The Spatialities of Radio Astronomy [1 ed.] 9781003328353, 9781032357461, 9781032357478

Table of contents :
Cover
Half Title
Series Page
Title Page
Copyright Page
Dedication
Contents
List of Acronyms and Abbreviations
Foreword
1. Introduction
Four Radio Telescopes
Overview
Notes
2. Fortress Science
Science and Space
Producing Space
Science, Technology, and Society
Boundary Exploration
Technology and Infrastructure
Landscape and Territory
Landscape
Territory
Glacis
On a Mountain Peak
Notes
3. Making Science
Arecibo Observatory
Clearing the Forest
Making Waves
New Capabilities
Uncertainty
ALMA
Millimetre Wavelengths
Three Observatories
Assembling Consensus
Assembling Parts
FAST
The Square Kilometre Array
Going Alone
MeerKAT
A Low Base
Taking Advantage
They Gaze Alertly
Conclusion
Notes
4. Territories of Emptiness
Filling the Void
Enacting Emptiness
Siting
Re-scripting
Defending
Assembling Networks
Tethering
ALMA
MeerKAT
FAST
Arecibo
Conclusion
Notes
5. Hyper Concentration
Living Science
Context
Connections
Operations
New Architectures
Instrument
Object
Image
Performance
Notes
6. Negotiating Contingencies
Hurricane
Competition
Strike
Rural Minorities
Boundaries
Notes
Epilogue: To the Moon
Notes
Index

Citation preview

The Spatialities of Radio Astronomy

The Spatialities of Radio Astronomy examines the multidisciplinary overlap between the spatial disciplines and the studies of science and technology through a comparative study of four of the world’s most important radio telescopes. Employing detailed analysis, historical research, interviews, personal observations, and various conceptual manoeuvres, Guy Trangoš reveals the depth of spatial process active at these scientific sites and the territories they traverse. Through the conceptual frameworks of territory, hyper-concentration, and contingency, Trangoš interprets the telescope as exploded across space and time, present in multiple connected sites simultaneously, and active in the production of space. He develops a historiographic and contemporary analysis of the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array (ALMA, Chile); the Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope (FAST, China); the Arecibo Observatory (Puerto Rico); and the MeerKAT/SKA (South Africa). These case studies are global exemplars of the different spatial transformations that occur through science. Their relationships to surrounding communities and landscapes reveal deeper constitutional processes embodied in each institutional and spatial form. This book spans the modern history of architecture and science, the studies of science, technology and society, and urban theory. It is of specific interest to architects and designers expanding their analysis of spatial production, scholars in the study of geography, landscape, science, technology, and astronomy, and people fascinated with how these radio telescopes were conceptualised, built, and operate today. Guy Trangoš is Senior Lecturer in the Department of Architecture at the University of Johannesburg, South Africa. His research examines the evolving relationships between urbanisation, society, science, technology, and outer space.

Routledge Research in Architecture

The Routledge Research in Architecture series provides the reader with the latest scholarship in the field of architecture. The series publishes research from across the globe and covers areas as diverse as architectural history and theory, technology, digital architecture, structures, materials, details, design, monographs of architects, interior design and much more. By making these studies available to the worldwide academic community, the series aims to promote quality architectural research. Architectural Possibilities in the Work of Eisenman Michael Jasper The Poetics of Arabian Sūqs: A Hermeneutic Reading of the Development of Arabian Sūqs from the Pre-Islamic Era to Present Jasmine Shahin Sverre Fehn and the City: Rethinking Architecture’s Urban Premises Stephen M. Anderson Exteriorless Architecture: Form, Space and Urbanities of Neoliberalism Stefano Corbo Transgressive Design Strategies for Utopian Cities: Theories, Methodologies and Cases in Architecture and Urbanism Bertug Ozarisoy, Hasim Altan Architecture and Affect: Precarious Spaces Lilian Chee Modernism in Late-Mao China: Architecture for Foreign Affairs in Beijing, Guangzhou and Overseas, 1969-1976 Ke Song The Spatialities of Radio Astronomy Guy Trangoš For more information about this series, please visit: https://www.routledge. com/Routledge-Research-in-Architecture/book-series/RRARCH

The Spatialities of Radio Astronomy

Guy Trangoš

Cover design credit: Service access road underneath the reflector dish of the Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope (FAST), Guizhou Province, China (by author, 2019). First published 2023 by Routledge 4 Park Square, Milton Park, Abingdon, Oxon, OX14 4RN and by Routledge 605 Third Avenue, New York, NY 10158 Routledge is an imprint of the Taylor & Francis Group, an informa business © 2023 Guy Trangoš The right of Guy Trangoš to be identified as author of this work has been asserted in accordance with sections 77 and 78 of the Copyright, Designs and Patents Act 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this book may be reprinted or reproduced or utilised in any form or by any electronic, mechanical, or other means, now known or hereafter invented, including photocopying and recording, or in any information storage or retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publishers. Trademark notice: Product or corporate names may be trademarks or registered trademarks, and are used only for identification and explanation without intent to infringe. British Library Cataloguing-in-Publication Data A catalogue record for this book is available from the British Library ISBN: 978-1-032-35746-1 (hbk) ISBN: 978-1-032-35747-8 (pbk) ISBN: 978-1-003-32835-3 (ebk) DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353 Typeset in Sabon by MPS Limited, Dehradun

For my family

Contents

List of Acronyms and Abbreviations Foreword

ix xiii

1

Introduction Four Radio Telescopes 4 Overview 11

1

2

Fortress Science Science and Space 17 Technology and Infrastructure 29 Landscape and Territory 33 On a Mountain Peak 41

15

3

Making Science Arecibo Observatory 49 ALMA 68 FAST 88 MeerKAT 102

47

4

Territories of Emptiness Filling the Void 131 Assembling Networks 147

131

5

Hyper Concentration Living Science 167 New Architectures 189 Performance 198

165

viii 6

Contents Negotiating Contingencies Hurricane 212 Competition 217 Strike 220 Rural Minorities 223 Boundaries 227

209

Epilogue: To the Moon

235

Index

239

List of Acronyms and Abbreviations

ACA ACAMAR

Atacama Compact Array Australian-China Consortium for Astrophysical Research AEM-Consortium Thales Alenia Space, EIE, and MT Mechatronics AFCRL Air Force Cambridge Research Laboratories AGA South African Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act of 2007 AIO Arecibo Ionospheric Observatory ALMA Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array ANT Actor Network Theory AOS Array Operations Site APEX Atacama Pathfinder Experiment ARC ALMA Region Center ARPA Advanced Research Projects Agency ASKAP Australian Square Kilometer Array Pathfinder ASTRON Netherlands Institute for Radio Astronomy AUI Associated Universities Incorporated BAO Beijing Astronomical Observatory C-BASS C-Band All Sky Survey CCD Charged-Couple Device CCTV Closed Circuit Television CERN European Organization for Nuclear Research CHPC Center for High Performance Computing CNRS French National Center for Scientific Research CRSR Center for Radiophysics and Space Research CSIR South African Council for Scientific and Industrial Research CSIRO Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, Australia DALI Dark Ages Lunar Interferometer DSS51 Deep Space Station 51 E-ELT European Extremely Large Telescope EHF Extremely High Frequency Radio Band

x List of Acronyms and Abbreviations EHT EIS ESO EVN FAST FCC FEMA FRD GBT GDP GLONASS GPS GRP GSD HartRAO HI HIA IAU IRAM ISSC ITRA JCMT JWST KAPB KARST MeerKAT KAT-7 LCRT LED LIDAR LMA LMSA LPG LSA MBO MELCO MFGT MIT MKO MMA MPG MPIfR

Event Horizon Telescope Environmental Impact Statement European Southern Observatory European VLBI Network Five-Hundred-Meter Aperture Spherical Radio Telescope Federal Communications Commission Federal Emergency Management Agency Foundation for Research and Development Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope Gross Domestic Product Global Navigation Satellite System Global Positioning System Gross Regional Product Harvard University Graduate School of Design Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory Hydrogen Line Hydrogen Array International Astronomy Union Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths International SKA Steering Committee International Telescope for Radio Astronomy James Clerk Maxwell Telescope James Webb Space Telescope Karoo Array Processor Building Kilometer Area Radio Synthesis Telescope Meer (More) Karoo Array Telescope Karoo Array Telescope-7 Lunar Crater Radio Telescope Light-Emitting Diode Light Detection and Ranging Large Millimeter Array Large Millimeter and Submillimeter Array Liquid Petroleum Gas Large Southern Array Mont Blanc Observatory Mitsubishi Electric Corporation Multi-Fuel Gas Turbines Massachusetts Institute of Technology Mauna Kea Observatories Millimeter Array Max Plank Society Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy

