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First of two parts

Sometimes it seems like every year offers an occasion to celebrate some sort of Einstein anniversary.

In 2015, everybody lauded the 100th anniversary of his general theory of relativity. Last year, scientists celebrated the centennial of his prediction of gravitational waves — by reporting the discovery of gravitational waves. And this year marks the centennial of Einstein’s paper establishing the birth of modern cosmology.

Before Einstein, cosmology was not very modern at all. Most scientists shunned it. It was regarded as a matter for philosophers or possibly theologians. You could do cosmology without even knowing any math.

But Einstein showed how the math of general relativity could be applied to the task of describing the cosmos. His theory offered a way to study cosmology precisely, with a firm physical and mathematical basis. Einstein provided the recipe for transforming cosmology from speculation to a field of scientific study.

“There is little doubt that Einstein’s 1917 paper … set the foundations of modern theoretical cosmology,” Irish physicist Cormac O’Raifeartaigh and colleagues write in a new analysis of that paper.

Einstein had pondered the implications of his new theory for cosmology even before he had finished it. General relativity was, after all, a theory of space and time — all of it. Einstein’s showed that gravity — the driving force sculpting the cosmic architecture — was simply the distortion of spacetime geometry generated by the presence of mass and energy. (He constructed an equation to show how spacetime geometry, on the left side of the equation, was determined by the density of mass-energy, the right side.) Since spacetime and mass-energy account for basically everything, the entire cosmos ought to behave as general relativity’s equation required.

Newton’s law of gravity had posed problems in that regard. If every mass attracted every other mass, as Newton had proclaimed, then all the matter in the universe ought to have just collapsed itself into one big blob. Newton suggested that the universe was infinite, filled with matter, so that attraction inward was balanced by the attraction of matter farther out. Nobody really bought that explanation, though. For one thing, it required a really precise arrangement: One star out of place, and the balance of attractions disappears and the universe collapses. It also required an infinity of stars, making it impossible to explain why it’s dark at night. (There would be a star out there along every line of sight at all times.)

Einstein hoped his theory of gravity would resolve the cosmic paradoxes of Newtonian gravity. So in early 1917, less than a year after his complete paper on the general theory was published, he delivered a short paper to the Prussian Academy of Sciences outlining the implications of his theory for cosmology.
In that paper, titled “Cosmological Considerations in the General Theory of Relativity,” he started by noting the problems posed by using Newton’s gravity to describe the universe. Einstein showed that Newton’s gravity would require a finite island of stars sitting in an infinite space. But over time such a collection of stars would evaporate. That problem could be avoided, though, if the universe turned out not to be infinite. Instead, Einstein said, everything would be fine if the universe is finite. Big, sure, but curved in such a way that it closed on itself, like a sphere.

Einstein’s mathematical challenge was to show that such a finite cosmic spacetime would be static and stable. (In those days nobody knew that the universe was expanding.) He assumed that on a large enough scale, the distribution of matter in this universe could be considered uniform. (Einstein said it was like viewing the Earth as a smooth sphere for most purposes, even though its terrain is full of complexities on smaller distance scales.) Matter’s effect on spacetime curvature would therefore be pretty much constant, and the universe’s overall condition would be unchanging.

All this made sense to Einstein because he had a limited view of what was actually going on in the cosmos. Like many scientists in those days, he believed the universe was basically just the Milky Way galaxy. All the known stars moved fairly slowly, consistent with his belief in a spherical cosmos with uniformly distributed mass. Unfortunately, general relativity’s math didn’t work if that was the case — it suggested the universe would not be stable. Einstein realized, though, that his view of the static spherical universe would succeed if he added a term to his original equation.

In fact, there were good reasons to include the term anyway. O’Raifeartaigh and colleagues point out that in his earlier work on general relativity, Einstein remarked in a footnote that his equation technically permitted the inclusion of an additional term. That didn’t seem to matter at the time. But in his cosmology paper, Einstein found that it was just the thing his equation needed to describe the universe properly (as Einstein then supposed the universe to be). So he added that factor, designated by the Greek letter lambda, to the left-hand side of his basic general relativity equation.

“That term is necessary only for the purpose of making possible a quasi-static distribution of matter, as required by the fact of the small velocities of the stars,” Einstein wrote in his 1917 paper. As long as the magnitude of this new term on the geometry side of the equation was small enough, it would not alter the theory’s predictions for planetary motions in the solar system.

