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An Ocean of Air: Why the Wind Blows and Other Mysteries of the Atmosphere

An Ocean of Air: Why the Wind Blows and Other Mysteries of the Atmosphere

Автором Gabrielle Walker

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An Ocean of Air: Why the Wind Blows and Other Mysteries of the Atmosphere

Автором Gabrielle Walker

2.5/5 (2 оценки)
391 pages
216 hours
Aug 4, 2008


We don’t just live in the air; we live because of it. It’s the most miraculous substance on earth, responsible for our food, our weather, our water, and our ability to hear. In this exuberant book, gifted science writer Gabrielle Walker peels back the layers of our atmosphere with the stories of the people who uncovered its secrets:

• A flamboyant Renaissance Italian discovers how heavy our air really is: The air filling Carnegie Hall, for example, weighs seventy thousand pounds.

• A one-eyed barnstorming pilot finds a set of winds that constantly blow five miles above our heads.

• An impoverished American farmer figures out why hurricanes move in a circle by carving equations with his pitchfork on a barn door.

• A well-meaning inventor nearly destroys the ozone layer.

• A reclusive mathematical genius predicts, thirty years before he’s proved right, that the sky contains a layer of floating metal fed by the glowing tails of shooting stars.
Aug 4, 2008

Об авторе

GABRIELLE WALKER has a PhD in chemistry from Cambridge University and has taught at both Cambridge and Princeton universities. She is a consultant to New Scientist, contributes frequently to BBC Radio, and writes for many newspapers and magazines. She is also the author of four books, including An Ocean of Air and Antarctica. She lives in London.

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An Ocean of Air - Gabrielle Walker

Table of Contents

Title Page

Table of Contents






The Ocean Above Us

Elixir of Life

Food and Warmth

Blowing in the Wind


The Hole Story

Mirror in the Sky

The Final Frontier



Suggestions for Further Reading



About the Author

Copyright © Gabrielle Walker, 2007

All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopy, recording, or any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

For information about permission to reproduce selections from this book, write to Permissions, Houghton Mifflin Harcourt Publishing Company, 215 Park Avenue South, New York, New York 10003.


First published in Great Britain by Bloomsbury in 2007

The Library of Congress has cataloged the print edition as follows:

Walker, Gabrielle.

An ocean of air: why the wind blows and other mysteries of the atmosphere/Gabrielle Walker.

p. cm.

Includes bibliographical references and index.

1. Atmosphere—History. 2. Air—History. 3. Science—History. I. Title.

QC855.W35 2007

551.509—dc22 2006032359

ISBN 978-0-151-01124-7

eISBN 978-0-547-53695-8


For Fred and Hubert

I adorn all the earth.

I am the breeze that nurtures all things green.

I encourage blossoms to flourish with ripening fruits.

I am led by the spirit to feed the purest streams.

I am the rain coming from the dew

That causes the grasses to laugh with the joy of life

—Hildegard of Bingen,



AUGUST 16, 1960 7 A.M.

TWENTY MILES ABOVE NEW MEXICO, Joe Kittinger was hanging in the sky. For eleven minutes he remained there, poised in an open gondola that twirled slowly beneath a vast helium balloon. Though it was long past sunrise, the air around was dark as midnight. Far below, where Earth’s surface curved away to the horizon, a glowing blue halo stood out against the blackness of space.

This glow was the atmosphere, the single greatest gift our planet possesses. Earth’s glorious blue color comes not from the oceans, but from the sky, and every astronaut who has seen that delicate halo has come back with the same tale: They couldn’t believe how fragile it made Earth seem, and how beautiful.

Back on the surface, robbed of that lofty perspective, we are inclined to take our atmosphere for granted. Yet air is one of the most miraculous substances in the universe. Single-handedly, that thin blue line has transformed our planet from a barren lump of rock into a world full of life. And it is the only shield that stands between vulnerable earthlings and the deadly environment of space.

Kittinger, however, had journeyed beyond its protection. Up on the edge of space, the air was so tenuous that if his pressure suit failed he would die within minutes. First his saliva would bubble, then his eyes pop and his stomach swell, and finally his blood would boil. Despite all the risks he had taken as a test pilot for the U.S. Air Force, he had never been in greater danger.

