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This passage was written in 1996 after the discovery of a meteorite that appeared to contain fossil evidence of microscopic life on Mars.
The rock that sprang to Martian "life" late last summer did not shock me by offering up apparent fossils of an extinct alien form of life. I had long believed that the universe teems Line with life elsewhere, and that our failure to find it simply (5) results from a lack of exploration. What did amaze me about the potato-size rock that fell from Mars was that it had traveled millions of miles across space to land here, blasted from world to world by a planetary collision of the sort that purportedly killed off our dinosaurs, and had lain waiting (10) for millennia upon an Antarctic ice field, until an observant young woman travelling in an expedition party picked it up, because she figured that it had come from another world. How could she know such a thing? The composition of ALH 84001, as the much scrutinized (15) rock is designated, closely matches the makeup of Martian matter that was analyzed on site in 1976 by miniature chemistry laboratories aboard two Viking Mars lenders. As a result of this positive identification, no astronomer seriously doubts the meteorite's Martian (20) origin. Researchers think they have pinpointed its former resting place to just two possible sites: a region called Sinus Sabaeus, fourteen degrees south of the Martian equator, or a crater east of the Hesperia Planitia region. The bold precision of this assessment is for me the most (25) stunning surprise dealt by the rock from Mars, even more mind-boggling than the suggestive traces of something that might once have lived and died in its microscopic fissures.
I cannot resist comparing this new intimacy with our solar system to the shoe box diorama of the planets I designed for (30) my grade-school science fair. I used marbles, jack balls, and Ping-Pong balls, all hanging on strings and painted different colors, all inside a box representing our solar system. This crude assortment of materials allowed a reasonable representation of what was known 40 years (35) ago about the nine planets: Mars was red and had two moons; Jupiter dwarfed the other planets (I should have used a basketball but it wouldn't fit in the box); Saturn had rings. If my school-age daughter were to attempt such a construction today, she'd need handfuls of jelly beans (40) and gum balls to model the newly discovered satellites of the giant planets. She'd want rings around Jupiter, Uranus, Neptune, too, not to mention a moon for Pluto.
Similarly, our solar system, once considered unique, now stands as merely the first known example of a (45) planetary system in our galaxy. Since October of 1995, astronomers at ground-based observatories in Europe and the United States have announced that they've found evidence of at least seven alien planets orbiting other stars. As yet, not one of these large planets, some of which (50) are many times the mass of Jupiter has actually been seen through a telescope; we know about them indirectly through the gravitational effects they exert on their parent stars. Yet, even though we have no picture of what they look like, enough information has been deduced about (55) their atmospheric conditions to grant the nickname Goldilocks to a planet attending the star 70 Virginis, an appellation suggesting that the cloud-top temperature is "just right," as the storybook Goldilocks would say, for the presence of liquid water. Liquid water, not known to (60) exist anywhere in our solar system now except on Earth, is thought crucial to biological life; thus, only a short leap of faith is needed to carry hopeful scientists from the presence of water to the existence of extraterrestrial life. To raise the specter of the Mars rock once again, (65) the primitive life-forms that pressed their memory inside it likewise suggest an era when dry-as-dust Mars was a wet world, where rivers flowed.
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