Einstein’s 1917 paper demonstrated the mathematical effectiveness of lambda (also called the “cosmological constant”) but did not say much about its physical interpretation. In another paper, published in 1918, he commented that lambda represented a negative mass density — it played “the role of gravitating negative masses which are distributed all over the interstellar space.” Negative mass would counter the attractive gravity and prevent all the matter in Einstein’s spherical finite universe from collapsing.

As everybody now knows, though, there is no danger of collapse, because the universe is not static to begin with, but rather is rapidly expanding. After Edwin Hubble had established such expansion, Einstein abandoned lambda as unnecessary (or at least, set it equal to zero in his equation). Others built on Einstein’s foundation to derive the math needed to make sense of Hubble’s discovery, eventually leading to the modern view of an expanding universe initiated by a Big Bang explosion.

But in the 1990s, astronomers discovered that the universe is not only expanding, it is expanding at an accelerating rate. Such acceleration requires a mysterious driving force, nicknamed “dark energy,” exerting negative pressure in space. Many experts believe Einstein’s cosmological constant, now interpreted as a constant amount of energy with negative pressure infusing all of space, is the dark energy’s true identity.

Einstein might not have been surprised by all of this. He realized that only time would tell whether his lambda would vanish to zero or play a role in the motions of the heavens. As he wrote in 1917 to the Dutch physicist-astronomer Willem de Sitter: “One day, our actual knowledge of the composition of the fixed-star sky, the apparent motions of fixed stars, and the position of spectral lines as a function of distance, will probably have come far enough for us to be able to decide empirically the question of whether or not lambda vanishes.”

Immune system cells may help your heart keep the beat. These cells, called macrophages, usually protect the body from invading pathogens. But a new study published April 20 in Cell shows that in mice, the immune cells help electricity flow between muscle cells to keep the organ pumping.

Macrophages squeeze in between heart muscle cells, called cardiomyocytes. These muscle cells rhythmically contract in response to electrical signals, pumping blood through the heart. By “plugging in” to the cardiomyocytes, macrophages help the heart cells receive the signals and stay on beat.
Researchers have known for a couple of years that macrophages live in healthy heart tissue. But their specific functions “were still very much a mystery,” says Edward Thorp, an immunologist at Northwestern University’s Feinberg School of Medicine in Chicago. He calls the study’s conclusion that macrophages electrically couple with cardiomyocytes “paradigm shifting.” It highlights “the functional diversity and physiologic importance of macrophages, beyond their role in host defense,” Thorp says.

Matthias Nahrendorf, a cell biologist at Harvard Medical School, stumbled onto this electrifying find by accident.

Curious about how macrophages impact the heart, he tried to perform a cardiac MRI on a mouse genetically engineered to not have the immune cells. But the rodent’s heartbeat was too slow and irregular to perform the scan.
These symptoms pointed to a problem in the mouse’s atrioventricular node, a bundle of muscle fibers that electrically connects the upper and lower chambers of the heart. Humans with AV node irregularities may need a pacemaker to keep their heart beating in time. In healthy mice, researchers discovered macrophages concentrated in the AV node, but what the cells were doing there was unknown.
Isolating a heart macrophage and testing it for electrical activity didn’t solve the mystery. But when the researchers coupled a macrophage with a cardiomyocyte, the two cells began communicating electrically. That’s important, because the heart muscle cells contract thanks to electrical signals.

Cardiomyocytes have an imbalance of ions. While in the resting state, there are more positive ions outside the cell than inside, but when a cardiomyocyte receives an electrical signal from a neighboring heart cell, that distribution switches. This momentary change causes the cell to contract and send the signal on to the next cardiomyocyte.

Scientists previously thought that cardiomyocytes were capable of this electrical shift, called depolarization, on their own. But Nahrendorf and his team found that macrophages aid in the process. Using a protein, a macrophage hooks up to a cardiomyocyte. This protein directly connects the inside of these cells to each other, allowing macrophages to transfer positive charges, giving cardiomyocytes a boost kind of like with a jumper cable. This makes it easier for the heart cells to depolarize and trigger the heart contraction, Nahrendorf says.

“With the help of the macrophages, the conduction system becomes more reliable, and it is able to conduct faster,” he says.