Alone in his gondola, he was acutely aware of the menace. The near-vacuum seemed strangely substantial, like an enveloping layer of poison. The darkness rattled him, as did the curtain of clouds far below that were cutting off all views of home. He radioed to ground control. There is a hostile sky above me, he said. Man will never conquer space. He may live in it, but he will never conquer it.

He shuffled toward the door, weighed down with 150 pounds of survival gear, instruments, and cameras, and stood for a moment, his boots protruding slightly over the ledge. Several inches below his feet, a sign declared highest step in the world. He took a single breath of pure oxygen from within his tightly sealed helmet. Lord, take care of me now, he said. And then he jumped.

At first, Kittinger had no sense of falling. He could see the white swirls of storm clouds far below his feet, but they were growing no closer. The air around him was so thin that there was no sound or wind or any other clue that he was plunging through the most hostile environment a human being had ever faced. Spread-eagled in the sky, he felt almost serene. He could have been floating on a sea of nothingness.

Dangerous though the environment was, it was still protecting him. Lack of pressure isn’t the only hazard in space; there is also a constant barrage of radiation, much of it from our own sun. Every day, along with the warmth and light that allow us to live on Earth, the sun sends out x-rays and ultraviolet light from the deadly end of its rainbow.

Thanks to our intervening sky, this radiation never reaches the ground. Fifty miles above Kittinger’s head, a few scarce atoms of air were acting as sentinels, intercepting and absorbing those lethal x-rays. In the process, these atoms were being ripped to shreds and heated to temperatures of 2,000 degrees. They form the ionosphere, a tenuous region of the atmosphere where electricity is king. Unseen from Earth’s surface, giant blue jets of fire leap up to this layer from the tops of thunderclouds, in bolts of reverse lightning. Here, meteorites from space are obliterated in the glorious blaze of light that we call shooting stars. They splatter the air with floating layers of metal that allow electric currents to swoop around the upper Earth. Radio broadcasts reflect from this charged surface as they bounce their way around the globe.

Farther up still, the air above Kittinger was facing an even more violent attack—from a force known as the solar wind. Electrically charged jets of particles from the sun were barreling toward Earth at more than a million miles an hour, ready to strip away our atmosphere and send it streaming out behind the planet like the tail from a giant comet.

But to do so, it would first need to pass one of our staunchest defenders—Earth’s magnetic field. On the surface we scarcely notice this field, except when it helpfully tugs compass needles into pointing north. But its arching influence extends tens of thousands of miles above us, and it forces the solar wind to part around it like water around a ship’s bow. Far above Kittinger’s head, those protective magnetic arcs were channeling the solar wind harmlessly away. The field is all but impenetrable, allowing just a few particles to leak into the polar regions, where they collide with the atmosphere to provide the dancing glows of the northern and southern lights.

Still, almost all our protective atmosphere lies within a few miles of the surface, and when Kittinger took that high-altitude leap of faith, most of it was beneath him. A few seconds into his fall, he kicked and twisted until he was facing upward. Now he could see the taut white sphere of his balloon shooting up into the darkness at a breakneck speed. This, Kittinger knew, was an illusion. The balloon was still floating gently where he had left it. He was the one falling down through the sky at close to the speed of sound.

Kittinger was tumbling now through another of our world’s vital protective shields—the ozone layer. All around him, any invisible ultraviolet rays that had slipped through the ionosphere were being soaked up by a diffuse cloud of invisible gas. Ozone is miraculous stuff. Near the ground it is sometimes created by lightning bolts or spark plugs. It smells like burning electrical wires and makes you choke. But high aloft it is both vigilant and resilient. Split asunder by ultraviolet rays, the ozone molecules around Kittinger were calmly re-forming. Like the burning bush encountered by Moses, they are constantly ablaze but never consumed.

Seventy thousand feet. Sixty thousand. Kittinger was now below the point where even a pinhole in his suit would have allowed his blood to boil off into space. But he had one last hazard to face: He had reached the coldest part of his descent, where the temperature had fallen to 98 degrees below zero and the heating elements in his suit mattered most.

Then there were clouds, and wind, and all the signs that Kittinger was finally approaching home. Forty thousand feet. Thirty thousand. He was about to drop past the altitude of Mount Everest. Any jet plane that happened to be flying nearby would see a man in a strange suit shooting past the window. The clouds he had seen from the gondola, blocking his view of home, were now rushing toward him. Though he knew they were only insubstantial water droplets, he still braced himself unconsciously for an impact, pulling his legs upward in anticipation. The moment he hit the clouds, his parachute opened and he knew he would live. Four minutes and thirty-seven seconds free fall! he said into his voice recorder. Ahhhhh boy!

