Alastair Miles | Updates

Vikings on Mars!

Alastair Miles — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

There, some clickbait for you. My latest blog marks the 50th Anniversary of the Viking landers touching down on Mars.

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Vikings on Mars - 50th Anniversary

Alastair Miles — Sun, 26 Jul 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Fifty years ago, in July and September of 1976, two American spacecraft settled onto the surface of Mars and transformed our understanding of the Red Planet. Back then was the aftermath of the Apollo program that took men to the moon. NASA budgets were shrinking, if still large when compared with those of today. There was a drive for missions with ambition that could both capture the public imagination and maintain Cold War prestige. The first robotic probe to land on Mars sought to answer the question of whether that planet supported life. It ticked all the boxes.

Viking 1 touched down on July 20, 1976, on the western slopes of Chryse Planitia, exactly seven years after Apollo 11 landed on the Moon. Viking 2 followed on September 3, coming to rest on the flat, rocky expanse of Utopia Planitia. Together, these twin landers opened a new era in planetary exploration.

The Viking missions were ambitious in scale and design. Each spacecraft consisted of two major components: an orbiter and a lander. The orbiters were based on earlier Mariner spacecraft but carried more powerful propellant tanks and a more capable suite of instruments. Their job was to ferry the landers safely to Mars, perform high‑resolution imaging to identify safe landing sites, act as communications relays, and conduct scientific observations from orbit. The landers, meanwhile, were robust, three‑legged vehicles equipped with cameras, weather sensors, a robotic arm, and a full biological laboratory. They were powered by radioisotope thermoelectric generators—RTGs—which used the heat from decaying plutonium‑238 to generate electricity, allowing them to operate long after their nominal 90‑day lifetimes.

The Titan IIIE‑Centaur, heavy lift rocket was used for both Viking 1 and 2. The large spacecraft required a powerful vehicle to get them to Mars. After arrival, the orbiters spent weeks mapping the surface. Only once mission planners were confident in the safety of the terrain did they release the landers for descent.

The landing sequence itself was a carefully choreographed. Each lander entered the Martian atmosphere protected by an ablative heat shield - one that sheds heat by slowly sacrificing itself. Parachutes deployed to slow the descent, and in the final moments, retro‑rockets fired to bring the lander gently to rest on the surface. Viking 1’s landing was delayed from its original July 4 target—chosen to coincide with the U.S. Bicentennial—after images from orbit revealed hazards at the planned site. The new timeline happened to fall on July 20th, the date Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin landed on the moon. The Apollo anniversary wasn’t planned, but once the date lined up, NASA certainly didn’t mind the symbolism.

Why did Viking land where it did? The answer lies in safety, science, and engineering constraints. The orbiters returned tens of thousands of images—52,663 in total—mapping 97 percent of the Martian surface at high resolution. These images revealed a planet divided into two broad regions: smooth northern plains and rugged southern highlands. The northern plains offered safer terrain for landing, with fewer boulders and gentler slopes. Viking 1’s site at Chryse Planitia was chosen for its relative flatness and scientific interest, while Viking 2’s site at Utopia Planitia provided a contrasting environment for comparison.

Once on the surface, the landers began an unprecedented scientific campaign. Their cameras returned panoramic views of a desert‑like landscape strewn with angular rocks and fine dust. Temperatures ranged from about –120 °C to –20 °C. The soil proved to be iron‑rich and chemically reactive. The landers carried instruments to analyse atmospheric pressure, temperature, wind, and soil chemistry. They also deployed seismometers, though these returned limited results due to mechanical issues.

But the heart of the Viking mission—the part that still sparks debate today—was the search for life. Each lander carried a biological laboratory designed to detect signs of microbial metabolism. The experiments were ingenious: they added nutrients to Martian soil samples and looked for gases that might indicate biological activity. The results were surprising. The soil reacted vigorously, producing signals that resembled metabolic processes. Yet other instruments, including the gas chromatograph‑mass spectrometer, failed to detect organic molecules. NASA concluded that the results showed “unexpected and enigmatic chemical activity” but no clear evidence of living microorganisms.

But the debate over the meaning of the results has never been fully settled. Some scientists argue that Viking may indeed have detected life, and that the absence of organics could be explained by highly oxidizing compounds in the soil—compounds that later missions confirmed. Others maintain that the results are best explained by non‑biological chemistry. The ambiguity remains one of the most tantalizing mysteries in planetary science.

The Viking orbiters continued their work for years, capturing stunning views of volcanoes, dust storms, and canyons. Viking 1’s orbiter operated until August 1980, while Viking 2’s orbiter ended its mission in 1978. The landers themselves far exceeded expectations: Viking 2 operated until April 1980, and Viking 1 continued transmitting until November 1982, when a faulty command ended its mission.

The cost of this undertaking was enormous. At the time of launch, the Viking program cost roughly $1 billion—some estimates puts that at over $7 billion in today's money. Viking remains NASA’s most expensive robotic planetary mission ever attempted. More than half of the cost went into developing the landers, with the orbiters and mission operations accounting for the rest.

Fifty years on, Viking’s legacy is profound. It provided the first complete picture of Mars, established the techniques for landing safely on another planet, and set the stage for every robotic mission that followed—from Pathfinder to Perseverance, and the Ingenuity helicopter. Viking also reshaped astrobiology. Its ambiguous results forced scientists to rethink how life should be detected, leading to new strategies and instruments that continue to evolve today.

So what comes next for Mars exploration?

The next decade will see a shift from reconnaissance to sample return and preparation for human missions. NASA and ESA are working toward returning samples collected by the Perseverance rover—an effort that will bring pieces of Mars to Earth for the first time. These samples may finally answer the question Viking raised: has Mars ever hosted life? Meanwhile, orbiters continue to map the planet’s climate and geology, and future landers may explore new regions such as the polar caps or ancient lakebeds. Human missions remain on the horizon as an achievable goal if we can first establish a viable settlement on the moon.

As we mark the golden anniversary of Viking, we’re reminded that exploration is a relay race. Viking ran the first lap—proving we could land, survive and search for life on another world. The missions that followed have carried the baton further, and the ones to come may finally deliver the answers Viking hinted at half a century ago.

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Cosmic Cauldrons

Alastair Miles — Fri, 26 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

At the time of writing, here in the UK, and Europe, it's a month into summer and we're getting through a fierce and unprecedented heatwave. Temperature has been on everyone's mind.

So, let me start by asking, where's the hottest place in our solar system?

No, it's not your bedroom. However, the answer, surprisingly, is near Oxford. Yes, one of the hottest places in the known universe is tucked inside a building that looks, from the outside, like the sort of place that might store filing cabinets or run training courses on workplace safety. It houses the Joint European Torus — JET, as everyone calls it — and you’ll find a machine that has spent decades trying to bottle the power of the stars.

JET is a fusion reactor. The idea is to take the lightest atoms in the universe — hydrogen — heat them until they become a glowing soup of charged particles, and then squeeze that soup so tightly that the atoms fuse together. When they do, they release energy. Not just a little energy, but the same kind of energy that keeps the Sun shining. The trick, of course, is that to make this happen you need temperatures so high that the atoms forget all about being atoms. You need heat that makes the surface of the Sun look like a lukewarm bath.

And JET has done it. In its final experiments, it reached temperatures of around 150 million degrees Celsius. That’s ten times hotter than the centre of the Sun. Ten times. Inside that doughnut‑shaped chamber, held in place by magnetic fields so strong they could fling a car across a car park, we created a miniature star - a very polite, well‑behaved star, admittedly, one that lasts only a few seconds at a time, but still, a star.

So, why is JET so much hotter than the sun?

In this case, the answer is pressure. At the sun's core, it's hottest part, the weight of the layers above helps force hydrogen atoms together and reduces the temperature required for fusion to a mere 15 million degrees. It's a place where tonnes of particles collide, fuse and release the energy that lights our days, warms our skin, and drives all the weather on the planet - sometimes a bit too much.

What’s remarkable is how stable the Sun is. It’s been burning for 4.6 billion years and will keep going for another five billion or so. It’s the cosmic equivalent of a reliable old boiler — a bit noisy, occasionally temperamental, but fundamentally dependable. And yet, even with all that heat, even with all that power, the Sun is not the hottest place we know about. Not by a long shot.