Nahrendorf and colleagues found macrophages within the AV node in human hearts as well but don’t know if the cells play the same role in people. The next step is to confirm that role and explore whether or not the immune cells could be behind heart problems like arrhythmia, says Nahrendorf.

Like most moms and dads, my time in the post-baby throes of sleep deprivation is a hazy memory. But I do remember feeling instant rage upon hearing a popular piece of advice for how to get my little one some shut-eye: “sleep begets sleep.” The rule’s reasoning is unassailable: To get some sleep, my baby just had to get some sleep. Oh. So helpful. Thank you, lady in the post office and entire Internet.

So I admit to feeling some satisfaction when I came across a study that found an exception to the “sleep begets sleep” rule. The study quite reasonably suggests there is a finite amount of sleep to be had, at least for the 50 Japanese 19-month-olds tracked by researchers.

The researchers used activity monitors to record a week’s worth of babies’ daytime naps, nighttime sleep and activity patterns. The results, published June 9, 2016, in Scientific Reports, showed a trade-off between naps and night sleep. Naps came at the expense of night sleep: The longer the nap, the shorter the night sleep, the researchers found. And naps that stretched late into the afternoon seemed to push back bedtime.

In this study, naps didn’t affect the total amount of sleep each child got. Instead, the distribution of sleep across day and night changed. That means you probably can’t tinker with your toddler’s nap schedule without also tinkering with her nighttime sleep. In a way, that’s reassuring: It makes it harder to screw up the nap in a way that leads to a sleep-deprived child. If daytime sleep is lacking, your child will probably make up for it at night.

A sleeping child looks blissfully relaxed, but beneath that quiet exterior, the body is doing some incredible work. New concepts and vocabulary get stitched into the brain. The immune system hones its ability to bust germs. And limbs literally stretch. Babies grew longer in the four days right after they slept more than normal, scientists reported in Sleep in 2011. Scientists don’t yet know if this important work happens selectively during naps or night sleep.

Right now, both my 4-year-old and 2-year-old take post-lunch naps (and on the absolute best of days, those naps occur in glorious tandem). Their siestas probably push their bedtimes back a bit. But that’s OK with all of us. Long spring and summer days make it hard for my girls to go to sleep at 7:30 p.m. anyway. The times I’ve optimistically tried an early bedtime, my younger daughter insists I look out the window to see the obvious: “The sky is awake, Mommy.”

A question flamingo researchers get asked all the time — why the birds stand on one leg — may need rethinking. The bigger puzzle may be why flamingos bother standing on two.

Balance aids built into the birds’ basic anatomy allow for a one-legged stance that demands little muscular effort, tests find. This stance is so exquisitely stable that a bird sways less to keep itself upright when it appears to be dozing than when it’s alert with eyes open, two Atlanta neuromechanists report May 24 in Biology Letters.
“Most of us aren’t aware that we’re moving around all the time,” says Lena Ting of Emory University, who measures what’s called postural sway in standing people as well as in animals. Just keeping the human body vertical demands constant sensing and muscular correction for wavering. Even standing robots “are expending quite a bit of energy,” she says. That could have been the case for flamingos, she points out, since effort isn’t always visible.
Ting and Young-Hui Chang of the Georgia Institute of Technology tested balance in fluffy young Chilean flamingos coaxed onto a platform attached to an instrument that measures how much they sway. Keepers at Zoo Atlanta hand-rearing the test subjects let researchers visit after feeding time in hopes of catching youngsters inclined toward a nap — on one leg on a machine. “Patience,” Ting says, was the key to any success in this experiment.

As a flamingo standing on one foot shifted to preen a feather or joust with a neighbor, the instrument tracked wobbles in the foot’s center of pressure, the spot where the bird’s weight focused. When a bird tucked its head onto its pillowy back and shut its eyes, the center of pressure made smaller adjustments (within a radius of 3.2 millimeters on average, compared with 5.1 millimeters when active).
Museum bones revealed features of the skeleton that might enhance stability, but bones alone didn’t tell the researchers enough. Deceased Caribbean flamingos a zoo donated to science gave a better view. “The ‘ah-ha!’ moment was when I said, ‘Wait, let’s look at it in a vertical position,’” Ting remembers. All of a sudden, the bird specimen settled naturally into one-legged lollipop alignment.