List of Acronyms and Abbreviations xi MPS/AC NAIC NAOC NAOJ NASA NCA NFRA NINS NMA NOEMA NRAO NRF NSF NUMSA OECD OSF OSO PPARC PRCZ RDP RFI RQZ SAGMA SALT SANParks SANREN SARAO SCO SEST SETI SKA SKA1 SKAI SKA SA SMA SMO SMT SOWG SSAC SSG STS SUV

NSF Advisory Committee for Mathematical and Physical Sciences National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center National Astronomical Observatories of China National Astronomical Observatory of Japan National Aeronautics and Space Administration Japanese National Committee for Astronomy Netherlands Foundation for Radio Astronomy National Institutes for Natural Sciences of Japan Nobeyama Millimeter Array NOrthern Extended Millimeter Array National Radio Astronomy Observatory National Research Foundation, South Africa National Science Foundation, United States of America National Union of Metalworkers of South Africa Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development Operations Support Facility Onsala Space Observatory Particle Physics and Astronomy Research Council Puerto Rico Radio Coordination Zone Reconstruction and Development Program Radio Frequency Interference Radio Quiet Zone Scientific Advisory Group for Millimeter Astronomy Southern African Large Telescope South African National Parks South African National Research and Education Network South African Radio Astronomy Observatory Santiago Central Offices Swedish-ESO Submillimeter Telescope Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence Square Kilometre Array Square Kilometre Array First Phase Square Kilometre Array Interferometer South African SKA Bid Team Submillimeter Array Caltech Submillimeter Observatory Submillimeter Telescope SKA Siting Options Working Group SKA Site Advisory Committee SKA Siting Group Studies of Science, Technology, and Society Sports Utility Vehicle

xii List of Acronyms and Abbreviations TAO TMT UAGM UCB UCF UMET UN URSI USRA UTL VISTA VLA VLBA VLBI VLT VST XDM

Tokyo Astronomical Observatory Thirty Meter Telescope Ana G. Méndez University University of California, Berkeley University of Central Florida Metropolitan University in Puerto Rico United Nations International Union of Radio Science Universities Space Research Association Urban Theory Lab Visible and Infrared Survey Telescope for Astronomy Very Large Array Very Long Baseline Array Very Long Baseline Interferometer Very Large Telescope VLT Survey telescope eXperimental Development Model Radio Telescope

Foreword

The radio telescope is one of those intangible typologies of architecture that lingers on the edge of mainstream discourse. The subject of contemporary radio telescopes as designed, spatial phenomena has largely evaded the architecture scholar. This is somewhat understandable, given the limited role of architects in leading the conceptualisation and design of these highly technical instruments. Through the twentieth century, however, the telescope has not only outgrown its leather case but the recognisable architectural form of the observatory too. In many advanced examples, the telescope has become an intensely spatial phenomenon exploded across a territory yet tethered together by extensive infrastructures. The largest and most advanced telescopes are built in specific and isolated places. People work in these remote facilities, travelling to them in rotational shifts. In many cases, the facility’s work is protected by laws governing urban development and radio interference that extends for kilometres. Indeed, the radio telescope is an intensely designed, lived, and functional space. While few architects would get the opportunity to design even a component of a facility, radio telescopes cannot be disregarded by the spatial disciplines as merely under the purview of science. These major facilities are not only the product of large-scale spatial transformations but continue to produce space through their daily operations. Growing up, I recall a phase of fascination with large architectural and engineering projects. My bedroom was plastered with graphic posters of these global achievements. From a section through the Channel Tunnel to a detailed image of the Hubble Telescope and an animated plan of JFK’s Terminals, the hyper-optimistic, globalist sentiment of the 1990s permeated the walls of our suburban home in Johannesburg’s southern suburbs. My career led me into architecture and urban research, with the latter drawing me into a doctoral degree. As I began my doctorate journey in the USA, scientists in my home country, South Africa, were bringing the MeerKAT telescope online. MeerKAT was a means for the South African scientific community to prove their astronomical mettle. Their end goal was to host the larger global project, the Square Kilometre Array (SKA), which proved successful in a shared arrangement with Australia. MeerKAT and its

xiv

Foreword

substantially extended form, the SKA, are saturated with an African technooptimism, and I was happy to oblige this perspective. Both projects spoke to a post-apartheid South African success story. A national narrative once alive with the rainbow imagery of racial reconciliation had become one obsessed with the destruction of the years under the presidency of Jacob Zuma. The vision of South Africa being a major part of advancing radio astronomy in the twenty-first century reignited a sense that the nation remained a relevant global player and that our efforts in reversing the educational imbalances of centuries of colonial and apartheid rule were succeeding. As a scholar of spatial theory, particularly intrigued by the planetary dimensions of urbanisation, the case of the MeerKAT and the SKA held many questions for me. Foremost among these was my interest in the direct interactions between these expensive global science sites and their spatial contexts. The people of these landscapes, towns, and social worlds have longengrained cultures and economies. These towns and homesteads are among the most isolated within a national infrastructure network, with constrained access to other places physically, economically, and socially. However, it is the very remoteness of these sites that has partially insulated and embedded their routine activities, cultures, and societies, which makes them desirable for astronomy. Once ear-marked as a radio astronomy site, radical transformations follow as the periphery becomes a centre and science dollars are pumped into former semi-arid farming land, as was the case with the MeerKAT/SKA. Data, electricity, and transport infrastructures are established or bolstered, and the new science centre is linked to nearby major urban nodes – in this case, Cape Town and Johannesburg – and the melange of global scientific research networks beyond. I found my interest in the MeerKAT/SKA project operated on three pragmatic fronts: the larger political and economic infrastructures that enable these projects, the construction of these sites, and their sustained operation. These central concerns question the processes by which the spatial transformation of a remote site is enabled, achieved, and finally sustained as operational. My initial research found that radio telescopes can remain in planning for decades in this journey to realisation. First, laws and ordinances are enacted to protect the radio frequency environment of the site, then land is assembled, tests and prototypes are established, and once construction begins, a sluice gate of global material, engineering, and technology suppliers – along with their distribution networks – is activated. People move to the site and occupy it, usually on contracts and in shifts. Together with radical landscape changes, they fortify the site as one of science for decades to come. The making of space science is a significant endeavour in planning, technology development, design, and construction. Processes of spatial production do not end with a ribbon-cutting ceremony. My initial interests expanded to evaluate the conjoined nature of landscape, instrument, and the subject of the endeavour: the universe. In studying the

Foreword xv processes by which radio astronomy research is carried out, the human experience of working at such a facility, and the production of images of space, I determine that scientific research implicitly relies on different spatial transformations. Scientific research enacts spatial transformations at various scales and through multiple means. Not only is the landscape physically altered in the construction and functioning of the facility, but it remains in a state of constant transformation as the instruments move, the surrounding context changes in relation to the facility, and workers come and go, for example. These spatial transformations continue and transcend terrestrial space as the universe is unveiled millimetre by millimetre. Data-based findings are made into images created for consumption by a broader public, and the geographies of space science are expanded. In assessing the multiple spatial entanglements of astronomy sites, it became evident early in this process that numerous case studies would be necessary to compare the interactions between different contexts and similarly foreign, enormous, and expensive scientific outposts. My ‘methodological nationalism’ soon found expansion outwards from South Africa to other complex and extremely interesting sites on three different continents. Each facility offered a difficult and winding path to realisation, with strong local and regional impacts providing further evidence of the varied process through which science can transform space. The disgruntled farming communities of the South African Karoo, the icy winds at 5,000 metres above sea level in the Atacama Desert, the space-themed urbanism in China’s Guizhou Province, and the destructive hurricane winds that befell Puerto Rico’s interior all entwine into deep contextual specificities through and despite which scientific activity continues. This research is the result of my journey through new disciplines and geographies. Its contributions offer a means to expand and deepen the fertile disciplinary overlaps between architecture, urban theory, critical geography, and the study of science, technology, and society (STS). This journey started with my acceptance into the Doctor of Design programme at the Harvard University Graduate School of Design (GSD). My enrolment at the GSD was possible thanks to funding from the South African National Research Foundation and the Oppenheimer Memorial Foundation. Neil Brenner, Mohsen Mostafavi, and Martin Bechthold saw promise in my proposal – quite a different project – and shepherded me through the first year. After deepening my focus in urban theory through continued engagements with Brenner and exploring a parallel interest in the history of technology under Merritt Roe Smith and a decolonial study of science under Gabriela Soto Laveaga, a few of the core concerns of this research began to crystalise, such as the substantial territorial effects of science and technology writ large in colonial contexts, the role of material artefacts in shaping the future course of human development, and the political nature of scientific knowledge production. Finally, through my interactions with Shiela Jasanoff, the promise of STS as a disciplinary space for my research began to emerge.