Kittinger had now fallen safely into the lowest part of the atmosphere—the troposphere. The air here isn’t so much a protector as a transformer, a thick, life-giving blanket of air, wind, and weather that turns our planet into home. After the bone dryness of space, flecks of moisture from the clouds fogged Kittinger’s face plate. He could feel the tug of the thickening air. The sky was now full of life, though he couldn’t see it. Bacteria that had launched themselves into the wind were hitching a ride on cloud droplets, seeking out new victims farther afield. Insects were wafting their way to new feeding grounds and seeds to more fertile soil.

And, praise be, two rescue helicopters were hovering nearby. With the ground fast approaching, Kittinger struggled to cut away his heavy instrument kit for the sake of a softer landing, but one last hose resisted his knife. He gave up and instead raised the shield on his helmet and took a deep breath of fresh air. As the air flushed into his lungs, oxygen leapt across thin membranes into the cells of his blood and turned them a glorious, life-giving red. (And some of it set off on a well-worn rampage that had been going on since Kittinger took his first breath of air. These rogue molecules would continue to line Kittinger’s face and wear down his body, in the process we know as aging.)

Finally, after a flight time of thirteen minutes and forty five seconds, Joe Kittinger crashed unceremoniously into the scrub, twenty-seven miles west of Tularosa, New Mexico. Medical personnel, ground crew, supporters, and journalists poured out of the helicopters and rushed over to where he lay. He smiled at them through his open face plate. I’m very glad to be back with you all, he said. Though the desert landscape was far from lush, to a man who had seen beyond the atmosphere, the yuccas and sagebrush seemed full of life. Fifteen minutes before I’d been on the edge of space, he said later. And now, to me, I was in the Garden of Eden.

Captain Joseph W. Kittinger Jr. of the U.S. Air Force is the man who fell to Earth and lived. Nobody has ever managed to emulate his feat. His passage home from the edge of space, from thin air to thick, illustrates something extraordinary about our planet. Space is almost close enough to touch. Only twenty miles above our heads is an appalling, hostile environment that would freeze us, and burn us and boil us away. And yet our enfolding layers of air protect us so completely that we don’t even realize the dangers. This is the message from Kittinger’s flight, and from every one of the pioneers who have sought to understand our atmosphere: We don’t just live in the air. We live because of it.




The Ocean Above Us

NEARLY FOUR HUNDRED YEARS AGO, in a patchwork of individual fiefdoms that we now call Italy, a revolution of ideas was struggling to take place. The traditional way to understand the workings of the world—through a combination of divine revelation and abstract reasoning—had begun to come under attack from a new breed. These people called themselves natural philosophers, because the word scientist had not yet been invented. To find out the way the world worked, they didn’t sit around and talk about it. They went out and looked. This was not an approach that was likely to find favor with the Church, home of received wisdom, or with its instruments—the whispering Inquisitors, with their hotline back to Rome. Now, a certain natural philosopher had fallen very foul of those Inquisitors and been forced to stop his investigations into the structure of the heavens. His name was Galileo Galilei, and our story begins with him.

Convent of Minerva, Rome

June 22, 1633

I, Galileo Galilei, son of the late Vincenzo Galilei, Florentine, aged seventy years, arraigned personally before this tribunal, and kneeling before you, most Eminent and Reverend Lord Cardinals, Inquisitors general against heretical depravity throughout the whole Christian Republic . . . have been pronounced by the Holy Office to be vehemently suspected of heresy, that is to say, of having held and believed that the sun is the center of the world and immovable, and that the earth is not the center and moves:

THEREFORE, DESRING TO REMOVE FROM THE MINDS OF YOUR EMINENCES, AND OF ALL FAITHFUL CHRISTIANS, THIS STRONG SUSPICION, REASONABLY CONCEIVED AGAINST me, with sincere heart and unfeigned faith I abjure, curse, and detest the aforesaid errors and heresies . . . and I swear that in the future I will never again say or assert, verbally or in writing, anything that might furnish occasion for a similar suspicion regarding me.