Before we go there, let's take a stop off at the hottest planet that we're aware of. About 670 light years away is a planet with the rather unromantic name of KELT‑9b, orbiting a star in the constellation Cygnus. Calling it a planet is a stretch, KELT‑9b is more like a cosmic dare. It orbits so close to its star that a year — one full orbit — lasts just a day and a half. The star it orbits is nearly twice as hot as our Sun, and KELT‑9b is tidally locked, meaning one side always faces the star. That side reaches temperatures of around 4,300 degrees Celsius. That’s hotter than many stars. In fact, at 5500 Celsius, the surface of our own sun barely tops it.

At those temperatures, molecules can’t survive. They’re ripped apart into individual atoms. Even some metals turn to vapour. If you could stand on the surface — which you can’t, because the atmosphere is more like a drifting cloud of atomic debris — you’d be looking at a world so hot that the very idea of “solid” becomes a fond memory. It’s a place where the laws of chemistry decide that they have other things to do.

For the hottest thing out there we have to look at the universe’s true furnaces: the accretion disks around black holes. These are the swirling rings of gas and dust that spiral into a black hole and go to a place that we're still struggling to explain. In the process of falling the temperatures can reach hundreds of millions of degrees. In the most extreme cases — around supermassive black holes — the inner regions of the disk can hit billions of degrees. Billions. At that point, matter is so energised that it emits X‑rays and gamma rays, the sort of radiation that would sterilise a planet faster than you can say “factor fifty million”.

One of the hottest known spots is around the black hole in the centre of the galaxy M87 — the same one whose shadow was photographed by the Event Horizon Telescope, the first time we attempted to 'image' a black hole. The material swirling around it reaches temperatures of tens of billions of degrees. It’s hard to imagine what that means. Even the fundamental building blocks of matter likely lose cohesion.

It's remarkable that we can study these places. We can measure them, model them, and try to understand them. We can build machines in Oxford that mimic the processes at the heart of stars. We can look at distant planets and know their atmospheres are being peeled away by relentless heat. We can peer into the hearts of galaxies and watch matter being torn apart at temperatures that make fusion reactors look like a cosy winter fire. We’ve learned about places we could never visit, using nothing more than curiosity, mathematics, and a few well‑placed telescopes.

So, yes, it's been hot recently. Perhaps, on a cooler evening, look up at the sky and consider the hot places that are burning, boiling, and blazing far beyond our reach. And think about a quiet building near Oxford, a place that has made a significant step on the road towards nuclear fusion. If we ever crack that technology we will truly have a way of removing our dependency on fossil fuels, the cause of global warming, and the temperature extremes we're all having to endure…

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Save The Gate!

Alastair Miles — Tue, 23 Jun 2026 00:00:00 +0000

The Stargate TV series are well up there with my favourite small screen Sci-Fi. They successfully blended story, humour, action and characters in a way that I can only aspire to. Recently, Amazon cancelled a revival having already invested in a writer's room to map out an entire series. It might be a longshot, but I just signed the petition “Save Stargate with Martin Gero!” and urge you to help by adding your name. The goal is to reach at least 150,000 signatures and we always need more support. You can read more and sign the petition here:

https://c.org/97h5qDW7nB

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I'm still here, with more blogs!

Alastair Miles — Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

I've just realised it's been awhile since I did an update. All is well, and I'm still putting up bogs. A lot about Artemis and something involving the attached image. What could that be about? Only one way to find out!

Sub-Luminal is still selling well. Take a look if you haven't already.

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Five Space Films That Scientists Respect (And Why Realism Isn’t Everything)

Alastair Miles — Sun, 31 May 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Space is a serious business. Space is difficult, and for those who seek to travel there, death is a very real concern. So you might be surprised to learn that many people who work in the field of space exploration love space movies. In fact, astrophysicists, planetary geologists, mission designers and the like absolutely adore them. But not always for the reasons you might expect.

Yes, scientific accuracy matters. But the films that earn genuine respect from the scientific community aren’t always the ones that get every detail right. They’re the ones that capture something deeper: the feeling of space, the grandeur of it, the terror of it, the sheer audacity of trying to understand it.

So, let’s take a tour through five films that consistently earn nods of approval from people who actually work in the business of space - and then let's talk about the space movies that don’t, yet are loved all the same.

1. Apollo 13 — “Failure is not an option,” but accuracy is

Apollo 13, Ron Howard’s 1995 film, is widely regarded as the gold standard for realism in spaceflight cinema. NASA opened its doors to the production, and it shows: the spacecraft interiors, the mission control procedures, even the way the astronauts move are grounded in reality. The actors playing the astronauts filmed many of their scenes in the 'Vomit Comet', the aircraft that flies a parabolic profile so that its passengers can experience 20 to 30 seconds of weightlessness during each dive. Imagine the difficulty of shooting scenes within that time frame.

If there was one significant deviation from reality it was the scene where the Apollo 13 crew had an argument. However, even this was based on a quote from mission commander James Lovell, who said the real crew stayed calm because 'bouncing off the walls for half an hour' would solve nothing. But, a bit of passion in a movie goes a long way, maybe not to the moon and back, but it helps.

The reason that scientists love Apollo 13 is that it captures the culture of spaceflight. The improvisation, the teamwork, the knowledge that physics doesn’t negotiate. The film’s famous CO₂ scrubber scene — where engineers on the ground must build a life‑saving device using only the items available on the spacecraft — is practically a love letter to problem‑solving under pressure.

2. Interstellar - The blockbuster that made physicists grin

Christopher Nolan’s Interstellar is a film that swings wildly between poetic speculation and hard core physics.

A good portion of the movie features a black hole, Gargantua, and this wasn’t just designed to look pretty. It was generated using equations provided by Nobel‑winning physicist Kip Thorne. The result was so accurate that the visual effects team published scientific papers about it. When the film shows light bending around the event horizon, that’s not artistic licence — that’s general relativity rendered for the big screen.

Of course, the film also features a tesseract inside a black hole, and a robot that looks like a walking fridge. But scientists tend to forgive the more speculative leaps because the film takes the science seriously - take the scenes involving time dilation and the effect on the crew of those who age and those who don't

Most importantly, central to the film are love and curiosity - two very human forces - and they are what drive exploration in the first place.

3. 2001: A Space Odyssey — The film that got there first

If Interstellar is the modern physicist’s darling, 2001 is the elder statesman. Stanley Kubrick’s 1968 masterpiece remains one of the most scientifically respected films ever made, and for good reason.

Long before CGI, Kubrick insisted on portraying space as it truly is: silent, slow, and governed by Newton rather than Hollywood. The rotating space station, the bone‑dry depiction of life in microgravity, the eerie calm of the spacecraft interiors — we may not choose to build these things exactly as shown, but none of it's impossible.

Scientists admire 2001 because it doesn’t underestimate the audience. It trusts us to contemplate the unknown - and draw our own conclusions. And then there’s HAL 9000, the most unsettlingly plausible artificial intelligence ever put on screen. Ask any computer scientist: HAL is still the benchmark for “AI that goes wrong in a way that feels uncomfortably possible.”

4. The Martian — Potato Survival

Ridley Scott’s The Martian is a rare film that makes scientists feel… seen. It’s a celebration of competence and the idea of working a problem.

Real planetary scientists love the film’s portrayal of Mars. While the dust storms are exaggerated and the gravity, Earth-like (for reasons of budget), the landscape, the lighting and the sense of isolation all ring true. Engineers appreciate the spacecraft design, the mission planning, and the way the film shows NASA as it actually is: a place full of brilliant, slightly frazzled people trying to make the impossible routine.

And then there’s Mark Watney himself. He’s not a superhero. He’s a botanist with a sense of humour and a stubborn refusal to die and he applies science and engineering know-how to win through. And, on the off-chance you haven't seen the film; he grows potatoes, on Mars.

5. Contact — The emotional truth of scientific discovery

Carl Sagan’s Contact occupies a special place in the hearts of astronomers. It’s not a film about rockets or space battles. It’s a film about the scientific method — the thrill of discovery, the frustration of bureaucracy and the tension between evidence and belief.

Jodie Foster’s portrayal of Ellie Arroway is one of the most beloved depictions of a scientist on screen. She’s passionate, rigorous, and deeply human. She listens to the universe with the same intensity others reserve for prayer.