xvi

Foreword

The Urban Theory Lab (UTL) at the GSD, led by Brenner, became a fertile space for debate and discussion, where research on planetary urbanisation and environmental transformation under capitalism was constructively debated, and a warm scholarly community was forged. The work of the UTL overlapped productively with that of the New Geographies Journal, where many – if not most – of my contemporary editors had some connection. Through the journal, our broader research agendas could be aired, and our research community strengthened. Brenner academically infused and enthused this project with his laserfocused and characteristically convivial manner. He, Eve Blau, and Antoine Picon formed my dissertation committee – the source from which this book flowed. Their leading work on urban and architectural history (and technology in Picon’s case) positioned both as expert advisors in the methods and claims of this work. I would like to thank these individuals for their guidance and support for this project. The Harvard University Frederick Sheldon Traveling Fellowship enabled me to pursue on-site research at the four case studies – a research ambition that seemed near impossible (even more now, gazing back through those hazy lockdown years). Additional funding from the Harvard David Rockefeller Center for Latin American Studies and the Harvard Fairbank Center for Chinese Studies further supported other stages. This research would not have been possible without the many doors the generous radio astronomy community opened. This non-exhaustive list includes David Wilner, James Moran, Charles Alcock, and Tony Beasley. At ALMA: Sean Dougherty, Valeria Foncea, Alejandra Voigt, and Thais Mandiola; at the NAOC: Bo Peng and Di Li; at Arecibo: Francisco Córdova, Ricardo Correa, John Mathews, and Noemi Pinilla-Alonso; at SARAO: Adrian Tiplady, Tracy Cheetham, Anton Binneman, Nomfundo Makhubo, and Carel van der Merwe. My family, friends, and colleagues have had a profound influence on my research, both through debate and support. I want to thank my mother, Lynn Trangoš, forever my guiding star, despite our little time. Also, my father, Jano Trangoš, sister, Katy Trangoš, grandparents Anne and Duncan Turner, and supporters Thomas Coggin and Olga Trangoš. This multi-sited research endeavour mirrors those places I have called home and developed my academic interests often collaboratively. From Johannesburg, I thank Randall Bird, Kerry Bobbins, Catherine de Souza, Graeme Gotz, Bronwyn Kotzen, Faraaz Mahomed, Hannah le Roux, Alex Parker, Jenna Stelli, and the faculty of the Department of Architecture at the University of Johannesburg. From our time in London, I thank Ilana Adleson, Sharifa Alshalfan, Suzi Hall, Nicolas Palominos, Anca Rujoiu, and Adriana Young. Finally, for the camaraderie that saw me through this research in Cambridge, Massachusetts, Adil Ababou, Jannis Chen, Silvia Danielak, Igor Ekštajn, Caroline Filice Smith, Brandon Finn, Tommy Hill, Sam Matthew, Jeffrey Nesbit, Eamon O’Connor, Nerali Patel, Pratik Patel, Matthew Rodriguez,

Foreword xvii Maggie Salinger, Christina Shivers, Julia Smachylo, Jonathan Stitelman, Hannah van den Berg, and Andrew Westover. This book is a journey through many disciplines. My transgression of the often-imperceptible borders between these disciplines (at the margins, at least) has resulted in a melding of approaches. Readers of architecture and urban theory may wince at the density with which scientific acronyms find their way into this text. One of my minor observances was a peculiar obsession by the field of radio astronomy with abbreviations. They love to invent them – even when a name or word will do! Conversely, for readers of the history of science or technology, the density of spatial-theoretical terms and a fair dose of metaphor may seem indulgent. In response, I hope that all readers find a fertile overlap across these disparate traditions, which enables – as this research attempts – a means to read spatial processes in scientific activity. While this research aims to argue for continued multidisciplinary research into the subjects I investigate, I fully appreciate that readers from within specific disciplines may have direct interests in parts of the text. For this reason, the book is structured into discreet chapters which parse out, for example, the major historical study from the theoretical investigation. It is, however, in the overlaps that its broader and more meaningful contributions are made. Finally, as I close this forward, I would like to acknowledge the loss of the William E. Gordon telescope at Arecibo Observatory, which ended dramatically in late 2020. Much of this research was completed in Puerto Rico in 2019, and I consider myself extremely fortunate to have visited, photographed, and observed the operational telescope. I never imagined my historiographical analysis of Arecibo to be a beginning-to-end account. I would like to recognise the continued, inspiring work of the Arecibo Observatory, not only as a space of science but also as a community and symbol of pride for many Puerto Ricans.

1

Introduction

Every day we traverse the Earth lost in our routines. Our technological devices focus our gaze downwards, perhaps inwards. This disconnect from our surroundings not only mediates our social interactions with one another but further severs us from the vast natural rhythms and processes on which we are so obliviously reliant. One quickly forgets that the rising Sun is not merely a sign for work to start but a daily celebration of our universal context. Our small planet, in the edge zone of a comparably limitless and spiralling galaxy, has completed another rotation on its annual journey around the massive ball of exploding plasma we call the Sun. To know more of our cosmic neighbourhood, or indeed the infinite beyond, humans preoccupied with looking up have for millenia sought ways of interpreting and connecting with this vast context. Recently, we have extended our gaze far beyond our human sensory constraints with the help of technological mediators.1 These have served as material connections with this newfound knowledge: to know the Moon in the seventeenth century was to master the telescope. Through time, these human technologies have negoti­ ated the vast expansion of our astronomical horizons with foundational ef­ fects on society. From ancient wayfinding to modern warfare, the knowledge and potential of outer space radically shape life on Earth. The twentieth century saw significant advancements in the scientific study of outer space. Supported by sustained technological innovation, many new fields emerged, and research exploded. Specifically, radio astronomy, in the post–World War II era, came to radically expand the sciences dedicated to studying outer space. Our human understanding of the universe was no longer beholden to the limited visible light spectrum. Instead, astronomers found the much broader radio spectrum offers a rich, complex, and evol­ ving view of the universe as feint radio signals revealed such phenomena as distant molecular signatures or distinctive energy patterns.2 Supported by the advancement of radio astronomy and computing power, the early radio telescope has evolved into intricate, expensive, and vast complexes, taking the form of such instruments as a significant reflecting surface and a receiver, an array of dishes, or a field of antennas. As such, the telescope no longer exists solely in the iconic isolated DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-1

2 Introduction observatory wherein the lone astronomer cranks open an observation shutter every evening. Instead, advanced telescopes today embody multiple parts and systems: their scales are non-human; they occupy various places simultaneously; and they rely on global networks of labour, data, and research to function. The advanced telescope is a hybrid formation: part human, part landscape, part technology: at once material, social, and political. Radio astronomers and engineers build Earth-based telescopes in precise locations that come to replicate aspects of the interference-free vacuum of space. These places enable the faint signals connecting Earth to its universal origins to be captured and amplified by the sensitive systems of the radio telescope without the radio noise of our atmosphere or human settlements. As such, a central concern of scientists planning a new and advanced radio telescope is its geographic position and the many contextual idiosyncrasies impacting the scientific operation of the specific site. This locational specificity sets the advanced telescope apart from other scientific facilities, which often attempt a blanket a-contextualisation such as the various forms of the laboratory. As a result, many radio telescopes have become synonymous with their sites. Numerous leading telescopes, mainly radio telescopes, are built in peripheral locations: remote, at extreme alti­ tudes, immensely dry, or all three. Few places in the world are perfect for radio observations. Consequently, like a precious resource, nations have sought to protect these locations from human development, preserving them for continued scientific operations and investment.3 Each site, be it a high Andean plateau or a Western Australian desert, is selected for its synchro­ nicity with the scientific goals of the planned telescope. These landscapes are then transformed and operationalised into technological formations. The often-isolated site becomes a scientific centre, a hyper-concentrated human and technological assemblage extended through infrastructural tethers to other economic, political, and scientific centres. The advanced telescope today is not a particular site or instrument but a large, tethered formation – global in some cases – which enfolds multiple spaces, people, and technolo­ gies into the same scientific construct. Radio telescopes thus exist as foreign formations bearing limited aes­ thetic, functional, historical, or cultural resemblance to their locations. The most advanced radio telescopes are all the product of some form of international collaboration, centralised national strategy, or both. They seldom result from action on the part of locals or continued local sociotechnological evolution; instead, scientific agencies, together with gov­ ernmental partners, always impose the radio telescope and its broader infrastructures on a location from elsewhere. This imposition heightens the marked differences between the spatialities of the radio telescope and those landscapes, towns, and environments immediately beyond. The activation of telescope sites by the work of scientists and engineers further differentiates these facilities in stark contrast to the lives of local people.