In flamingo anatomy, the hip and the knee lie well up inside the body. What bends in the middle of the long flamingo leg is not a knee but an ankle (which explains why to human eyes a walking flamingo’s leg joint bends the wrong way). The bones themselves don’t seem to have a strict on-off locking mechanism, though Ting has observed bony crests, double sockets and other features that could facilitate stable standing.

The bird’s distribution of weight, however, looked important for one-footed balance. The flamingo’s center of gravity was close to the inner knee where bones started to form the long column to the ground, giving the precarious-looking position remarkable stability. The specimen’s body wasn’t as stable on two legs, the researchers found.
Reinhold Necker of Ruhr University in Bochum, Germany, is cautious about calling one-legged stances an energy saver. “The authors do not consider the retracted leg,” says Necker, who has studied flamingos. Keeping that leg retracted could take some energy, even if easy balancing saves some, he proposes.

The new study takes an important step toward understanding how flamingos stand on one leg, but doesn’t explain why, comments Matthew Anderson, a comparative psychologist at St. Joseph’s University in Philadelphia. He’s found that more flamingos rest one-legged when temperatures drop, so he proposes that keeping warm might have something to do with it. The persistent flamingo question still stands.

Astronomers want you in on the search for the solar system’s ninth planet.

In the online citizen science project Backyard Worlds: Planet 9, space lovers can flip through space images and search for this potential planet as well as other far-off worlds awaiting discovery.

The images, taken by NASA’s Wide-field Infrared Survey Explorer satellite, offer a peek at a vast region of uncharted territory at the far fringes of the solar system and beyond. One area of interest is a ring of icy rocks past Neptune, known as the Kuiper belt. Possible alignments among the orbits of six objects out there hint that a ninth planet exerting its gravitational influence lurks in the darkness (SN: 7/23/16, p. 9). The WISE satellite may have imaged this distant world, and astronomers just haven’t identified it yet. Dwarf planets, free-floating worlds with no solar system to call home (SN: 4/4/15, p. 22) and failed stars may also be hidden in the images.
The WISE satellite has snapped the entire sky several times, resulting in millions of images. With so many snapshots to sift through, researchers need extra eyes. At the Backyard Worlds website, success in spotting a new world requires sharp sight. You have to stare at what seems like thousands of fuzzy dots in a series of four false-color infrared images taken months to years apart and identify faint blobs that appear to move. Spot that movement and you may have found a new world.

But you can’t let blurry spots or objects moving in only a couple of the frames fool you: Image artifacts can look like convincing space objects. True detections come from slight shifts in the positions of red or whitish-blue dots. With so many dots to track, it’s best to break up an image into sections and then click through the four images section by section. This process can take hours. But think of the payoff — discovering a distant world no one has observed before.

Once you’ve marked any potential object of interest, the project’s astronomers take over. Jackie Faherty of the American Museum of Natural History in New York City and colleagues cross-reference the object’s coordinates with databases of celestial worlds. If the object does, in fact, appear to be a newbie, the team requests time on other telescopes to do follow-up. Those studies can reveal whether the object is a failed star or a planet.

So far, tens of thousands of citizen scientists have scoured images at Backyard Worlds. The team has identified five possible failed stars and had its first paper accepted for publication.

But there’s still much more to explore: The elusive Planet Nine might still be out there, disguised as a flash of dots.

Water swirling down a drain has exposed an elusive phenomenon long believed to appear in black holes.

Light waves scattering off a rotating black hole can bounce off with more energy than they came in with, by sapping some of the black hole’s rotational energy. But the effect, predicted in 1971 and known as rotational superradiance, is so weak that it would be extremely difficult to observe in a real black hole. So scientists had never seen rotational superradiance in action. Now, physicists report June 12 in Nature Physics that they’ve glimpsed the effect for the first time, in a black hole doppelgänger made with a vortex of water, similar to water swirling down a bathtub drain.
“If you take a tennis ball and you throw it against a wall, you don’t expect it to come back with more energy,” says Silke Weinfurtner of the University of Nottingham in England, who led the study. “But when you throw something at a black hole, if it’s a rotating black hole, you can actually gain energy.”

To demonstrate the effect, the scientists created a swirl of water. “The fluid has to drain in a way that looks like a black hole,” says physicist Antonin Coutant, also at Nottingham. Surface ripples reach a point of no return where they are sucked into the vortex. That’s analogous to a black hole’s event horizon, the boundary from which no light can escape. Weinfurtner, Coutant and colleagues report that water waves scattering off the vortex got a superradiant boost: They were amplified by up to 14 percent on average, depending on the frequency and direction of the waves.

