Saying hello, sending out a message of “Hey brothers, we’re here, too” seemed, and still seems to me, to provide purpose enough for all our struggles. I’ve learned since that the first moment of contact isn’t likely to happen in my lifetime, but that doesn’t much matter. Sagan said, and I believed, that the Galaxy – which consists of hundreds of billions of stars – likely contained tens of thousands of alien civilizations and all we have to do is send our voice outward long enough, to the right parts of the sky, and we will one day arrive at that destination. Someday, maybe long in the future, we’ll all be given the opportunity to reflect on the discovered reality that we are not just sitting out there on our east-facing rock alone, but rather that we will, one day, all meet around a universal campfire and share with our new found friends some warmth and a few stories. Maybe even the recipe for Wheat-a-Moo Stew, though, of course, they’d have to have cows on their planet to make it . . .

Decades later, on February 8, 2000 to be exact, I found myself sitting in Flannery’s Bar on 14th and 7th in New York City reading the Science Times. On that day there was a story about a new book that had been written by Peter Ward and Donald Brownlee entitled, “Rare Earth.” The book is a full-throated refutation of Sagan’s belief in a densely populated universe. Sagan based his thinking on a theory first posited in 1960 by Dr. Frank Drake. The Drake / Sagan hypothesis speculated that given the rate of star formation in the Milky Way Galaxy, and some generalized conditions necessary for the development of intelligent life (such as the presence of liquid water, a reasonably stable climate system and a civilization’s ability to not wipe itself out with nuclear weapons) that life was fairly common in the universe.

“Not so,” said Ward and Brownlee. After 40 years of research informing them on the conditions required for life to exist, they concluded that it was exceedingly rare and only would develop to complexity on one-in-a-hundred-billion “Eden Planets” such as Earth. And they noted that “for us, complex life means a tapeworm.”

Their science is compelling, if speculative. And as I read the piece, I could feel my heart drop through the barstool to the floor. They argue that, amongst other things, the placement of a solar system in a galaxy is crucial to its ability to develop life. Too close to the center and all would be torn asunder by cosmic rays and the gravitational impact of stars passing close to one another. Too far out to the edges and there wouldn’t be enough heavy elements to build life beyond the complexity of pond scum. Further, they stated that a relatively small number of galaxies (spiral galaxies to be exact) have enough of Sagan’s supernova-created “star stuff” to allow any life to develop at all. Whole galaxies, they suggested, “are barren.” Additionally they argued that most mass extinctions on Earth have been caused by the bombardment of comets and asteroids, and that without the shepherding of a “Good Jupiter,” a planet like Earth would experience bombardment rates ten-thousand times higher that we have on our little blue ball. And they reported that all evidence available suggests that most gas giants discovered out there in the Galaxy are “Bad Jupiters.” Very Bad Jupiters.

Sitting at the bar and reading that story took me back to my east-facing rock, and it made it all seem in vain. In the course of 20 minutes reading, all those cosmic thoughts of childhood, those dreams of a galactic call-and-response drained away with the last of my whiskey. Fergal the Barman, noting a look of shock and sadness on my face asked me if everything was all right. I said, “I don’t know… I just don’t know.”

I’d felt like I’d just lost my grandfather’s pocket watch. That I’d just lost all my friends. That I’d just lost my reason to salute the sky as I’d been doing every night for twenty years.

And then, in another flash — even before Fergal the Barman had refilled my rock’s glass — it all came back into focus. This wasn’t a problem at all. If we do live on a truly Rare Earth, then we can do things that whole galaxies cannot. If we’re really alone in the universe, then we’ve got the most unique of gifts — equal in beauty to metaphorical pocket watches and imagined conversations with our brothers on Ceti Alpha Three. If we are alone, then we alone can apprehend beauty. We alone can be, as Brother Vonnegut reminded us, “the eyes, the ears and the conscience of the Creator.” We alone can look at a mountain range or feel our lover’s breath at night and sense the magic. We alone can observe the moon as it sings itself into existence over the horizon and into the sky, and we alone can return to our family and share the grace of it all.

We alone can tell the stories of this universe. We alone can love.

As I left the bar that night and looked up into the Manhattan sky, I saw the moon over 7th Avenue and for the first time in decades, I didn’t care if anyone was out there. If they are, then God bless and keep them. If they aren’t, then may we bless and keep one another.

I raised my hand in salute.

Michael Tallon is the Copublisher and Editor-in-Chief of La Cuadra. He is currently compiling a book of essays to be published in the near future. More of his work can be read here.

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