Introduction 3 Indeed, as technological abnormalities in these generally sparsely popu­ lated locations, advanced telescopes embody the disconnect, fascination, intrigue, and curiosity on Earth that society has with outer space and our human-technological attempts to understand it. The spatiality of the radio telescope offers a lens into this complex and hybrid formation. By ‘spatiality,’ I refer to the broader material and con­ textual interactions that both enable the existence of an advanced radio telescope and support its functioning. These spatialities are designed, exist across near-infinite scales, and are unequally entangled in local and global systems. As such, the spatiality of the radio telescope is not merely a location in which scientific research occurs but a meshing of processes and their effects enacted across geographic space and time. Radio telescopes represent an extreme example of the transformations that occur through the interactions between science and space. Beyond their typological classification, each of these facilities exists as a complex assembly unto itself, in which multiple human, technological, and spatial processes unfold to know and construct the universe. Interestingly, a productive contradiction exists in the spatial construct of the radio telescope. As a site engaged in scientific knowledge production, the radio telescope requires an environmental vacuity close to outer space to function optimally. At the same time, the radio telescope requires significant connectivity for scientists and technicians to maintain, operate, and upgrade the facility and to transfer and process data. The radio telescope relies on being embedded in global data, labour, and communications networks while needing to be located far away from human interference. Numerous broader contextual considerations also affect the scientific project, such as complex topographies, resource availability, human accessibility, distance from uti­ lities, and political and economic stability. In achieving isolation and con­ nectivity, the radio telescope embodies two simultaneous spatial and scalar conditions: the concentrated assemblage of humans, technology, and built form; and its cross-continental infrastructural tethering to other places. These conditions are inherently spatial, territorial, and infrastructural. We know the radio telescope as a scientific instrument designed to seek replicable and verifiable knowledge. But it is far more than this: the radio telescope is a powerful model for investigating the spatialities of science. I became intrigued by the spatialities of science through the Square Kilometre Array (SKA) project that has seen significant progress in my home country, South Africa.4 The promise of the SKA has for decades now borne the symbolism of ‘Africa leading the world’ in the significant scien­ tific discipline of astronomy.5 For South Africa’s small radio astronomy community, the SKA presented an opportunity to do just that: build their precursor, the MeerKAT (amongst the most advanced instruments of its kind), and radically expand training and investment in radio astronomy. The MeerKAT project was built in the central Karoo region and resulted in significant changes, which the construction of the SKA extends. A science

4 Introduction project built roads, passed legislation, and created a national nature reserve.6 In addition, huge data infrastructure investments, such as an ex­ tensive fibre optic network, connected the Karoo to not-too-distant Cape Town and other urban centres. Cape Town also saw the construction of a radio astronomy research and operations complex. In following the development of MeerKAT, I began asking questions about the project: Do local communities benefit? How is this vast network being constructed? What are the spatial transformations taking place? What effect will the installation continue to have on the region? And what does this fragmented spatial transformation mean from an architectural or spatial theory perspective? These questions have infused this research at various levels. Still, more importantly, I soon realised that they must have broader application to other similarly advanced radio telescopes elsewhere to understand these spatialities of scientific knowledge production in var­ ious socio-political, geographical, and economic contexts. The scope of this work expanded as I sought more generalised outcomes. So began this multisited research project investigating the inherently spatial complexities of building and operating large radio telescopes and how these processes are not only inherently human but technologically dependent. This research resides within the post-structural traditions of the study of science, technology, and society (STS) and the contextually embedded analytical methods of the spatial disciplines (architecture, geography, and urban studies, among others). I drew on many social science approaches, such as structured interviews, photography, on-site analysis, and historical research, specifically focusing on each case study’s spatial, material, and social dynamics. Using these methods, I investigate the material and human conditions that enable knowledge production and, most importantly, the spatialities and transformations that give rise to these radio telescopes’ existence, operation, and knowledge products. The multi-sited and com­ parative case study approach that I use is grounded in seeking similarities, differences, and patterns across the case studies, which are, in effect, four similar sites from the perspective of their abstract scientific purpose. Each is fundamentally different to the next, but by examining the most extreme examples, in this case, the world’s most advanced radio telescopes, the processes at play carry grander scale and intensity.

Four Radio Telescopes The sites I examine are Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico, the Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array (ALMA) in Chile, the Five-hundredmeter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope (FAST) in China, and MeerKAT in South Africa. I selected these sites as they represent four of the most significant achievements in astronomy operational today. MeerKAT and ALMA are the world’s most advanced radio telescope arrays. FAST and Arecibo are the world’s most giant filled-aperture radio

Introduction 5 telescopes. Each has, at some point in its history, claimed to be the biggest telescope of its kind.7 Each is in a distinct context and a different global hemisphere: Arecibo and FAST are closer to human populations and urban agglomerations, while MeerKAT and ALMA occupy arid conditions with greater isolation from human activity. All projects have seen different pathways to realisation. For example, ALMA is the product of international collaboration led by the USA, Europe, and Japan, while MeerKAT and FAST are mainly products of South Africa and Chinese investment, respectively. Arecibo was built entirely with US funding. The Arecibo Observatory (Figure 1.1), located in central Puerto Rico, first came online in 1963 as the product of military funding and the initial need to improve research on the ionospheric layer of the atmosphere.8 The telescope was the first to use a natural topographical basin formation to support a massive reflector surface. The 305-metre diameter reflector distinguished Arecibo as the world’s biggest filled-aperture radio telescope for many dec­ ades, surpassed only by the completion of FAST in 2016. The observatory is located close to towns in the Arecibo region of Puerto Rico and has had a robust symbiotic relationship with the region for decades despite some con­ trols enacted by the observatory over radio-wave frequencies. Arecibo has been a favourite symbolic site of science within popular culture and was

Figure 1.1 Locating the Arecibo Observatory within Puerto Rico.

6 Introduction featured in the movies Species (1995), GoldenEye (1995), and Contact (1997). The facility weathered substantial funding challenges and managed to spring back following damage inflicted by Hurricane Maria in 2017. In the days following the hurricane, the observatory served as a central node from which people could collect water and other provisions, slowly facilitating recovery. In late 2020, the telescope experienced two significant cable breaks, and after engineers and the observatory could not chart a way to ensure safe repairs, they decommissioned the telescope. On 1 December 2020, the tele­ scope experienced total collapse. Radio astronomy lost a powerful and highly able telescope and one of the few major planetary radars. In one of the driest landscapes on Earth – a landscape which could be considered the opposite of Arecibo’s tropical clime – ALMA was built at over 5,000 metres (Figure 1.2). A 30-minute drive from the small his­ torical tourism centre of Chile’s San Pedro de Atacama, ALMA is wedged between volcanoes in a starkly dramatic landscape. The telescope is among the most sensitive and highest-frequency radio telescope arrays. The telescope comprises 66 separate and reconfigurable dish antennae arranged across the Chajnantor Plateau on a broader array of networked bases. Engineers can relocate each antenna, changing the baseline of the array.9 The telescope and its numerous support facilities were the product of international collaboration between the USA, Europe, and an East

Figure 1.2 Locating ALMA within Northern Chile.

Introduction 7 Asian block led by Japan. It has been operational since 2013 and has been responsible for numerous discoveries, the highlight of which is its con­ tributing role in the Event Horizon Telescope imaging of a black hole – a first for astronomy. Across the world, in a dramatic karst landscape, FAST officially passed its commissioning phase in January 2020 (Figure 1.3). It required a par­ ticular topographical location as the world’s largest filled-aperture radio telescope with a reflector diameter of 500 metres. The Dawodang depres­ sion in the karst region of Guizhou Province, China, was identified as the most appropriate site for the telescope. As a result, 9,110 people who lived within five kilometres of the facility were displaced and relocated.10 The innovative telescope operates as a single fixed dish. Actuators distort the reflecting surface to steer and focus it.11 FAST is China’s expanded version of the USA’s now obsolete William E. Gordon Telescope. With its claim to be the largest single telescope on Earth and a government-led tourism and economic development drive, FAST functions as a site of national pride and scientific achievement, attracting thousands of mainly local tourists. The recent construction of the ‘Astronomy Town’ where villages once stood, located near the observatory site, made seasonal and permanent urban amenities available. The town is themed as an outer space environment with a large museum celebrating space and astronomy.