For obvious reasons, researchers can’t study a real black hole in a laboratory. If they could, “we’d all be in trouble,” says physicist Sam Dolan of the University of Sheffield in England, who was not involved with the study. A water vortex is the next best thing. The result, Dolan says, “gives us more confidence that our theories about black holes are correct.”

Although rotational superradiance is a weak effect in black holes, there may be opportunities to observe it, says physicist Vítor Cardoso of Instituto Superior Técnico in Lisbon, Portugal. Superradiance affects gravitational waves as well as light waves. Ripples in spacetime stirred up by merging black holes (SN Online: 6/1/17) should be slightly amplified if those black holes are spinning. That amplification could be observed by future ultrasensitive gravitational wave detectors.

Hunter-gatherers who built and worshiped at one of the oldest known ritual centers in the world carved up human skulls in a style all their own.

At Turkey’s Göbekli Tepe site — where human activity dates to between around 11,600 and 10,000 years ago — people cut deep grooves in three human skulls and drilled a hole in at least one of them, say archaeologist Julia Gresky of the German Archaeological Institute in Berlin and colleagues. Ancient hunter-gatherers there practiced a previously unknown version of a “skull cult,” in which human skulls were ritually modified after death and then deposited together, Gresky’s team reports online June 28 in Science Advances.

Collections of human skulls modified in other ways have been found at several sites from around the same time. For instance, deliberately broken faces on skulls were unearthed at a Syrian settlement and may represent a form of punishment after death.

Seven excavated skull fragments enabled Gresky’s group to reconstruct the Göbekli Tepe skulls. These skulls of the recently deceased were carved for use in ceremonies to worship them as ancestors, the researchers propose. It’s also possible that the skull incisions marked deceased individuals who had been especially revered or reviled while alive.

A cord inserted through the hole drilled in one skull may have suspended that skull for display. Grooves probably ran from front to back on the skulls and possibly stabilized cords that held decorations of some kind.

Microscopic study of skull pieces from Göbekli Tepe indicates that grooves were cut with stone tools. A lack of healed bone on the edges of incisions suggests skull carving occurred shortly after death.

In July of 1972, NASA launched the first Landsat satellite into orbit around Earth. Since then, the spacecraft and its successors have transformed our understanding of Antarctica (and the rest of the planet, too). In the first year following the launch, Landsat’s images of the faraway continent showed “uncharted mountain ranges, vast ice movements and errors in maps as little as two years old,” according to an article published in Science News. William MacDonald of the U.S. Geological Survey, who had spent eight years mapping a part of West Antarctica, was “shocked” to learn of previously unknown peaks just 100 miles from McMurdo Station.

Landsat’s images weren’t the first overhead shots of Antarctica, but to this day the program provides researchers a reliable and repeating view of hard-to-reach corners of the planet. It was Landsat images that in November of 2014 first alerted scientists to a growing crack in the Larsen C ice shelf that, after lengthening by about 20 kilometers in less than nine months, threatened to break off a Delaware-sized chunk of the shelf. With thermal imagery from Landsat 8 along with data from the European Space Agency’s Sentinel-1 satellites, scientists sitting half a world away tracked the Larsen C crack to its final break, as described by Ashley Yeager.
While satellites are scientists’ eyes in the skies, seismic sensors serve as ears to the ground. Alexandra Witze describes the work of scientists who are using seismic sensors to monitor nuclear weapons activity in a part of the planet where access to information is limited: North Korea. Five nuclear weapons tests have been confirmed in the country since 2006, all at an underground test site in Mount Mantap. By tracking seismic waves produced by such explosions, and comparing these rumbles with each other and with those produced by natural earthquakes and in experimental tests, researchers around the world gain valuable clues to where the hidden explosions are happening and, importantly, how powerful they are. A North Korea weapons test last year was detected as far away as Bolivia.

The art of eavesdropping certainly has its rewards. There are plenty more examples. Rachel Ehrenberg writes about how snooping scientists might listen in on kelp to predict ecosystem health. And Emily Conover reports on a newly discovered, relatively itty-bitty star some 600 light-years away. Astronomers spied on the star by watching it pass in front of a larger star, dimming the larger star’s light.