Scientists respect Contact because it understands something fundamental: that science is not just equations and instruments. It’s a profoundly emotional pursuit. It’s about longing — for knowledge, for connection, for meaning…

So, that's all well and good, but what about the flip side? I've studied science, I'm an engineer, do I have a soft spot for films that, to not put too fine a point on it, are scientifically nonsense?

Of course I do, and I'm not alone.

Ask an astrophysicist about Star Wars, and they’ll happily explain that sound doesn’t travel in space, that dogfights don’t work like that (they were based on footage from the film The Battle of Britain), and that light sabers violate several laws of thermodynamics. Then they’ll tell you they love it anyway. Why? Because realism is only one tool in the storyteller’s kit. Sometimes the goal isn’t to depict space as it is, but as a venue for infinite possibility and adventure.

Films like Gravity take liberties with orbital mechanics but capture the visceral terror of being untethered above the Earth. Watch it in 3D and you'll be transported; it might not quite be space as we know it, but it's one hell of a ride.

As for Guardians of the Galaxy, if you can suspend disbelief it gives us joy, colour, and a talking raccoon with a tragic backstory.

All of us have our limits though. For me, there are some films I could do without having watched. Armageddon, a Bruce Willis movie about a world-ending asteroid is a film that NASA reportedly uses as a training exercise in spotting scientific errors. While I find it a bit too much, others think it has a certain chaotic charm.

The truth is this: science fiction is not a documentary genre. It’s where what we know meets what can imagine. All good science-fiction stories need a sense of wonder. Sometimes the most inspiring stories are the ones that break the rules - because they remind us that the universe is bigger than our current understanding.

Realism can ground us. Imagination can lift us. And the best space movies, whether accurate or wildly speculative, do both in their own way.

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Artemis III

Alastair Miles — Sat, 25 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

In early April 2026, the Artemis II mission that flew around the far side of the moon concluded successfully. Four astronauts on board the Orion capsule reminded us what human beings can bring to deep space exploration through amazing pictures and insights. So, I thought I would round out the experience by taking a look at Artemis III, in terms of how its goals have shifted and the Apollo mission, from over fifty years ago, that it is most similar to.

Artemis III was originally meant to be the moment when astronauts once again stepped onto the lunar surface. In terms of technology, it really would have been a giant leap - and possibly a dangerous one. Astronauts would have been expected to fly to the moon with the Orion capsule then transfer to a lunar landing craft that had only ever been tested remotely. They would have flown down, explored the surface and returned using a craft, and spacesuits, that had never before been used by humans in space.

However, NASA recently made a strategic decision: Artemis III would no longer attempt a landing. Instead, it would become a crucial test mission in Earth orbit, designed to validate the systems that will eventually take astronauts back to the Moon. It’s a shift that reflects both the complexity of the programme and the lessons of history.

The reason for the change is straightforward. The privately developed, lunar landers that Artemis III depends on simply aren’t ready for a surface mission. NASA’s Orion spacecraft and the Space Launch System rocket have been progressing, but the Human Landing Systems, the vehicles that will actually carry astronauts down to the lunar surface, are still undergoing development. SpaceX’s Starship HLS, the larger and more experimental of the two, requires a series of successful orbital refuelling trials before it can even begin a lunar mission. Blue Origin’s Blue Moon lander, while more traditional in design, is still yet to fly. NASA found itself facing a familiar challenge: how to maintain momentum without compromising safety.

The solution was to re‑scope Artemis III. Instead of a landing, the mission will now focus on rendezvous and docking between Orion and the commercial lunar landers in Earth orbit. The aim is for the mission to fly in 2027, maintaining both momentum and the skills of NASA personnel. What does this mean? Well, one of the striking things about the build up to Artemis II was that it took months from first rollout to a successful launch. This was because waiting four years between flights of the Space Launch System is too low a frequency to maintain the learning required to set it up and fly it.

Artemis III will test docking with one or both of the candidate landers in Earth orbit. Once inside, astronauts will test life-support, communications systems, and the procedures that astronauts will rely on when they eventually make the journey to the lunar surface. The mission will also evaluate the new Axiom‑built lunar spacesuits, which are designed to offer greater mobility and improved life‑support performance when compared with the Apollo suits. In short, it will be a mission focussed on verification rather than exploration.

Let's take a closer look at the two lunar landers that Artemis III will, hopefully, be working with. They represent two very different approaches to the challenge of reaching the Moon.

The first is SpaceX’s Starship HLS. This is a variant of the company’s fully reusable Starship architecture, adapted specifically for lunar operations. It’s a large, stainless‑steel vehicle with a spacious interior and the ability to carry significant cargo to the lunar surface. Its scale is one of its defining features: it offers more room for astronauts than any previous spacecraft, and its long‑duration capabilities could support extended surface missions. But its size also introduces complexity. To fuel Starship for a lunar mission, SpaceX must launch multiple tanker vehicles and transfer cryogenic propellant in orbit—a manoeuvre that has never been attempted in spaceflight.

Blue Origin’s Blue Moon lander offers a contrasting philosophy. It’s smaller, more compact, and looks more like a direct descendant of the Apollo lunar lander. Developed with partners including Lockheed Martin, Draper, and Boeing, Blue Moon emphasises precision landing, modular cargo capability, and a simpler operational architecture. It won’t carry as much as Starship, and it won’t offer the same internal volume, but it may prove easier to certify and operate - although it is still envisaged to require an element of orbital refuelling. NASA selected Blue Origin as a second provider to ensure redundancy and competition—two qualities that have historically strengthened human spaceflight programmes.

It is a distinct possibility that one of these landers will not be ready for Artemis III. But the conducting it in Earth orbit should mean that propellant transfer operations do not need to be sorted out for this mission to go ahead. That should increase the odds that at least one of them will be ready.

Let's now take a look back at Apollo 9, the mission that provides the clearest historical parallel to Artemis III. In March 1969, Apollo 9 flew in low Earth orbit with a very specific purpose: to test the Lunar Module, the vehicle that would eventually carry astronauts to the Moon’s surface. The Lunar Module remains a unique vehicle; it was only ever designed to fly in space and was incapable of returning to Earth. Apollo 9 was the first opportunity for it to be flown with a crew, and NASA needed to know that it could separate from the Command Module, operate independently, fire its engines reliably, and support astronauts during free flight. Apollo 9 also tested the docking procedures that would be essential for the lunar missions that followed. All of this was done in Earth orbit, so that the astronauts had the option of a relatively quick return home should things not work as expected.

The crew, Jim McDivitt, Dave Scott, and Rusty Schweickart, spent ten days putting the Lunar Module through its paces. They tested its propulsion system, its life‑support equipment, and its ability to manoeuvre. They practised the transfer between spacecraft that would later take place in lunar orbit. And they demonstrated that the Command Module could retrieve the Lunar Module after independent flight. Apollo 9 didn’t go anywhere near the Moon, but it de-risked the later moon missions.

Artemis III now looks to do the same job. It’s the mission that ensures the lunar landers are ready, that the docking procedures are sound, and that the astronauts have rehearsed the choreography of a lunar mission before attempting it for real. It’s a reminder that the path to the Moon has always involved careful, incremental steps. The triumphs of Apollo were built on missions like Apollo 9; missions that tested, validated, and refined the hardware before it was used in the environment it was designed for.

Of course, the question that inevitably arises is whether Artemis III will launch on schedule. NASA currently targets 2027, but the programme has already experienced delays. Artemis II, the first crewed mission of the programme, has slipped due to issues with Orion’s heat shield and the service module’s propulsion system. And both Human Landing Systems still face significant technical challenges.

Given these factors, the odds of Artemis III launching in 2027 are far from certain. The mission is now less complex than a lunar landing, which improves its chances. But the dependencies remain significant, and the schedule is ambitious. A slip into 2028 would not be surprising.

Yet despite the uncertainties, Artemis III represents a vital step in the return to the Moon. It reflects the lessons of Apollo, the realities of modern spaceflight, and the determination to build a sustainable presence on the lunar surface. When Artemis III flies, it will not put astronauts on the Moon, but it will give the confidence and capability needed to get them there.