Figure 1.3 Locating FAST within Guizhou Province, China.

8 Introduction Our final case study is MeerKAT, a 64-dish antenna array built in the semi-arid Karoo region of central-western South Africa (Figure 1.4). The South African Radio Astronomy Observatory (SARAO) drove the project as a forerunner to the substantial international SKA project. MeerKAT is a leading and versatile radio astronomy instrument designed to bolster and support the development of South Africa’s burgeoning field of radio astronomy. Its location in the central Karoo is more than an hour’s drive away from any town and over four hours drive away from any major urban centre. With most control of the site from a large office complex in Cape Town, MeerKAT has fewer operational staff on-site but maintains a pres­ ence and supportive role in the surrounding towns and that of Carnarvon specifically (Table 1.1). I visited each case study radio telescope examined here through 2019, with my final research trip to the SARAO head offices in Cape Town during February 2020. These research trips were remarkably well-timed consid­ ering the travel disruptions that were soon to follow. Embedding myself in these facilities and contexts was essential to understand the nuances of how people live and work, to see how the facility functions, and to experience those social cues and expressions that reveal much about the role of this scientific infrastructure concerning visitors, locals, and the scientific

Figure 1.4 Locating MeerKAT within the Northern Cape Province, South Africa.

Baseline Illuminated Diameter Focal Length Receiver Bands Transmission Bands

Design Reflector Size

Location Altitude Operational Cost 12 Telescope Type

132.6 m 10GHz–300 MHz 20TW at 2,380 MHz; 2.5TW at 430 MHz; 300 MW at 47 MHz; 6 MW at 8 MHz

Puerto Rico, USA 498 m 1963–2020 $9.3 million Filled Aperture Spherical Reflector Offset Gregorian; Line Feed 305 m main (22 m secondary; 9 m tertiary) NA 221 m

Arecibo Observatory

140 m 3GHz–70 MHz NA

NA 300 m

Guizhou, China 1,134 m 2016– $180 million Active Filled Aperture Spherical Reflector Active Reflector 500 m

FAST

Table 1.1 Core components and measures of the case study telescopes compared

NA 31GHz–1,000 GHz NA

Max: 16 km NA

Antofagasta, Chile 5,059 m 2013– $1.4 billion Astronomical Interferometer Cassegrain 54 × 12 m; 12 × 7 m

ALMA

NA 10GHz–1,000 MHz NA

Offset Gregorian 64 × 13.5 m main (3.8 m sub) 8 km NA

Northern Cape, South Africa 1,100 m 2016– $240 million Astronomical Interferometer

MeerKAT

Introduction 9

10 Introduction community. As an architect, time spent in the presence of these complex engineering feats was fascinating and inspiring. At the same time, as an urban researcher, my experience of the surrounding human settlements and landscapes offered compelling insights. Primarily, I was interested in four conditions: the negotiations that led to the construction and ongoing maintenance of the radio telescope at each site; the metabolic or systembased flows that each facility relies on to remain operational; the lived human experience of working at each facility; the various contingencies that have had a bearing on the scientific site and the surrounding built and natural environment. I spoke to at least ten employees at each location, sketched, assembled the documentation needed to understand the sites better, and took many photos. I carried both a digital and film camera to photograph aspects of the telescopes and surroundings. As requested, I only used my film camera at MeerKAT and Arecibo for fear of damaging observations and receiver technologies with the electronic components of a digital camera. However, at FAST and ALMA, I could use my digital camera as the former was not actively operating during my visit and the latter was not affected by the radio frequency interference of basic digital cameras. My photographs are an essential research resource; I have used them to demonstrate key points and interpretations. In addition to photography, I developed many diagrams deployed throughout these chapters. I created these in consultation with global infor­ mation systems (GIS) databases, freely available open-source platforms such as Open Street Maps, and online tools including Mapzen, Azimaps, and Protomaps. I sourced aerial photography from Google Earth and TianDiTu. Where data was not available, I developed my GIS datasets by tracing over aerial photographs. My visual approach to mapping extends the historical astronomy convention of framing outer space through the cartographic construct of the celestial sphere onto which the visible universe is projected and mapped in the round. The circular frame of the map is also a powerful scalar device and easily explains distance through the diameter. My research also draws heavily on primary sources such as official docu­ ments, historical interviews, memoirs, and reports to establish the historical foundations behind each project. Secondary sources have been important in filling in any information unavailable through a primary source. For example, I relied on news reports to follow the displacement of people as enacted for the construction of FAST. A primary source such as Google Earth used in conjunction with my photographs clearly showed the demolition of villages. Still, the displacement details were unavailable from a direct government source. As such, I used media reports to support any inaccessible facts. I also used peer-reviewed journal articles and scientific papers widely as the astronomy and history of science communities are both active in reflecting on the historiographies of radio telescopes. However, because MeerKAT, FAST, and ALMA only saw full operation during the past decade, historical

Introduction

11

reflections on these facilities are limited. As such, I present my historical research on these facilities as a recent history that future researchers may find helpful. In establishing a core theoretical raison d’être, I drew widely on published texts from within the fields of urban theory, architecture, geog­ raphy, history, history of science, history of art, and the studies of science, technology, and society. These fields all consider material, spatial, and human conditions and the interplay between them, and these similarities offer pro­ ductive moments of synchronicity and departure. In addition, I frequently draw on my observations and experience in visiting these remarkable sites.

Overview I have divided this book into six chapters and a concluding epilogue and designed each to add an analytical layer to the previous. This book is by no means a beginning-to-end affair but a rolling sequence of analytical and theoretical churning through the spatialities of science as interpreted through these case study sites. I set the historical and theoretical lineage – or context perhaps – for this research in the next chapter ‘Fortress Science.’ The fol­ lowing chapter, ‘Making Science,’ is a deep dive into the history of each of the case study sites. With this context set, I use the following three chapters, ‘Territories of Emptiness,’ ‘Hyper Concentration,’ and ‘Negotiating Contingencies,’ to decipher the varied spatial processes of each radio telescope site. In greater detail, I introduce the conceptual apparatus of this book, ‘fortress science,’ its disciplinary foundations as rooted in STS, and the spatial disciplines in Chapter 2. I seek moments of interdisciplinary research across broad literature and establish the prerogative of this research as rooted in historical-geographical materialist approaches to studying space. I then extend this initial foray into an analysis of technology, infrastructure, landscape, and territory. I use these concepts to develop my fortress science approach, examining the interactions between a local site and a broader region and the technological tethers that physically and symbolically en­ mesh the two. The technological military device of the glacis extends my fortress science device. An existing and historical fortress formation, the glacis contains the landscape, territory, infrastructure, technology, and social attributes evident at radio telescope sites. I conclude with the example of the early days of the Mont Blanc Observatory as a remarkable historical moment of science, symbolically and physically re-scripting the meaning of a prominent mountain. In Chapter 3, I draw out this theoretical positioning by establishing the historiographical contexts of each radio telescope case study. I designed this chapter to achieve three aims. The first is to develop a context of each case study, which explains how each radio telescope came about and what primary forces were at play in their development. The second is to describe each tele­ scope’s relationship to its physical context. The third is to introduce the reader

