatian Hypothesis.” The term refers to what we might call ‘final things.’ Eschaton is a word that turns up in both cosmology and theology, in the former case talking about issues like the ultimate fate of the cosmos. So when Kipping (Columbia University) uses it in a SETI context, he’s going for the broadest possible approach, the ‘big picture’ of what a detection would look like.

I have to pause here for a moment to quote science fiction writer Charles Stross, who finds uses for ‘eschaton’ in his Singularity Sky (Ace, 2004), to wit:

I am the Eschaton. I am not your God.
I am descended from you, and exist in your future.
Thou shalt not violate causality within my historic light cone. Or else.

Love the ‘or else.’

Let’s now dig into the new paper. Published in Research Notes of the AAS, the paper homes in on a kind of bias that haunts our observations. Consider that the first exoplanets ever found were at the pulsar PSR 1257+12. Or the fact that the first main sequence star with a planet was found to host a ‘hot Jupiter,’ which back in 1995, when 51 Pegasi b was discovered, wasn’t even a category anyone ever thought existed. The point is that we see the atypical first precisely because such worlds are so extreme. While our early population of detections is packed with hot Jupiters, we have learned that these worlds are in fact rarities. We begin to get a feel for the distribution of discoveries.

Hot Jupiters, in other words, are ‘loud.’ They’re the easiest of all radial velocity planet signatures to find. And yet they make up less than one percent of the exoplanets we’ve thus far found. The issue is broad. From the paper:

…over-representation of unusual astronomical phenomena in our surveys is not limited to exoplanetary science. One merely needs to look up at the night sky to note that approximately a third of the naked-eye stars are evolved giants, despite the fact less than one percent of stars are in such a state—a classic observational effect known as Malmquist bias (K. G. Malmquist 1922). Or consider that a supernova is expected roughly twice per century in Milky Way-sized galaxies (G. A. Tammann et al. 1994)—an astoundingly rare event. And yet, despite being an inherently rare type of transient, astronomers routinely detect thousands of supernovae every year (M. Nicholl 2021), as a product of their enormous luminosities.

That’s quite a thought. Go for a walk on a clear winter evening and look up. So many of the stars you’re seeing are giants in the terminal stages of their lifetimes. Those we can see at great range, but our nearest star, Proxima Centauri, demands a serious telescope for us to be able to see it. So we can’t help the bias that sets in until we realize how much of what we are seeing is rare. Sometimes we have to step back and ask ourselves why we are seeing it.

In SETI terms, Kipping steps back from the question to ask whether the first signatures of ETI, assuming one day they appear, will not be equally ‘loud,’ in the same way that supernovae are loud but actually quite rare. We might imagine a galaxy populated by stable, quiescent populations that we are not likely to see, cultures whose signatures are perhaps already in our data and accepted as natural. These are not the civilizations we would expect to see. What we might detect are the outliers, unstable cultures breaking into violent disequilibrium at the end of their lifetimes. These, supernova style, would be the ones that light up our sky.

Kipping’s toy model works on variables of average lifetime and luminosity, examining the consequences on detectability. A loud civilization is one that becomes highly visible for a fraction of its lifetime before going quiet for the rest. The model’s math demonstrates that a civilization that is 100 times louder than its peers – through any kind of disequilibrium with its normal state, as for example nuclear war or drastic climate change – becomes 1000 times more detectable. A supernova is incredibly rare, but also incredibly detectable.

Image: The toy model at work. This is from Kipping’s Cool Worlds video on the Eschatian Hypothesis.

The Eschatian search strategy involves wide-field, high cadence surveys. In other words, observe at short intervals and keep observing with rapid revisit times to the same source. A search like this is optimized for transients, and the author points out that a number of observatories and observing programs are “moving toward a regime where the sky is effectively monitored as a time-domain data set.” The Vera Rubin Observatory moves in this direction, as does PANOPTES (Panoptic Astronomical Networked Observatories for a Public Transiting Exoplanet Survey). The latter is not a SETI program, but its emphasis on short-duration, repeatable events falls under the Eschatian umbrella.

Rather than targeting narrowly defined technosignatures, Eschatian search strategies would instead prioritize broad, anomalous transients—in flux, spectrum, or apparent motion—whose luminosities and timescales are difficult to reconcile with known astrophysical phenomena. Thus, agnostic anomaly detection efforts (e.g., D. Giles & L. Walkowicz 2019; A. Wheeler & D. Kipping 2019) would offer a suggested pathway forward.

I’ve often imagined the first SETI detection as marking a funeral beacon, though likely not an intentional one. The Eschatian Hypothesis fits that thought nicely, but it also leaves open the prospect of what we may not detect until we actually go into the galaxy, the existence of civilizations whose lifetimes are reckoned in millions of years if not more. The astronomer Charles Lineweaver has pointed out that most of our galaxy’s terrestrial-class worlds are two billion years older than Earth. Kipping quotes the brilliant science fiction writer Karl Schroeder when he tunes up an old Arthur Clarke notion: Any sufficiently advanced civilization will be indistinguishable from nature. Stability infers coming to terms with societal disintegration and mastering it.

Cultures like that are going to be hard to distinguish from background noise. We’re much more likely to see a hard-charging, shorter-lived civilization meeting its fate.

The paper is Kipping, “The Eschatian Hypothesis,” Research Notes of the AAS Vol. 9, No. 12 (December, 2025), 334. Full text.