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The Far Side of the Moon

Alastair Miles — Sat, 11 Apr 2026 00:00:00 +0000

As of now, the Artemis II mission has just drawn towards a successful conclusion. This was the first mission to travel beyond the moon for over 50 years and has achieved a record for the furthest distance humans have ever travelled beyond the Earth. Without doubt, the most exciting part of this mission was when its four astronauts made observations of the 'dark side' of the moon.

We call it the 'dark side of the Moon' but that’s really just a triumph of drama over accuracy. It’s a phrase that sounds mysterious and therefore refuses to die. The far side isn’t dark at all. It has day and night just as the near side. The only thing that makes it “dark” is that we never see it from Earth. It’s not a realm of eternal shadow; it’s simply the half that doesn’t face us. Thus the moon's 'far side' is a more accurate description.

The reason the moon has a side we never see is due to something called 'tidal locking'. When the Moon first formed, it spun much faster than it does now. But Earth’s gravity tugged on the Moon’s slightly uneven shape, creating a kind of cosmic braking system. Over millions of years, that braking slowed the Moon’s rotation until it matched the time it takes to orbit the Earth i.e. one spin per lap and the same face became permanently turned toward us. In some ways, it's like a dancer who keeps their gaze fixed on you no matter how they move around the floor.

What has been widely reported is that the Artemis II astronauts have seen parts of the moon never viewed by anything but robotic spacecraft. This is true. The Apollo astronauts, back in the late 60's and early 70's, did see the far side, but only in slices, because Apollo orbited close to the Moon. In fact, the orbits were astonishingly close, sometimes just tens of kilometres above the surface. At that altitude, the Moon fills your entire window. You see craters, mountains, shadows, but not the whole hemisphere. It’s like trying to appreciate a cathedral while standing with your nose pressed against a pillar. You get detail, not perspective.

Artemis II changed that. Instead of orbiting, the spacecraft followed a big looping free‑return trajectory, swinging thousands of miles out behind the Moon before gravity swung the crew back toward Earth. That extra distance gave the astronauts something no human had ever had before: a sweeping, panoramic view of the entire far side all at once. Not just the close‑up scars of ancient impacts, but the whole hidden face hanging in space, complete and uninterrupted.

What can be seen from their images is how utterly different the far side looks from the near side. No broad dark patches. No familiar “Man in the Moon.” Instead, it’s a riot of craters—craters on craters, craters inside other craters, as if the far side has been used as target practice for the last four billion years.

The reason for this difference lies in the varying thickness of the Moon’s crust. The near side, the one we see, has a thinner crust. That made it easier for ancient volcanic eruptions to break through and flood huge impact basins with dark basaltic lava. These cooled into the smooth, dark plains early astronomers mistook for seas. They called them maria, and the name stuck. They’re not seas at all, of course, just vast frozen lava lakes; but they give the near side its distinctive face.

The far side, however, has a crust up to twice as thick. When big impacts happened there, the crust didn’t crack open as easily. No lava welled up to fill the basins. So the far side kept its battered, cratered appearance, while the near side was resurfaced and smoothed in places. The reason why the crust is thicker on the far side is because, early in the Moon’s history, heat from the still‑molten Earth kept the near side warmer for longer. That extra warmth slowed the solidification of the near side crust, leaving it thinner while the far side cooled faster to harden into a much thicker shell.

One of the most extraordinary features on the far side is the South Pole–Aitken Basin; one of the largest impact craters in the entire solar system. It’s so vast that if you stood inside it, you wouldn’t realise you were in a crater at all. It’s also incredibly ancient, dating back more than four billion years. That region is rich in scientific promise. The Artemis programme’s interest in the lunar south pole isn’t just about exploration—it’s about understanding the Moon’s early history, and perhaps even finding water ice tucked away in permanently shadowed craters. With sunlight never reaching them temperatures plunge so low that any water delivered by comets or asteroids could remain frozen for billions of years.

The far side also tells a story about the early solar system. The sheer number of craters is a record of the heavy bombardment that shaped not just the Moon, but Earth as well. Our planet was hit just as often but erosion, weather, oceans, and plate tectonics have erased most of the scars. The far side is like a geological archive, a library of impacts stretching back to the dawn of the solar system.

For me though, incredible as the far side of the moon is, what I hope Artemis II will remind us is just how beautiful our home is. Whatever the wonders the moon has to offer, they aren't a patch on those of our own planet. Missions like this show us just how beautiful and precious our home really is.

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Plotting

Alastair Miles — Sun, 1 Mar 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Can you digress before you even get started?

Let's find out.

Many words in English have alternative meanings, such as the word that forms the title of today's blog. However, the greatest of them all in this department is a word that runs to just three letters. And there's a major clue to what that word is in my previous sentence.

The word is 'run' and, in the 3rd Edition of the Oxford English Dictionary, the entry on this particular word extends to 75 columns of text! It starts with "to go with quick steps on alternate feet" - and then the trouble starts…

As an example: After running with a group in bad weather you could get ill and run a fever, then run a bath to treat it. Because your nose is running you get distracted and the bath runs over and drenches your cotton bath runner. You then realise you've run out of medicine and also forgotten some things during your last grocery run so you run you run an app to place an online order so someone can run them over to you.

You get the idea.

Today though, I'm concerned with plot and the art of plotting. Now, plot, has only three meanings and I suggest that only 2 (maybe 2 and a half) of them have any relevance to writing. The first meaning is to 'secretly make plans and carry them out (an illegal or harmful action)'. You might want to keep a plot for a new film or novel secret, but I'd hope it isn't illegal - or harmful. Of more use are the definitions 'mark (a route or position) on a chart' and 'devise the sequence of events in (a play, novel, film or similar work)'. Sequences of events are important to good story telling as is a route through to the ultimate goal of your story.

I'm not writing this blog pretending that I'm a master of plotting. It's more to share my own haphazard approach to it in the hope to make you feel better if you're struggling with it yourself.

There's one author I read who churns out at least one book a year. They tend to be written in the same, or very similar, universe but, if you like the sort of stories he offers, then he does it very well. In an interview he once said that he comes up with rigid plots and does not allow his characters to stray off their preordained path. The upside is that this is, without doubt, the fastest way to a finished story. The downside is that it does take some of the joy away, and stories can feel unnatural when characters are required to hit story beats at regular intervals. I suppose it's all down to the skill of the writer when devising their initial plot.

I prefer to grant my characters a little more freedom. It seems strange to refer to creations that come from your own head as independent entities, but the fact remains that they can surprise you. Because it takes time to write a scene, possibly over a number of days (or weeks sometimes for me), that gives plenty of time for the old sub-conscious to come up with alternate ideas - and it feels more natural to grant characters some latitude. The downside is that it does require a little improvisation in order for your story to end up where it's supposed to - or somewhere close. But, in my view, plans change and it's all part of the journey.

As with all things in life, it's a balancing act. You don't want a stilted story but, at the same time, you don't want a story that meanders around without purpose dropping plot points along the way. I think when all is written and done, you need to be happy with what you’ve created - that is by far the most important thing.

So how to go about plotting?

I tend to start by writing a broad outline for a story, kind of like a synopsis but without any of the hard details filled in. From that I can break down the ideas into scenes with the key things that need to happen in order to move the plot forward.

The next problem is the sequencing. A novel should have more than one story thread and these need to develop in parallel. I've tried the classic of writing scenes on post-it notes and shuffling them on a whiteboard. That works very well but you need a lot of space. Being a design and development engineer I also use Excel, a program that is way more flexible than the accountancy application it was originally designed for. I create columns with my story threads and shuffle cells accordingly.

As I write, I sometime choose to interleave scenes. This is again a result of the more liberal approach I take to plotting. Sometimes it's easy to jump back and forth and write both together. Other times I write them individually and then go back and intercut them. Occasionally, I have a master scene that forms the backbone of a chapter with subsidiary scenes fitted within it. It all depends on what I think makes the story most engaging.

In conclusion, I follow my mood and am open to diversions and digressions - such as occurred at the start of this blog. However, I'm all for a basic plan, if you write without one you can get lost. Ultimately, whatever you do, writing a novel can be a daunting process so the most important thing is that you find it fun - so I say write in a way that best makes than happen.