12 Introduction to a history of radio astronomy as told through the four case studies. I support each case study with research regarding the origins of radio astronomy as related to the radio telescope under discussion. While this chapter may serve as a context-setting foray into the case studies, it also demonstrates the immense social, political, logistical, and environmental complexity surrounding the construction of such significant telescopes. The variegated spatial assemblage of the fortress of science is built and frayed by numerous social and spatial influences within this mélange. After establishing the historiographical context for the case studies, and radio astronomy more generally, I analyse the four case studies. In Chapter 4, I first investigate the broader territorial effect enacted by each telescope across space. Each demonstrates a land transformation process as previous uses become redefined as scientific. I have identified this process as enacting emptiness, where atabula rasa approach supports significant change. Emptiness then endures as a territorial device to ensure the continued func­ tionality and security of the radio telescope. Political and scientific influence transforms space in ways that support the continued existence of the science project, which occurs through three processes: Siting, Re-Scripting, and Defending. In the second section of this chapter, I investigate the infra­ structural tethers that bridge the ‘emptied territories’ and sustain the tele­ scope operations across space as extended conditions. These cables, roads, trucks, and flights all tether the isolated site to global networks and expand the territorial connectivity and influence of the radio telescope outwards into systems of knowledge, research, data, and labour. These tethers not only sustain the radio telescope but come to restructure territoriality and trans­ form landscapes. While through ‘Territories of Emptiness,’ I investigate the radio telescope as an influential, extended, and networked phenomenon, in the following chapter, ‘Hyper Concentration,’ I focus inwards on the central locus of the telescope facility itself. I examine the accrual of people, technologies, build­ ings, and instrumentation concentrated in space to create a functional radio telescope. My primary motivation for this chapter is to present the finergrained interactions and spatial expressions at each radio telescope. I draw the first section of this chapter, Living Science, from on-site observations and interviews. I examine each telescope as a human-spatial condition where people live and work through three lenses: context, connections, and oper­ ations. This human perspective underpins the notion that the telescope is not a distant scientific installation bereft of social activity and influence but exists precisely because people make it function. In the second section of this chapter, New Architectures, I look at the material expression of each case study in three areas: Instrument, Object, and Image. I resolve that the built expression of a scientific site such as these radio telescopes is not without decision and purpose. Indeed, each site is an aesthetic and formal expression of those scientific cultures that produced them. In concluding this chapter, I consider the abstraction of the radio telescope into an image in popular

Introduction

13

culture that obliterates the facility’s immense complexity and socio-spatial entanglement, turning it into an emblem of outer space research and tech­ nological advancement. I show this process is similar to how astronomers use radio telescopes to produce space images. Like the radio telescope presents truth and scientific confidence but serves to obfuscate the complex and often subjective reasoning that produced the output. Through this chapter, I con­ sider the radio telescope as a concentrated accrual of numerous material components and humans in space, on which the production of science is reliant. Hyper concentration as a theoretical tool foregrounds the implicit role that the project of scientific knowledge production plays in the pro­ duction and transformation of space. In my final analytical chapter, ‘Negotiating Contingencies,’ I use moments of unplanned change, strife, and unforeseen calamity as devices to observe inherent or constitutional social and political processes at each site. These moments expose social meaning, managerial discord, communication break­ down, and political frustration as components of the production and operation of these large scientific projects. The negotiated and the contingent underscore scientific infrastructure’s constructed and unwieldy nature, open to external political, climatic, social, and economic forces, for example. These conditions reveal underlying spatial relationships and challenges that commonly reflect little in the mainstream scientific message surrounding these facilities. These five core chapters each assemble large-scale scientific projects’ nego­ tiated, contested, and subjective nature. These sites are socially produced and spatially reliant as each case study presents broad territorial transformations, complex human and built expressions, and moments of contest or discord that demonstrate new ways of seeing these radio telescopes outside abstracted scientific tropes. While I present these facilities as socially produced and spa­ tially reliant, I argue that they are also producers of space, forces alive in recrafting human-environmental and human-technological relationships through space. These and other science spaces remain rich sites for further analysis from within the spatial and STS disciplines. As I demonstrate through vignettes throughout this book, our human relationship with outer space is becoming increasingly beholden to processes of commercialisation and terri­ torialisation. It is essential that the space of science, with increasing relevance to outer space, is investigated, questioned, critiqued, and theorised.

Notes 1 On technological mediation, see Verbeek, Peter Paul. 2011. Moralizing Technology: Understanding and designing the morality of things. Chicago, Il.: University of Chicago Press; Latour, Bruno. 1994. ‘On Technical Mediation,’ Common Knowledge 3(2). pp. 29–64; and Ihde, Don. 1990. Technology and the life-world: from garden to earth. Bloomington, IN.: Indiana University Press. 2 For a general account of the history of radio astronomy, see Verschuur, Gerrit. 2015. The Invisible Universe: The Story of Radio Astronomy. Switzerland: Springer.

14 Introduction 3 For example, South Africa enacted the Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act 21 of 2007 to protect and regulate areas deemed well suited to astronomical observation. Other countries such as Australia, China, and Chile have enacted local controls on radio frequency. 4 For more on the international effort to build the SKA, see Square Kilometre Array. NA. ‘The SKA Project,’ SKA. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/theska-project/ 5 Having a major part of the most advanced radio telescope imaginable located in a country does not necessarily mean, however, that the host country, or indeed continent, is an active participant in its design and operations. 6 For more on MeerKAT, see South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA. ‘MeerKAT,’ SARAO. Online: https://www.sarao.ac.za/science/meerkat/ 7 See Martin, Douglas. 2010. ‘W. E. Gordon, Creator of Link to Deep Space, Dies at 92,’ New York Times. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2010/02/28/us/ 28gordon.html; Williams, Matt. 2020. ‘How the world’s biggest radio telescope could be used to search for aliens,’ Phys.org. Online: https://phys.org/news/202004-world-biggest-radio-telescope-aliens.html; Atacama Large Millimeter/sub­ millimeter Array. NA (a). ‘About ALMA, At First Glance,’ ALMA. Online: https:// www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-first-glance/; and Wild, Sarah. 2020. ‘This powerful observatory studying the formation of galaxies is getting a massive, $54 million expansion,’ Science. Online: https://www-sciencemag-org/news/2020/ 02/powerful-observatory-studying-formation-galaxies-getting-massive-54million-expansion 8 Gordon, William, E. 1994. Butrica, Andrew (Inter.). American Institute of Physics. Online: https://www.aip.org/history-programs/niels-bohr-library/oralhistories/22789 9 The baseline denotes the distance between the antennae in an interferometer. Generally speaking, large baselines allow for greater resolution of a focused point, while smaller baselines allow for the observation of larger features or structures. 10 Agence France-Presse. 2016. “Thank the aliens’: Thousands displaced for China’s huge telescope,’ Rappler.com. Online: https://www.rappler.com/science-nature/ earth-space/154181-china-fast-telescope-residents-displaced 11 FAST uses 2,225 electrically powered hydraulic actuators that are each fitted to a concrete footing on one end and extend with a cable up to the underside of the reflector surface on the other. Through the hydraulic compression or extension of the actuator, the reflector surface is transformed. See Zhang, Hai-Yan; Wu, Ming-Chang; Yue, You-Ling; Gan, Heng-Qian; Hu, Hao and Shi-Jie Huang. 2018. ‘EMC design for the actuators of FAST reflector,’ Research in Astronomy and Astrophysics 3(32). Online: https://arxiv.org/abs/1802.02315 12 At completion. Arecibo Observatory: Yang Enterprises. NA. ‘Arecibo Observatory Fact Sheet,’ Yang Enterprises. Online: https://www.yangenterprises.com/prob/ProbFacts.aspx; FAST: De Jesus, Cecille. 2016. ‘The Quest for Life Beyond Earth: The World’s Largest Radio Telescope Just Went Online,’ Futurism. Online: https:// futurism.com/the-quest-for-life-beyond-earth-the-worlds-largest-radio-telescopejust-went-online; ALMA: ALMA. 2013. ‘ALMA Inauguration Heralds New Era of Discovery,’ Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. Online: https://www. almaobservatory.org/en/press-releases/alma-inauguration-heralds-new-era-ofdiscovery/; MeerKAT: Tiplady, Adrian. 2019. In-person interview by author.