As the great Galileo rose from his knees at the end of this infamous, and forced, recantation, he is said to have muttered "Eppur si muove! (And yet it moves!"). He knew in his heart that Earth moves around the sun, in spite of what the Inquisitors had made him say. Still, devoutly religious as he was, he had no taste for defying his own church. Nor had he any desire to share the fate of the unfortunate monk Giordano Bruno, who a few decades earlier had been publicly burned for holding similar views. Galileo may have been the most famous philosopher in all Italy, but he knew that in itself wouldn’t save him from the fire.

And though he was now seventy years old, frail, and steadily losing his sight, he was not yet ready to die. He had damaged his eyes by staring through a telescope at wonders he himself had discovered: blemishes that appeared periodically on the surface of the sun; craters on the moon; distant but distinct moons circling the planet Jupiter (who would have thought that other planets could have moons of their own?), and stars that nobody knew existed. Now, before the cataracts and glaucoma finally clouded his sight, in secret, if necessary, he had one last task to complete. Galileo had seen this trial coming; he’d known for some time that he couldn’t continue his study of the heavens. So for some years he had been discreetly changing tack, turning his attention inwards to Earth itself. And, failing eyesight notwithstanding, he was about to change the way we see the most apparently ordinary substance in the world: air.

The Inquisitors knew nothing of this. They were satisfied with his recantation, and decided, graciously, to spare his life. He would be allowed to return to his villa at Arcetri in Florence, though he should understand that he was still considered dangerous and would therefore be held under house arrest. There would be no visitors, save those given prior permission by the Church. Meanwhile, Galileo himself was to spend his time reciting the holy psalms as penance, and praying for his immortal soul.

Galileo returned to his villa as instructed and performed his penance diligently. But the Inquisitors had also obliged him to swear never again to publish work that might offend the Holy Office, and he had no intention of complying. For with him to Arcetri he had taken a certain manuscript that was already nearly finished.

He had started the experiments it described while awaiting his summons to Rome. Having turned away from his telescope, Galileo had become fascinated instead by the different ways that objects move through the air. The result was to become his masterpiece. The manuscript already recounted findings that would become just as famous as the moons of Jupiter. For instance, Galileo had made the surprising discovery that Earth’s gravity doesn’t care in the least how much something weighs. Drop a cannonball and a pebble from a high tower, and both will reach the ground at exactly the same moment.

But within its pages was another discovery that would prove to be less famous yet no less significant. Galileo had measured the weight of air.

This might seem like a bizarre notion. How can something so insubstantial as the air weigh anything at all? In fact our planet’s air is constantly pushing down on us with great force. We don’t notice this because we’re used to it, like lobsters sauntering along on the seafloor, unaware of the crushing weight of the ocean of water above them. We give our own overlying air-ocean so little respect that we even describe anything that’s full of air as being empty.

Back in Galileo’s time, notions about air were similarly hazy. Most people accepted the idea put forward by Aristotle in the fourth century B.C. that everything in the world was made up of four elements: earth, air, fire, and water. Earth and water were obviously pulled downward by gravity. Fire was obviously weightless. But air was the problem child. Was it heavy enough to be dragged to the ground, light enough to rise like flames do, or did it simply ignore Earth’s gravitational tug and hover?

Galileo believed that air is heavy and had set about testing his idea. The experiments he performed were typically ingenious. First, he took a large glass bottle with a narrow neck and a tight leather stopper. Into this stopper he inserted a syringe attached to a bellows and by working vigorously managed to squeeze two or three times more air into the bottle than it had previously contained. Next, he weighed the glass bottle most precisely, adding and subtracting the finest of sand to his scales until he was satisfied with the answer. Then, he opened a valve in the lid. Immediately, the compressed air rushed out of its confinement, and the bottle was suddenly a handful of grains lighter. The air that had escaped must account for the missing weight.

This showed that air is not the insubstantial body we usually take it for. But now Galileo wanted to know how much air corresponded to how many grains of sand. For that he would somehow need to measure both the weight of the escaping air and its volume.

This time, he took the same glass bottle with its long, narrow neck. However, instead of pumping it full of extra air, he forced in some water. When the bottle was three-quarters full of water, its original air was squeezed uncomfortably into a quarter of its original space. Galileo weighed the bottle accurately, opened the valve, allowed this pressurized air to escape, and then weighed the bottle again to find out how much air he had lost. As for the volume, Galileo reasoned that the portion of air that had been forced to leave the bottle had been pushed aside by the water he had squeezed in, so the volume of air that had fled must be exactly the same as the volume of water that remained. All he had to do was pour out the water and measure its volume and voilà, he had found the weight for a given volume of air.