Sometimes astronomers get lucky and distant phenomena are much more straightforward to study. That will be the case later this month when a total solar eclipse passes across North America from Oregon to South Carolina. People will be monitoring the August 21 eclipse in all sorts of ways, including via a livestream from balloons at the edge of the atmosphere, as Lisa Grossman describes in “Watch the moon’s shadow race across the Earth from balloons.” Grossman will be reporting on the eclipse on the ground with scientists in Wyoming. You’ll find her stories — along with many others about the ways scientists watch, listen and learn — at www.lssfzb.com

For some poison dart frogs, gaining resistance to one of their own toxins came with a price.

The genetic change that gives one group of frogs immunity to a particularly lethal toxin also disrupts a key chemical messenger in the brain. But the frogs have managed to sidestep the potentially damaging side effect through other genetic tweaks, researchers report in the Sept. 22 Science.

While other studies have identified genetic changes that give frogs resistance to particular toxins, this study “lets you look under the hood” to see the full effects of those changes and how the frogs are compensating, says Butch Brodie, an evolutionary biologist at the University of Virginia in Charlottesville who wasn’t involved in the research.
Many poison dart frogs carry cocktails of toxic alkaloid molecules in their skin as a defense against predators (SN Online: 3/24/14). These toxins, picked up through the frogs’ diets, vary by species. Here, researchers studied frogs that carry epibatidine, a substance so poisonous that just a few millionths of a gram can kill a mouse.

Previous studies have shown that poisonous frogs have become resistant to the toxins the amphibians carry by messing with the proteins that these toxins bind to in the body. Switching out certain protein building blocks, or amino acids, changes the shape of the protein, which can prevent toxins from latching on. But making that change could have unintended side effects, too, says study coauthor Rebecca Tarvin, an evolutionary biologist at the University of Texas at Austin.

For example, the toxin epibatidine binds to proteins that are usually targeted by acetylcholine, a chemical messenger that’s necessary for normal brain function. So Tarvin and her colleagues looked at how this acetylcholine receptor protein differed between poison frog species that are resistant to epibatidine and some of their close relatives that aren’t.
Identifying differences between the frogs in the receptor protein’s amino acids allowed researchers to systematically test the effects of each change. To do so, the scientists put the genetic instructions for the same protein in humans, who aren’t resistant to epibatidine, into frog eggs. The researchers then replaced select amino acids in the human code with different poison frog substitutions to find an amino acid “switch” that would make the resulting receptor protein resistant to epibatidine.

But epibatidine resistance wasn’t a straightforward deal, it turned out. “We noticed that replacing one of those amino acids in the human [protein] made it resistant to epibatidine, but also affected its interaction with acetylcholine,” says study coauthor Cecilia Borghese, a neuropharmacologist also at the University of Texas at Austin. “Both are binding in the exact same region of the protein. It’s a very delicate situation.” That is, the amino acid change that made the receptor protein resistant to epibatidine also made it harder for acetylcholine to attach, potentially impeding the chemical messenger’s ability to do its job.

But the frogs themselves don’t seem impaired. That’s because other amino acid replacements elsewhere in the receptor protein appear to have compensated, Borghese and Tarvin found, creating a protein that won’t let the toxin latch on, but that still responds normally to acetylcholine.

The resistance-giving amino acid change appears to have evolved three separate times in poison frogs, Tarvin says. Three different lineages of the frogs have resistance to the poison, and all of them got that immunity by flipping the same switch. But the amino acid changes that bring back a normal acetylcholine response aren’t the same across those three groups.

“It’s a cool convergence that these other switches weren’t identical, but they all seem to recover that function,” Brodie says.

Two days before plunging into Saturn, the Cassini spacecraft took one last look around the planet it had orbited for more than 13 years.

The view of Saturn above, released November 21, is actually made from 42 images that have been stitched together. Six moons — Enceladus, Epimetheus, Janus, Mimas, Pandora and Prometheus — are faintly visible as dots surrounding the gas giant (see the annotated image below). Cassini was about 1.1 million kilometers away from Saturn when it took the images on September 13. The whole observation took a little over two hours.

On September 11, Cassini set itself on a collision course with Saturn, and on September 15, the probe ended its mission by burning up in Saturn’s atmosphere, taking data all the way down.