2

Fortress Science

In March 1938, Scientific American published a photograph of the recently completed Jungfraujoch Observatory or Sphinx Observatory, as it was later known (Figure 2.1). The dramatic stone structure was perched precariously on a rocky ridge at 3,571 metres above sea level in the Swiss Alps. The journal captioned the image as “A fortress of science on a mountain peak.”1 It was once the highest building in Europe, accessed by a vertical tunnel drilled into the mountain from the highest train station in Europe. It is still active as an alpine and astronomical research centre and a tourism favourite in the Jungfrau area.2 In describing the observatory, the editor chose the term “fortress of science,” possibly due to its stone materiality and prominence – like a castle on a hilltop. Extending this analogy, the observatory may appear to be an inaccessible bastion protected by its walls and surrounding rugged terrain. However, a fortress of science centres the scientific in the fortress analogy: What science is the defence protecting? Does science make a terri­ torial claim over the surrounding region as a fortress would? What form does a fortress of science take as opposed to a military fortress, where walls protect knowledge instead of a military force? In assigning the caption to the sweeping image, the editor fused a historical and architectural typology with one of science. This hybridity between two often-distinct concepts creates a productive interchange between spaces of science and the scientific production of space. The editor’s first, perhaps gut response, conflates a vertical stone building on a mountain with the architecture of a fortress. However, despite the outward appearance of the ‘fortress,’ the Sphinx Observatory sits atop a large tunnel invisible to an onlooker built within the rock of the mountain. The tunnel contains an elevator, and at the base of the elevator is the underground Jungfraujoch Train Station, the final point on a largely tunnelled train service with connections to Bern. Beneath the ‘fortress’ ex­ pression of the observatory exists a network that undermines the fortress as a lone defensive outpost; instead, a visitor can easily penetrate its walls. Herein lies a crucial consideration: when considered within its context, the outward expression of the observatory exhibits a human-technological assemblage in a rugged mountain landscape. It overlooks and dominates the DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-2

16 Fortress Science

Figure 2.1 A page from the Scientific American (left), and the Sphinx Observatory at Jungfraujoch, Switzerland (right).

surrounding landscape, reframing or territorialising the landscape into that defined by the presence of the fortress observatory. At the same time, the observatory relies on the landscape to function. Its location on this outcrop provides an excellent vantage from which high-altitude science and astronomy could benefit. At once, the observatory both employs the land­ scape but also occupies it. At the same time, the observatory becomes a scientific icon, an abstract image representing scientific advancement. Still, it hides functional and human complexities – such as the tunnel system – undermining the impression of total isolation. In visiting the observatory, the distinction between the tunnel, the train station, and the observatory becomes less discernible as these spatial conditions merge to facilitate a scientific outpost tethered to the urban by a railway line. The notion of fortress science is a deliberately provocative formation that inspires questions on themes such as the scientific outpost, scientific navelgazing, the disconnected ivory tower, and the defence or control of knowledge. At the same time, it provokes a spatial response regarding defensive archi­ tecture, impenetrable buildings, the rule of territory, and a density of activity. As such, fortress science structures an analytical fusion of science and space in which we find spatial processes entangled in the structure of scientific research itself. Scientific production alters, configures, and reconstitutes space as an active force. As shown at Jungfraujoch, astronomy is a human and techno­ logical concentration deeply dependent on specific spatial formations to exist and function. Through existing and functioning, the fortress transforms the space it engages, exacts broad territorial influence on the landscape, and relies on various material connections – such as the railway line – to endure.

Fortress Science

17

Science and Space In considering the settings where geographical knowledge is produced, the laboratory and the observatory appear, at first glance, as spaces safely ignored. […] laboratories, it has been argued, are spaces designed precisely for overcoming geographical variation.3 As Scott Kirsch introduces in this quote, scientific knowledge production commonly occurs within spaces of placeless uniformity. This isolation or quarantine occurs to ensure generalisable and reproducible results. However, the reliability of the scientific process demands public openness and exposure to ensure that research and scientific results are publicly accountable, verifi­ able, and credible. The inherent spatial contradiction within modern scientific methods is both intensely spatial and designed, as we’ve seen alive in the radio telescope, albeit for different technical reasons. Another example is the archetypal scientific laboratory, built as a sterile complex with limited ex­ posure to the world beyond. While the public is not allowed into these spaces, their processes impact society. Scientific research claims are made verifiable today through peer-review processes and journal publication and made public through press releases, infographics, news reports, and public policy. While the impacts of scientific discovery are keenly felt by the populous, the public experience of the scientific process is not. Instead, documentaries, video games, science fiction, and the news are some of the few insights the public receives into the spatial complexities of scientific work. A typical science fiction trope imagines lab technicians in a dank yet technologically advanced white room filled with pale-grey machines silently whirring away as they batch-test samples. The scene would likely be interrupted by the smashing of glass beakers as a zombie crashes a route out of the lab, through the airlock and into the quaint surrounding town, which is entirely unaware of the devious, illicit, and dangerous research happening in that non-descript building, just down the road. This mistrustful reading of science spaces still sparks our public imagination, as science itself feels elusive and incomprehensible, and its spaces distinctive and extraordinary to those we occupy. However, the divide between spaces of science and those of everyday may not be so stark. Science has had a remarkable and lasting effect on the world. As Latour describes, turning the world into a laboratory4 has modified human behaviour, restructured ways of living, decimated forms of cultural and religious practice, and shaped a planet strained by eight billion people with long life expectancies. The COVID-19 pandemic is a powerful example of how governments and public officials implemented the same scientific standards, such as facemasks and regular hand washing worldwide. In relocating the spatial within the scientific, I seek a spatial reinterpretation of science that is not a distinct ivory tower or a university laboratory but a much more extensive, material, human, and networked formation

18 Fortress Science forged in and through space. Talk of science and scientific method is dan­ gerous terrain. While most sciences share a common ancestor in logic, truth, and reason, there are today near-infinite science forms employing diverse approaches, traditions, and methodologies. To make broad assumptions about an entire spectrum without acknowledging its inherent differences and contradictions would be a misrepresentation. Indeed, astronomy is not medical science, and neither is it nuclear science. Its history, subjects, methods, techniques, and instruments are highly differentiated study modes. Astronomy is an intensely spatial discipline which transforms and transcends space to hypothesise, predict, and discover new cosmic forma­ tions. While its practices and outcomes differ from many scientific exploits, it still shares vigorous testing, verification, and replicability traditions. It also shares the spatial requirements of many forms of scientific research. For laboratory-based science, this may be a vacuum chamber or an airlock. For radio astronomy, this may be hundreds of kilometres of space. However, these spatial formations, be they an airlock or vast territorial control, are entangled in processes of spatial production. They are not a means unto themselves but embody the constant and changing relationship between humans – enabling and enacting scientific knowledge production – and space itself. These processes are finding increasing interest from within the studies of science, but as I present in the following section have found significant theorisation by French sociologist Henri Lefebvre in particular. I now introduce critical forays into the nature of science and space as distinct formations. Producing Space By transforming the laboratory into a community subject to ethno­ graphic study, they reveal a space that can only be understood with reference to other spaces, a local node along a global network. Such a space does not merely demand context; it is, in a sense, made up of context, of mixtures and hybrids, people, machines, texts, and places, blends of technology and humanity. Thus a concentration on elements of science, technology, and medicine quickly leads beyond laboratory walls.5 The study of science and technology has, through the twentieth century, found significant epistemological relevance as academics investigate the nature of knowledge and the interactions between science, technology, and social change. Within the field, broadly defined, its protagonists have given little emphasis to space. Instead, the field’s foundational concerns relate to such matters as the production of scientific knowledge, the scientific method, and challenging scientific and technological determinism, all the while “bringing social thickness and complexity back into the appreciation of technological systems.”6 STS places questions of the social in confrontation

Fortress Science

19

with those of science and technology, revealing the myriad of relationships, agencies, and contingencies that mediate the two. In the same way, as urban studies presents numerous avenues into a social critique of space, STS offers tools for reading and interpreting the social within the techno-scientific. Finding parity between STS and urban studies or critical geography is not arduous as both foreground the social as a primary force entangled in pro­ cesses of production and transformation whilst prioritising the analysis of political power and the institutions that support it. However, although urban studies and critical geography emphasise social production in and of space, STS has considered space largely cursory. Even though space, territory, the environment, and productive human landscapes are all critical components of, and subjects for, scientific enquiry. The transformation of space has enabled such primary environs for scientific study as laboratory facilities, large test sites, science parks, and astronom­ ical observatories. STS scholar Sheila Jasanoff has long held this view: Space and social order are coproduced in part through the spread of ideas and practices – and indeed ideologies – across times and territories. […] does the world really come as unconfigured and available to be reorganised, with only nodal frictions and struggles for power, as some STS accounts of the spread of scientific and technological networks suggest?7 As such, establishing parity between urban studies and STS is essential in expanding a theoretical and methodological approach to interpreting the production of spaces of science. In addressing Jasanoff’s question, I introduce Lefebvre’s highly influential treatise on socio-spatial processes as a broad foundation for poststructuralist spatial theory, from which many contemporary studies of spatial processes find their origins. Lefebvre’s The Production of Space calls for a critical approach to the immensely variegated ways society produces space. STS and the spatial disciplines, including urban studies and critical geography, find a common basis in the plurality of Lefebvre’s writing as he examines complex and hybrid processes situated in broad and diverse contexts, not merely fixed structural formations. In The Production of Space, Lefebvre establishes a comprehensive ratio­ nale as he argues for space as a social product.8 In doing so, he wrestles space away from its purely cartesian or geometric forms, foregrounding it as imbued with politics, meaning, and symbolism through its use. He develops a substantial lexicon of spatial typologies that are physical, imagined, and representational. In establishing a basis for his theoretical analysis, he centres the differ­ ences between ‘spatial practice,’ ‘representations of space,’ and ‘spaces of representation.’9 ‘Spatial practice’ is physical or material. Perceived space is evident and occupies a lived experience. ‘Representations of space’ are