The value Galileo came up with was surprisingly large: Air seemed to weigh as much as one four-hundredth the weight of an equivalent amount of water. If that doesn’t sound like much, consider this. Picture a particular volume of air for a moment—such as the empty space inside Carnegie Hall in New York. How heavy would you expect that amount of air to be? Would it weigh ten pounds? Or a hundred? Or maybe even five hundred?

The answer is somewhere in the region of seventy thousand pounds.

The weight of air is so extreme that even Galileo didn’t see the whole story. He never considered the question of how we can shoulder such a crushing, overwhelming burden, for the simple reason that he didn’t realize the air above us is still heavy. He had measured the weight of air in his bottle, but he was convinced that the moment this air was released back into its natural element, the sky, it immediately ceased to weigh anything at all.

Galileo believed that our atmosphere as a whole is incapable of pushing. It was one of the few occasions when the great man was wrong.

In spite of the Church’s opposition Galileo finished his manuscript—and published it. After fruitless efforts to convince publishers in Florence, Rome, and Venice to defy the Inquisitors, Galileo finally smuggled the manuscript out to a printer in the Netherlands. Four years later, as he approached the end of his life, a few copies began filtering back to Italy. Each bore a disingenuous disclaimer by Galileo himself, who wrote how astonished he was that his words had somehow found their way to a printer’s in spite of his obedience to the Papal diktat.

And although Galileo was wrong about the way our air behaves aloft, the experiments his great work contained would influence two very different people to discover the truth.

By coincidence, both of these people arrived in Florence at more or less the same time, in October 1641, just a few months before Galileo’s death. One was a thirty-three-year-old Roman mathematician named Evangelista Torricelli, who had been working with Galileo in the final three months before his death.

Torricelli had become fascinated by Galileo’s experiments on air and his conviction that though air was heavy when stuffed into a bottle, it weighed nothing in its natural state. His attention was drawn most particularly to an old wrangle between Galileo and a Genoese philosopher named Giovanni Battista Baliani. The argument hinged around the use of siphons to transport water from one site to another, usually over a vertical barrier such as a hill. This works on the same principle as siphoning gasoline from a car. Fill a long tube with water, stick one end in a pond or stream, and carry the other end over your hill. Water will then conveniently spout out of the far end, and continue to do so until you’ve drained the original pond or you pull the tube back out again.

Baliani had noticed that siphons seemed to have an upper height limit beyond which they didn’t work. If the hill was higher than about eighteen Florentine ells (a little more than thirty feet), the siphon refused to cooperate, and no water came out.

He believed that the force pushing water through the pipe was the weight of the Earth’s atmosphere. Air, he said, was constantly squeezing down on the surface of the pond, and it was so heavy that it managed to push water up into the pipe. The siphon stopped operating, he reasoned, because even the weight of the entire atmosphere has its limits. At a height of more than thirty feet, the air pressing down on the surface of the pond was not heavy enough to overwhelm the gravity trying to pull water back down, and the siphon would lose its power.

Galileo, however, had disagreed. Unable to believe that the atmosphere itself is heavy, he decided that the power in question wasn’t pushing but sucking. On either side of the hill, he said, water was trying to fall back down out of the pipe. But as it fell, it left behind an empty space in the middle of the pipe. The complete absence of any material at all in this so-called vacuum would give it extraordinary properties, including the ability to suck. That was what drew water over the hill. If the hill was higher than thirty feet, the water inside the pipe became too heavy for the vacuum’s suck.

Torricelli thought that Galileo was wrong, and that the atmosphere really did push. He also decided to prove it.

First he figured out how to mimic the action of the siphon, but at a rather more manageable scale. Instead of water, he used mercury—known at the time as quicksilver, not because it moved rapidly, but because it seemed almost alive. Unlike all the other cold, dead metals, liquid mercury curled itself into bright balls that darted around a tabletop and spilled onto the floor with splashes of brilliance. However, like the other metals it was also very heavy. The result from the siphons suggested that if Torricelli tried to balance the weight of the atmosphere using water, he would need a tube more than thirty feet long. But with the much heavier mercury, just three feet of tube should do the trick.