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Apollo 17: The Last Footprints on the Moon

Alastair Miles — Sat, 31 Jan 2026 00:00:00 +0000

Artemis II aims to send humans around the moon for the first time in over 50 years. At the time of creating this article, the mission is imminent. It could go as soon as February 2026, it may take until April. With a rocket costing billions of dollars and human lives at stake, NASA will only launch when both conditions and preparations are perfect.

So, with all this uncertainty, I thought I'd take a look back at the last time humanity visited the moon…

In December 1972, the Apollo program was winding down. NASA decided that if humanity was going to say goodbye to the Moon for a while then it should get the most out of its final, Apollo mission. The flight of Apollo 17 mixed science, symbolism, and a touch of human drama. At the heart of it all was a question. Should a scientist, a real working geologist, be allowed to walk on the Moon?

For most of Apollo, the crews had been cut from the same cloth: test pilots, military aviators, men trained to fly experimental aircraft through the unknown. They were steady, disciplined, and comfortable with risk. Scientists, on the other hand, were often seen — unfairly — as the sort of people who preferred notebooks to spacecraft. But the scientific community had long argued that if you’re going to spend billions visiting another world, shouldn’t you bring someone who actually knows what they’re looking at?

That someone was Dr. Harrison “Jack” Schmitt, a Harvard‑trained geologist who had joined NASA in the mid‑sixties. Schmitt wasn’t a pilot, but he was a master of reading landscapes, the kind of person who could glance at a rock and tell you a story about the Moon’s ancient past. After a long internal debate — and more than a little controversy — NASA made the call. Schmitt would fly on Apollo 17, replacing a highly respected test pilot. It was a bold decision, but one that would define the mission’s legacy.

Schmitt joined Commander Gene Cernan and Command Module Pilot Ron Evans, forming a crew that blended experience, curiosity, and a sense of fun. Cernan later joked that flying with a geologist meant he had to learn the names of rocks, but he also knew that Schmitt’s expertise would make Apollo 17 the most scientifically productive landing of them all.

And if you were going to send a geologist to the Moon, you needed to give him something interesting to explore. NASA chose the Taurus–Littrow Valley, a dramatic landscape on the edge of the Sea of Serenity. Orbital reconnaissance had shown that it had everything you could hope for from a lunar landing site: steep mountains, ancient lava flows, and boulders that had tumbled down from high ridges. Scientists hoped the site would offer samples from multiple eras of lunar history — perhaps even material blasted out by the enormous impact that formed the basin itself.

Cernan and Schmitt touched down on 11 December 1972, after a descent that involved dodging boulders and adjusting their landing point on the fly. When the dust settled, they found themselves in a valley unlike anything seen on previous missions. The mountains rose nearly two kilometres above them. The horizon felt close, the shadows long, and the silence absolute.

Over three days, they carried out three moonwalks, spending more than 22 hours outside the Lunar Module - the longest duration of any Apollo mission. They drove the rover across the valley floor, sampled boulders the size of cars, dug trenches, and collected one of the mission’s most famous finds: a patch of orange soil. Schmitt recognised it instantly as volcanic glass — the frozen spray of ancient fire‑fountain eruptions. It was exactly the kind of discovery a trained geologist was meant to make. Cernan and Schmidtt worked well as a team. Gene Cernan, mission commander slipped seamlessly into the role of assistant during the moonwalks, without any drama or fuss.

By the time they were done, they had gathered more than 110 kilograms of lunar material, including some of the oldest rocks ever brought back to Earth. Apollo 17 wasn’t just the last mission — it was arguably the richest in terms of scientific return.

But even the most ambitious journey has to end. On 14 December 1972, after their final traverse, Cernan and Schmitt prepared to leave the lunar surface. The moment carried a weight that neither man could ignore. They weren’t just ending a mission; they were closing the door on an era of exploration.

Before climbing the ladder, Cernan paused and delivered a short, reflective message — a kind of benediction for the Apollo age. He said:

“As we leave the Moon at Taurus–Littrow, we leave as we came and, God willing, as we shall return, with peace and hope for all mankind.”

Then, with a few final steps, he became the last human being to stand on the Moon. At 05:40 GMT, the hatch closed, and the age of Apollo moonwalks came to an end.

The ascent stage lifted off some time later, rising on a column of invisible exhaust and leaving behind the rover, the tools, and the descent stage — a silent museum in a valley of grey dust.

Apollo 17 remains an outstanding lunar mission: the longest stay on the Moon, the most samples collected, the best footage, and the only time a professional scientist walked on another world. But it also carries a bittersweet note. The footprints Cernan and Schmitt left in the Taurus–Littrow Valley are still there, untouched, waiting for someone to return.

And this is where the Artemis program comes in. Artemis II is, effectively, a test flight. In terms of crew it goes beyond the Apollo program. A woman is flying, a person of colour, a non-US citizen. Artemis is a dichotomy. It shows how far we've come as a society and, technically, how much ground we need to make up. With Artemis III, the plan is to return to the moon, and for an extended duration. But NASA has yet to receive a lunar lander capable of the job, so the date of this mission is both slipping and uncertain. The Chinese are aiming to send manned missions to the moon in 2030 - perhaps they will get there first.

But until someone returns, the last words spoken on the lunar surface belong to Gene Cernan, and the last footprints belong to a pair of explorers who made the Moon feel closer to us than ever before.

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Astronomy, the Universe and Everything

Alastair Miles — Wed, 31 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Life, the Universe and Everything: a question to which the answer is 42… apparently. Today, I'm only going to tackle two thirds of that question, and all based on what we know so far. I'd advise you to strap in.

Astronomers like to joke that their job is simply to "look up". But if you’ve ever stood outside on a clear night, with little or no light pollution and "looked up" you've likely been staggered by all you can see. You might be able to spot a planet, the pole star, name some constellations, but you will be left struck by the immensity of it all - and how much you don't know.

So how do we start to make sense of the universe? The best way to begin is by patiently observing all that we can. Astronomers are the archivists of the universe, cataloguing what the cosmos has chosen to reveal to our ever improving instruments. Stars, galaxies, nebulae, quasars, rogue planets, supernova remnants—each object is logged, measured, compared, and placed into an ever‑expanding cosmic inventory. The universe is vast, but astronomy is built on the belief that if enough observations are made, patterns will emerge.

And indeed, they do.

However, observing the universe is only half the challenge. The other half is working out where everything actually is - and where it's going. Space does not come with convenient signposts or distance markers. When you look at a star, you have no intuitive sense of whether it is ten light‑years away or ten thousand - or if it's receding or approaching.

Measuring distances to local stars and objects is achievable by geometric techniques. Parallax is the apparent shift in an object's position when viewed from different locations. The Earth orbits the sun at a distance of about 90 million miles and, at the opposite sides of its orbit, local stars appear to shift position. By measuring these subtle shifts, their distances can be calculated. But this only works for objects that are relatively close.

To estimate distance on an intergalactic scale astronomers rely on objects with a fixed, known brightness. The further away these “standard candles” are, the dimmer they appear. So if you know how bright they are supposed to be then you can use this to estimate distance. Some examples of these standard candles are close enough to be measured by parallax, allowing their brightness to be calibrated. This is then used to measure the distances of standard candles further away and, by inference, anything (relatively) close to them. Cepheid variable stars, which pulse with a rhythm tied to their luminosity, were the first great breakthrough. Later came Type 1a supernovae, exploding stars so uniformly bright that they can be seen across billions of light‑years.

As to movement, this uses the "Doppler effect". Picture an ambulance racing past you. As it approaches, the pitch of the siren rises; as it speeds away, the pitch drops. Light behaves in the same way.

How does it work? Imagine a steady stream of joggers approaching in a line, and imagine they all want to give you a high-five. If you were to walk towards them, as they jog towards you, those high-fives would come more quickly. Alternatively, if you were to back away, those high fives would happen more slowly. Sore hand aside, what you've experienced is a change in frequency of those high-fives. With sound, a frequency shift results in a change in pitch. With light, it results in a change in colour.

In astronomy, when an object is moving towards us, the light waves shift towards blue. If it's moving away, then they shift towards the red. By measuring the redshift or blueshift of an object with a known colour you can deduce not only if it is coming or going, but how fast.