So Torricelli took a three-foot glass tube that was closed at one end, filled it with mercury and stopped the open end with a finger. Then he tipped the tube upside down, put it into a basin of mercury, and carefully withdrew his finger. If the air had no pressing role to play, there would now be nothing to stop the mercury from succumbing to the force of gravity and spilling back down the open tube. But if Torricelli was right, the mercury should stop at exactly the point where the weight of air pressing outside balanced its own weight. By comparing the relative weights of mercury and water, he had calculated the level at which it should stop not at eighteen ells like the water in the siphons, but at a mere ell and a quarter and a finger more.

And that’s exactly what happened.

But what force was keeping the mercury up? Was it the pressure of air, or was it, as Galileo had believed, the vacuum’s powerful suck?

To find out, Torricelli repeated his experiment with a slight twist. He put two tubes side by side. One was a straight glass tube about three feet long and the same diameter throughout. The other was similar except that it had a large round glass globe on the closed end. Both were filled with mercury (the one with the glass globe needed somewhat more than the other) and then tipped upside down into the same basin.

If Galileo’s argument was right, the tube with the globe on the end would have more empty space to suck with, which would pull its mercury level higher. But if Torricelli was right, the mercury in both tubes should fall to exactly the same level.

The bright silver mercury slipped down the sides of both tubes and ended up at exactly the same level, one ell and a quarter and a finger above the level of the bath. Torricelli was right. No matter how much vacuum was in the space above the mercury, the force holding it up was still the same. Vacuums don’t suck; the air pushes.

This is a truly extraordinary notion, an effect of our atmosphere that we encounter unwittingly all the time. When you sip through a straw, you may think the power of your suction pulls the drink into your mouth. But it doesn’t. Your suck simply moves the air away from one side of the straw, and the drink then arrives in your mouth courtesy of the overwhelming weight of the air around you. The same thing happens when a baby drinks from its mother’s breast. The baby’s enthusiastic sucking just removes the air from around its mother’s nipple; the force of the air above her then squeezes the mother’s breast and sends milk spurting into the baby’s mouth. It’s the same, too, with a vacuum cleaner. The air outside pushes dust and debris up the hose because the air that had been shoving equally from the other side has now been removed. Try using a vacuum cleaner in space and you won’t be picking up cosmic dust, since there isn’t any air on the other side to do the pushing.

Torricelli’s experiment with the glass globe had proved the weight of the atmosphere to his own satisfaction, but it would take more than that to convince the rest of the world. Part of the problem was that this notion is so counterintuitive. The air just doesn’t seem to be that heavy. We can walk through it without even noticing it’s there. If it really were pushing down on us continually with such a great force, why wouldn’t we be crushed? (The answer is that most parts of our bodies aren’t compressible, and the few collapsible spaces contain air at exactly the same pressure as the air outside. As hard as our atmosphere pushes down on us, we push back.)

It didn’t help that news of the crucial experiments only trickled out gradually by whispers and rumors. Proud though he was of his findings, Torricelli didn’t dare trumpet them to the rest of the world. The trouble was that he had been playing with vacuums. And the Church, in another of its unfortunate pronouncements on physics, had declared belief in the vacuum to be heretical.

The Church had decided to abhor the vacuum mainly because of the teachings of various philosophers who had lived long before Christ. Aristotle, for instance, believed that a vacuum was logically impossible. For him, space was, by definition, the place where objects resided. If there were no objects there could be no space, and hence no vacuum. The materialists Democritus and later Lucretius, however, believed that all matter was composed of tiny indivisible particles called atoms, which were separated from one another by empty space.

Not much progress was made in the following twenty-one centuries to resolve this issue, and by the sixteenth century the Catholic Church had decided to side with Aristotle. By reducing all of Creation to a collection of atoms, Democritus and Lucretius had left no room for spirit or soul, and also raised troubling questions about exactly how, scientifically speaking, the communion wafer and wine could transform into flesh and blood. Their philosophies were therefore anathema. Tarred by association, belief in the existence of a vacuum was also declared heretical. According to the religious authorities, God had decreed that a vacuum would be so unnatural that air would always rush in immediately to prevent one from being formed. To say otherwise was to risk the wrath of the Inquisition.

Having seen the effects of Galileo’s mild outspokenness, Torricelli opted for discretion. He never published his results, except in one

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  • (4/5)

    1 person found this helpful

    A nice overview of the history of the science of the atmosphere. The book is well-written, and covers the personalities and the discoveries well, and mostly links them together pretty well. Not very technical, but gets across the physical and chemical concepts pretty well.

    1 person found this helpful