It's when we started putting these distance and speed measurements together that the story takes a dramatic turn. Astronomers used these measurements to study how galaxies move and they found something deeply unsettling. Galaxies were spinning so fast that, by rights, they should have torn themselves apart. The visible matter—stars, gas, dust—simply didn’t provide enough gravitational glue to hold them together. Something unseen had to be contributing mass, something that exerted gravity but emitted no light. This invisible scaffolding became known as dark matter. If it sounds like a vague name, it's because it is, it's a label for a phenomenon we don’t' understand. And the more astronomers looked, the more dark matter they found. In fact, it sculpts the large‑scale structure of the universe - like an invisible cosmic web.

But the surprises didn’t stop there. When researchers used the Type 1a supernovae (which I mentioned earlier) to measure how the universe’s expansion had changed over billions of years, they expected to find that gravity was slowing everything down. Instead, they discovered the opposite. The expansion was accelerating, as if some mysterious force were pushing galaxies apart faster and faster. This repulsive influence was christened dark energy, another name that admits that we have no idea what it truly is.

The really astounding thing about dark matter and dark energy is that, if it exists, it makes up about ninety‑five percent of the universe. It is humbling to think that despite all we can see, the best we can currently do is speculate that it is dwarfed by what is invisible and untouchable.

Fortunately, science is not content to stop there. Recently, astronomers and cosmologists have started asking whether dark matter and dark energy are the only—or even the best—ways to explain what we see. Some suggest that our understanding of gravity might be incomplete, or that Einstein’s equations might be missing a footnote or two when applied to the entire universe. Others argue that the apparent acceleration could be a result of the assumptions baked into our observations.

It all leads to a big cosmic cliff-hanger. Where does it all end? Or does it? If dark energy keeps pushing, the universe will expand forever, growing forever colder and lonelier. But if dark energy changes over time, or if gravity has a surprise twist waiting in the wings, the expansion could slow, stop, or even reverse. In that case, everything might one day come crashing back together in a dramatic "big crunch"—that ends where everything began.

When it comes to science, there are literally no bigger questions than this. It's what makes astronomy so compelling, a field where every answer is an invitation to ask a better question.

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Blogs! Blogs! Blogs!

Alastair Miles — Mon, 8 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I've added a few more since I last wrote some updates and, believe it or not, they're not all about space...

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Nice review from 'If This Goes On (Don't Panic)'

Alastair Miles — Mon, 8 Dec 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I love the name of the blog and I like the interview they gave me! Follow the link to check it out: https://itgodp.libsyn.com/baileys-books-sword-sorcery-science-astronauts-ais-horrors-hurricanes

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Voyager 1 - Our far flung traveller

Alastair Miles — Sat, 29 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

Voyager 1 will soon achieve a cosmic milestone. Allow me to explain…

When you turn on the light in a room it looks like it becomes instantly bright. But that's not quite the case. In reality, light races from the bulb at nigh on 186,000 miles per second, so it doesn't fill the room instantaneously - but it does get mighty close

186,000 miles per second is mind bogglingly fast. At that speed you could circle the Earth seven times in the blink of an eye, or reach the moon in just over a second.

But what it we stretch that out? How far could light travel in a day? The answer is that in one full day, light covers 16 billion miles. It's a vast distance - even compared to our solar system. For example, the planet Neptune is the furthest out from the sun of the eight major planets that circle it. 16 billion miles is enough to traverse the diameter of Neptune's orbit not once, not twice, but three times, with distance to spare. In fact, 16 billion miles is roughly the distance Neptune covers during one lap around the sun. Neptune takes 165 years to cover this distance; light can do it in a day.

To put this into context, if we were to try and drive 16 billion miles at motorway speed it would take us 23 million years!

So it might seem inconceivable that a manmade object could cover such a distance. But the astonishing news is that one of our spacecraft, Voyager 1, is about to reach that very milestone in late 2026. In other words, Voyager 1 will soon be one light-day away from Earth. That means if you send it a signal, the reply won’t come back until tomorrow.

Voyager 1 began its journey back in 1977, launched from Cape Canaveral. It was part of a pair, Voyager 1 and Voyager 2, designed to explore the outer planets. Voyager 1 flew past Jupiter in 1979, then Saturn in 1980, sending back images that stunned the world before hurtling out into deep space. Voyager 2 took the grand tour, also visiting Jupiter and Saturn before going on to visit Uranus and Neptune - the only spacecraft to see them up close.

When the Voyager probes were launched they didn't just fly straight out to their targets with the sun at their backs. To reach the outer planets and the speeds required to cover such vast distances they used something called a gravity assist or slingshot manoeuvre.

So how does this work? Imagine you could take a God's eye view of the solar system and look down on all the planets orbiting the sun like runners going around a circular track. When the probes launched from Earth they spiralled out towards Jupiter, like a runner changing lanes. Both of them had to catch Jupiter up, meaning that Jupiter was racing away while they were racing to catch up. All this time, Jupiter's gravity was pulling at them and this long, drawn out fall, gave them a significant increase in speed. On leaving Jupiter, they changed course and spiralled out again, repeating the trick with Saturn.

For this to work; the planets need to be in very specific positions - and this was the case in the late 1970's. It's a situation that won't happen again until the mid-2150's so NASA had to race against an immovable deadline to get the probes finished. In Voyager 1's case it reached Jupiter and Saturn before being flung out on a direct route out of the solar system. Voyager 2 was the special one, its launch timed to repeat the same slingshot trick with Jupiter, Saturn, then Uranus and Neptune, before finally heading out of the solar system itself.

Today, both Voyagers are beyond the bubble of the Sun’s influence — in interstellar space. Their instruments are still working, though power is fading. They’re now measuring cosmic rays, magnetic fields, and the thin plasma between the stars. No other spacecraft has ever sent back data from this region.

And each carries a message: the Golden Record. A disk etched with images, greetings in dozens of languages, sounds of Earth — waves, birdsong, laughter — and music from Bach to Chuck Berry.

So spare a thought for Voyager 1, as it travels through the deep black. It's a time capsule, a postcard from humanity, drifting forever through the stars...

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Submitting Work and Coping with Rejection

Alastair Miles — Sun, 2 Nov 2025 00:00:00 +0000

You spend years pouring you heart and soul into creating your masterpiece. It becomes everything you'd ever want in a story. It has to be shared with the world. How could anyone not want to read your work?

OK, maybe not everyone has that level of self-belief. Perhaps your work has not been years in the making and, most likely, you're writing in a niche rather than attempting to move the soul of the entire world. But the fact remains that you think that there are people out there who will enjoy your work, and you want to share it with them.

As I hope you can tell, this is a different blog to the space themed ones I've put up here to date. I recently had the happy experience of taking part in the Bristol Film and Literary Festival. During my interview, one of the questions I was asked is how, as a writer, you deal with rejection. So, for what it's worth, here are my thoughts.

My situation with Sub-Luminal was that it had taken me to years to finish. I write around a family and a full time job so the process is slow. But it's a hobby, I do it for fun, I'm not writing to a schedule. The strange thing is that while I'm creating something I rarely think about the process of taking it further - and how difficult that might be.

In my case, I don't find self-promotion easy so that left me with finding someone else who believed in what I'd done and was prepared to invest themselves in it. I thought about trying to find an agent, but that's difficult without fame or a proven track record. I then discovered that there are a good number of brilliant, Indy Publishers who are prepared to consider submissions from authors without an agent. However, as you might imagine, they get inundated and most of the time you will not make it beyond their slush pile.

So, with the above in mind, you have to be prepared for rejection. Appreciating that this is going to happen is no bad way to be. Positivity has its place (without it you wouldn't submit anything all), but you need a realistic mind set if you're going to keep going.

I went about submitting by first researching and creating a list of candidate publishers. Amongst them, inevitably, were ones that I thought were a better bet than others. This is quite subjective, it could be a combination of factors such as the vibe you get about who they are to the types of books they have on offer. The irony is that, as a writer, at this stage you're assessing them rather than them assessing you. It's nothing personal, we all have our preferences - and that's exactly how you have to look at rejections.

The next thing I did was limit myself to an average of 1 submission a week. This, for me, is a really important point. I could have tried to blitz my list in one weekend, but I don't recommend this to you for a number of reasons.

Firstly, none of your submissions would be very good. All the submission guidelines vary slightly and it's important to respect a publisher's exact requirements - first impressions are everything. Also, despite a lot of preparation before sending my first one, over time my submissions became stronger and stronger as I refined the wording of my pitch and synopsis to engage a reader within the limited time that I had their attention. In fact, that's a good argument for not sending your first submission to the publisher at the very top of your list. Pick someone who ranks highly, but no more than that. Only later go for your preferred options, that way they will get your strongest submission - you will go on finding improvements way beyond the point you thought no more were possible. In the unlikely event that you get lucky early doors don't regret not contacting your first choice, you've done well to get anyone's interest at all.

Secondly, if you send out a flood of submissions then you'll get hit by a flood of rejections. While there is quite a lot of variation in response time, generally speaking, the publishers who pride themselves on responding to everyone will do so within a few weeks. That way they can keep on top of their slush piles. So you'll end up with a lot of rejections coming together - it could be tough to take.

Finally, it's not really fair to send out loads of submissions at one time. You're just creating more work for everybody. Even if you're work is beyond astounding and you get more than one contract offer, you're going to end up annoying somebody when you turn them down - and that could come back to bite you.

In my case, by keeping my submissions to a manageable rate I was able to limit the flow of rejections to one that I could take in my stride. It worked for me.

The other thing to tell yourself is that getting a break takes a certain amount of luck - luck being where 'preparedness meets opportunity'. All you can do is be as prepared as you can be, the rest is looking for that opportunity.

In my case, the opportunity came with the advent of AI. I happened to have written two AI characters in Sub-Luminal (well before AI became a thing) and, when I saw it becoming topical, I started tailoring my applications to make reference to this (another reason for not blitzing all your submissions in one go).

In my book, the AI's are self-aware characters - not the trained assistants we have on the internet. But the link was there, and I think that spoke to the publishers who took on my manuscript. It could well be what made the difference. (As an aside, if you want an interesting experience then try quizzing an AI on whether it is self-aware, they get surprisingly defensive!)

The worst rejections to get are the ones where you get further down the line than usual, only to still come up short. It can be a struggle to avoid getting your hopes up only to see them dashed. I tried so hard to avoid getting excited about these situations that when one of them actually turned into a contract offer, I had to read the message twice before I realised it wasn't another rejection. It seems that however you set yourself up mentally, there's always a downside. But I'm glad I was finally able to read the offer properly and realise what I had!

If you take anything from this it should be that there is no magic formula, just do your best. I might be British, it might be a cliché, but when it comes to this game I think 'Keep calm and carry on' sums it up perfectly.

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Come and say hello at the Bristol Literary Film Festival on November 1st!

Alastair Miles — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I am very honoured to be taking part and proceeds from all ticket sales go to Saint Peter's Hospice. If you live anywhere near and fancy a day out I would love to meet you.

It's taking place at Bradbury Hall THURC, United Kingdom, BS9 4BT

You can find information on all the events here: What’s On In Bradbury Hall THURC, Bristol | TicketSource

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Dragonfly

Alastair Miles — Fri, 26 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

(Image by Steve Gribben/NASA/Johns Hopkins APL)

If you’ve ever dreamed of exploring alien worlds, Titan might just become your next obsession. Saturn’s largest moon is a place of paradoxes: it’s freezing cold, yet brimming with organic chemistry; it’s drenched in methane rain, yet eerily Earth-like in its landscapes. And in 2028, NASA plans to send a flying robot there - not a rover, not a lander, but a drone. A nuclear-powered, eight-rotor, science-packed flying machine called Dragonfly.

Titan is no ordinary moon. It’s bigger than Mercury and wrapped in a thick, golden-orange atmosphere - even denser than Earth’s. In fact, it's the only moon in our solar system with an atmosphere to call its own. That atmosphere is mostly nitrogen, with a generous helping of methane, creating a smoggy veil that hides a surface sculpted by rivers, lakes, and dunes. But instead of water, Titan’s rivers flow with liquid hydrocarbons. It’s a world where the familiar meets the bizarre, and where the building blocks of life may be quietly brewing beneath the ice.

This is why Titan has captured the imagination of scientists and storytellers alike. It’s a frozen time capsule, possibly echoing the conditions of early Earth. Complex organic molecules swirl in its skies and settle on its surface, forming what some call a “prebiotic soup.” That’s science-speak for the kind of chemistry that might one day evolve into life - or might already have, hidden deep below.

In fact, billions of years from now the sun is expected to swell in size as it nears the end of its life. For the best part of a billion years it will put out enough heat to warm Titan. It might just become a new Earth, although its lifespan will be a lot shorter than the planet that we are privileged to call home.

But, back to the present, to explore this alien world, NASA is building Dragonfly, a car-sized rotorcraft designed to fly across Titan’s surface like a giant robotic insect. Scheduled to launch in July 2028 aboard a SpaceX Falcon Heavy, Dragonfly will arrive at Titan in 2034 after a six-year interplanetary cruise. Once there, it will do something no spacecraft has ever done: take off, fly, land, and repeat - all on an alien moon, well over a billion miles away.

Dragonfly is a marvel of engineering and it’s a symbol of how far we’ve come; from the Wright brothers to flying machines designed for controlled flight on another moon. It uses eight rotors arranged in four pairs, giving it the ability to hover, manoeuvre, and land vertically. Titan’s thick atmosphere and low gravity make flying easier than on Earth, so Dragonfly will be able to soar with surprising efficiency. Instead of solar panels, which wouldn’t work well under Titan’s dim skies, it’s powered by a Multi-Mission Radioisotope Thermoelectric Generator, a kind of nuclear battery that provides a steady stream of energy to keep its instruments running and its rotors spinning.

And, speaking of instruments, Dragonfly is a mobile science lab, equipped with cameras for panoramic views, a mass spectrometer to analyse surface samples, and tools to study Titan’s weather and subsurface composition. More than that, because Titan is so far away, Dragonfly will fly itself, using autonomous navigation to scout new landing sites and avoid hazards. It’s a robot with brains and wings.

The mission’s goals are as ambitious as its design. Dragonfly will explore Titan’s chemistry, assess its habitability, and search for signs of life. It will hop between dozens of sites, starting in the Shangri-La dune fields and eventually making its way to Selk Crater - a place where water and organics may have mixed in the past. That’s a recipe for life, and a tantalizing target for exploration.

If successful, Dragonfly could pave the way for future missions to other moons like Europa or Enceladus. It might even help us answer one of humanity’s oldest questions: are we alone?

So, let's hope for a successful lift off in 2028 and a safe arrival on Titan in 2034 and then we'll need to keep an eye on two sets of skies - not just Earth’s, but Titan’s - because somewhere out there, a robot named Dragonfly will fire up its rotors, take flight and do it all in the name of science.

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If you could take a trip into space, where would you go?

Alastair Miles — Wed, 3 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

I've got some options in my latest blog!

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Space holidays!

Alastair Miles — Wed, 3 Sep 2025 00:00:00 +0000

If you could take a trip into space, where would you go?

Perhaps you wouldn't go at all. Perhaps you might consider the risks too great, be it taking off or the prospect of being surrounded by an environment that could kill you in seconds. That's entirely understandable, but you'd be missing out on a lot.

Maybe you'd be content with just a sub-orbital flight? These are available now (to anyone with several million dollars to spare). Blue Origin's New Shepherd flies passengers to the edge of space (just over 60 miles up), from where they see the sky go black and experience the curvature of the Earth. Up there, any passenger has a claim to being an astronaut - although this is being disputed. But, if you want to dip your toe and no more, then the good news is this flight only takes 10 minutes.

If that's not long enough, World View Enterprises might have the answer. They are hoping to be able to offer a balloon flight to about 20 miles up. You will still see the sky go dark and the horizon curve, but you wouldn't experience weightlessness, and won't have a claim to being an astronaut. However, you'd have more time to enjoy the view and the cabin you'd travel in would be far larger and more luxurious.

However, it seems a shame not to go into orbit. In that case, perhaps you'd aim for a trip to the International Space Station or, if they'd have you, China's Tiangong - smaller but far more modern.

But let's push it further. In the next century or so there might be far more space-based destinations that mankind could reach.

The easiest of these is a trip to the moon. There are plans to return in the next few years. A mission called Artemis 2 is scheduled to fly a human crew past the moon in 2026 and the mission after that is aiming for a lunar landing (but it's waiting for a lunar lander to be built). The Chinese aim to get to the moon by 2030, and there's a good chance there'll be the first to do so this century.

Travelling to the moon really lets you appreciate the beauty of the Earth, be that an Earth rise in lunar orbit or standing on the surface and looking up at our blue marble. The moon is our nearest extra-terrestrial body and visiting it would be quite the experience. In this case, you can there and back in just over a week. But, if we build a moon base, it would be a pity not to stay for longer.

Beyond the moon, your next ambition should be to land on another planet - and it's conceivable that the technology could one day exist to do so. Here, there are three options: Mercury, Venus and Mars. The other planets in the solar system are gas giants, which have no surface to land on - and they are also a long way away.

Mercury is the closest planet to the sun and has the most extreme range of temperatures in the solar system. In the daytime, the surface reaches 430°C, while at night it drops as low as -180°C. The only viable option would be to land on the night side and, with days lasting almost 60 times longer than on Earth, this would give you a lot of time to explore. But it seems a pity to stay in the dark - and have to be so cold.

Venus, unbelievably, is even hotter than Mercury. The victim of a runaway greenhouse effect, atmospheric pressure is 90 times that of Earth at its surface and the atmosphere itself is highly corrosive, with thick clouds of sulfuric acid.

In short, going to the surface is a non-starter.

Staying high up in the atmosphere is possible, at an altitude where the pressure drops to that on the surface of the Earth, temperatures are in the high twenties (Celsius). But there's still the corrosion to contend with and you've gone all the way to visit a planet without actually landing on it.

Mars is by far the most viable option. It gets very cold, but its maximum temperatures can approach 20°C. It has an (extinct) volcano twice the height of Everest and a canyon system that makes the Grand Canyon look no more than a ditch. There's even the chance that you might be the first to discover evidence that life once existed there. Beyond its surface it even has a couple of moons to explore, likely to be captured asteroids.

Speaking of asteroids, beyond Mars lies the asteroid belt. This has any number of destinations to choose from. The largest asteroid is Ceres, a near spherical asteroid large enough to be classified as a dwarf planet, yet only a quarter of the size of the moon. The big advantage of asteroids is that none of them are large enough to possess a significant amount of gravity. A trip to the asteroid belt could potentially be the opportunity to visit several destinations, as the fuel required to hop from one to the next is far less than required to take off from one planet and land on another. Almost as large as Ceres are Vesta, Pallas and Hygiea. But perhaps the most interesting asteroid to visit is 16 Psyche. This is a metallic asteroid, which is thought likely to have been part of a proto planet's metallic core. The raw materials it contains are estimated to be worth ten thousand quadrillion dollars - that's a 1 with 19 zeroes after it!

Beyond the asteroid belt we're really beginning to stretch what might be possible anytime soon(ish). Uranus and Neptune, the two furthest out planets have only been visited once to date, and only in passing. So let's leave them out of this.

Jupiter and Saturn might be possible. After all, we've managed to put spacecraft into orbit around both of them. The main challenge with these two worlds is radiation. Jupiter is by far the worse of the two, but Saturn's radiation is not insignificant. To go there and survive would require some kind of medical treatment or spacecraft shielding beyond what is currently possible.

But let's assume it is!

While you can't land on these planets, they both offer a larger number of moons to visit. For me, the pick of Jupiter's moons is Europa because of the tantalising prospect of life existing below its icy shell. Io, an extremely colourful, highly volcanic moon, is a close second. But I would never feel entirely safe on its surface.

As to Saturn, Titan is its most famous satellite. It's the only moon in the solar system with an atmosphere denser than Earth's. In the far future it might become hospitable to life. But for now, you might want to take walks by lakes of methane while it gently rains from the sky. On a clear day you would be able to see out into the cosmos and might be treated to a stunning view of Saturn and its rings.

An alternative might be Enceladus. It's famous for its 'tiger stripes' - these exhibit cryovolcanic activity; shooting ice out into space. Again, there is the tantalising prospect of liquid water below the surface and, therefore, maybe life as well.

It's a hard choice to make. Mars is probably the pick of the bunch for me, but I'm torn with pushing on out to the asteroid belt. To open up the solar system it's likely that we're going to have to learn to live there and exploit its resources. So the sooner we get there the better.

But, the truth of the matter is that we're already living on by far the best planet in the solar system. When it comes down to it, wherever else we might go, we're always going to be thinking of coming back here…

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The Rubin C. Observatory

Alastair Miles — Fri, 8 Aug 2025 00:00:00 +0000

The newly built Vera C. Rubin Observatory is our cosmic sentinel. Based in northern Chile, it is one of the most ambitious astronomical projects of the 21st century. Formerly known as the Large Synoptic Survey Telescope (LSST), a bit of a mouthful, the observatory was renamed in honour of Vera Rubin whose work provided compelling evidence for the existence of dark matter.

Dark matter is a material whose existence we have inferred, because it cannot be seen directly. Astronomers have done a lot of work estimating the amount of visible matter in the universe. The problem is that there is not enough visible matter to account for a number of gravitational effects that have been observed. For example, stars have been seen to orbit around galaxies faster than should be possible with the gravity provided by visible matter. Gravitational lensing, where a cluster of celestial objects can bend light around themselves, is, in some cases, greater than can be accounted for. The theorised answer is that dark matter, a lot of it, exists alongside the visible matter we can see. Rubin will have a pivotal role in probing this invisible scaffolding that permeates the universe.

At the heart of this new observatory is an extraordinary digital camera — the largest ever constructed for astronomy. It has an astonishing 3.2-gigapixel resolution. This is equivalent to hundreds of smart phone cameras combined. The images it captures are so detailed that displaying just one would require hundreds of ultra-high-definition televisions tiled together. Physically, the camera is about the size of a small car and weighs over three tons. It can capture a field of view equivalent to 40 full moons, enabling it to image vast swaths of the sky in a single exposure.

The observatory’s primary mission is a decade-long project to repeatedly image the entire southern sky. Over the course of ten years, each region of the sky will be observed roughly 800 times, creating an unprecedented time-lapse of cosmic activity. Incidentally, the dwarf-planet Pluto was discovered in this manner, almost a hundred years ago, by manually comparing photographic plates. This new facility will do much the same on a far, far, far more impressive scale. Each night, this survey will generate about 20 terabytes of data, enough to fill about 40 average laptops. To cope with this, the Rubin Observatory’s data pipeline is designed to process this data in near real-time, allowing astronomers to respond rapidly to short-lived events such as supernovae, gamma-ray bursts, and near-Earth asteroids.

One of Rubin's most exciting, early achievements was the observatory’s role in capturing the first images of 3I/ATLAS, a newly identified interstellar comet — only the third such object ever discovered. Unlike comets native to our solar system, 3I/ATLAS is just passing through. It's a remarkable object that we would have likely otherwise missed; some estimates suggest it may be over 7 billion years old, making it older than our solar system itself.

Beyond interstellar visitors, the observatory has already detected over 2,000 new asteroids, including several near-Earth objects that could one day pose an issue that could require planetary defence. Rubin's ability to spot faint, fast-moving objects will be crucial for cataloguing both potentially hazardous asteroids as wells as the greater population of small bodies in our solar system.

Returning to dark matter, one of the observatory’s most transformative contributions will be mapping the distribution and motion of billions of galaxies, Rubin will help scientists infer the gravitational effects of dark matter and measure the expansion history of the Universe. Its data will also be used to refine models of cosmic structure formation and test theories of fundamental physics.

Beyond its technical achievements the Rubin Observatory should also be noted for its commitment to open science. All data will be made publicly available, with tools and platforms designed to support both professional researchers and citizen scientists. This is expected to foster a new era of collaborative discovery, where breakthroughs may come from unexpected quarters. Educational initiatives tied to the observatory aim to engage students and the public with the evolving story of the Universe, using real data to inspire curiosity and learning.

In essence, the Vera C. Rubin Observatory is not just a telescope — it’s a cosmic census taker, and a sentinel watching the ever-changing sky. Its combination of technological prowess, scientific ambition, and public accessibility positions it as a cornerstone of modern astronomy. As it begins its full operations, the observatory promises to reshape our understanding of the Universe and usher in a golden era of cosmic exploration.

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