20 Fortress Science conceived imaginations of spaces that populate the architect’s mind or the planner’s drawing board. These are idealised representations of potential space. Finally, ‘spaces of representation’ are lived and social experiences of space that combine both the material space of practice and the mental space of representation.10 Lefebvre also defines two other historically situated types of produced space: ‘absolute space’ and ‘abstract space.’11 Absolute space is defined by Lefebvre as a space of symbolic meaning generally consigned to history, where space is a direct translation of religious and political power. It is a cyclical space of ceremony and festival connected to natural processes, shared absolute values and strong bonds, founded as a fragment of ‘agro-pastoral space.’ He describes ‘absolute space’ as containing and representing direct symbolic attributes, where tall buildings demonstrate power and low build­ ings submission. Labour exists in close reliance on and connection to the workings of ‘absolute space’ and has a direct hand in the shaping and legi­ bility of space itself.12 Lefebvre defines ‘abstract space’ as embodying the ongoing march of modernist ideology, which carves and partitions space into abstract and geometric parcels disconnected from the lives lived within them. Abstract space is duplicitous as it is both a space of action but “also an ensemble of images, signs and symbols.”13 It is as complete as it is empty: isolating and welcoming, detached and connected, stimulating and constraining.14 Abstract space is object-oriented and quantifiable. It is arguably a scientific approach to space and society, reducing hyper-complexity to a series of measurable relationships and unique systems. The resultant spatial forms represent these social abstractions, where zoning locates functions into specific areas and built typologies, and classifications abound. Signage systems emerge in the workplace and streets to make these abstractions legible. The abstract is our global spatial condition, in which the spatialised division of labour and the displacement of the instruments and places of work are ubiquitous. As with the harmonious influence of music in the late eighteenth century, capital finds excellent lubrication in the symphonic flow of a society built on its logic. I draw on Lefebvre as a backbone of the process of spatial production. His is a significant contribution to the theorisation of space as a social product and offers an established rubric for framing spatial processes. An analysis of space under science demands understanding the social and material or technological assemblages forged in and through space. These spatial processes at once perceived, conceived, and lived are rooted in sociomaterial dynamics and embody strong power hierarchies. Through his rich and oft-debated theorisations of space, Lefebvre allows us the freedom to consider the various modes through which society produces space, even as a process contained within scientific knowledge production. Lefebvre was most concerned by the spatial ambitions and processes of capitalism, and distinguishing these from the spatial processes of scientific knowledge

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production is near impossible for the intangibility of ‘capitalism’ and ‘sci­ ence’ and the enmeshment of both. Instead, it is from within Lefebvre’s rubric and using his specific notions of spatial process that I can extend his concerns to the spatialities of science through comparative case studies. I, therefore, locate this project in the sociopolitical prerogative of Lefebvre’s production of space with the notion that the spatial processes of scientific knowledge production are not distinct from other socio-spatial processes. The specific analysis of scientific space through its use and purpose enlivens and deepens our understanding of the particular spatial attributes, forma­ tions, expressions, and effects of making and performing science. A significant extension of Lefebvre’s production of space is the theoretical formation of historical-geographical materialism, which foregrounds the material conditions for social reproduction over Hegelian idealism. In Lefebvre’s spatial triad, this formation most closely embodies an analytical companion to ‘spaces of representation’ in which both the lived or per­ ceived and the imagined or conceived are co-constituent and reinforcing. As expressed by Marx and Engels in The German Ideology, “Life is not determined by consciousness, but consciousness by life.”15 At the origin of this approach is the notion that objects, or space, embody various processes and flows that have resulted in the phenomena at hand. This outcome is also part of other interconnected processes. These are broad and cut across time and space, the human, the material and the immaterial. Numerous theorists, including Kirsch, Swyngedouw, and Loftus, have contributed to its definition and expanded its meaning.16 I introduce historical-geographical materialism here as it advances Lefebvre’s production of space through a theoretical agenda sharply attuned to the unequal and variegated material and spatial forces of social production, finding parity between historical and geograph­ ical approaches. Indeed, geographer Ed Soja described Lefebvre as “the original and foremost historical and materialist geographer.”17 To question processes of knowledge production and their spatial for­ mations, I deepen my introduction to STS, a field that has long analysed the nature of knowledge production. Together with the historical-geographical materialist prerogative of Lefebvre’s spatial treatise, it forms a theoretical bedrock for this investigation. Science, Technology, and Society At the centre of STS is a situated enquiry into the various systemic, theo­ retical, and social contents of the ‘black box’ of science.18 STS scholars have for decades interrogated the central claims, standard methodologies, and findings of science and technology writ large. Re-establishing the truly embedded nature of scientific endeavour within society and, in doing so, dismantling scientific and technological determinism is a common cause within the field. Many complementary and competing approaches have emerged within STS as academics bring their cross-disciplinary perspectives

22 Fortress Science to the table. STS developed through the mid-twentieth century outside standard definition as a range of investigations into constitutional questions regarding science and knowledge. The field is indebted to numerous scholars who, through the second half of the twentieth century, extended a critique regarding the modes, means, and claims of scientific knowledge production. In 1956, W.B. Gallie introduced the notion of the ‘essentially contested concept,’19 which included terms that cannot be argued from an empirical basis due to their intangibility, such as ‘democracy’ and Christianity.’20 Gallie demonstrated that these concepts are socially embedded and their meaning constructed within their contestation. A few years later, Thomas Kuhn published The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. The publication was a pivotal point in the origins of STS. Kuhn presented ‘scientific fact’ as no longer objective or universal but a socially constructed product.21 David Bloor of the Edinburgh School proposed in 1976 the ‘Strong Program in the Sociology of Knowledge.’22 This definitive moment in the early develop­ ment of STS has lasting repercussions, as Bloor defines knowledge as “whatever people take to be knowledge”. Bloor argued that knowledge is distinct from belief through the former’s collective endorsement. Bloor es­ tablished four foundational tenets of the ‘strong program.’ He determined there is causality in the conditions that bring about states of knowledge; there is neutrality with regard to ‘truth’ and ‘falsity’; there is analytical and explanatory symmetry; the approach is reflexive in that it can be turned back onto sociology itself. In 1995, Thomas Gieryn developed a further conceptual tool for STS scholars when he published The Boundaries of Science.23 He argued that the boundaries between science and non-science are primarily the product of scientific exceptionalism and authority. He expanded Bloor’s position in claiming that the cognitive authority of modern science rests on the attributes of its essential qualities and that the social sciences have found these qualities to be anything but essential. The boundaries of science are thus highly constructed, malleable, and permeable. Gieryn critiqued Karl Popper, Robert Merton, and Thomas Kuhn for per­ petuating essentialist positions and called for ‘boundary work’ in deciphering these constructed and contested borderlands. Boundary work offers a means to examine the structuration of a field from its fraying periphery, where it interacts with other traditions finding challenge and experimentation. Gieryn’s proposition remains vital for researchers and academics who seek to interrogate knowledge regimes’ interactions, claims, and porosity. The emergent emphasis of STS was fundamentally a-spatial, focused instead on the need to question and redefine the very nature of scientific enquiry and scientific claims, which through the twentieth century had gained increased irreproachability and cognitive distance from society. With the spatial turn in social studies from the 1970s onwards,24 a few STS scholars came to examine space through the tools of sociologists, anthro­ pologists, and historians. Despite the shared acknowledgement of the

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importance of space, STS forays into the subject have dealt with space often in cursory or as a secondary focus. A significant development in STS was the emergence of the Actor-Network Theory (ANT), established by Bruno Latour, Michel Callon, and John Law, among others. At its core, ANT posits a material-semiotic approach that studies the world as a series of networked relationships. ANT can be described as a highly rigorous and symmetrical STS strategy as it distils re­ lationships to their essential interactions. For example, in Michel Callon’s influential 1986 paper on the scallops and anglers of St Brieuc Bay, he introduced a three-pronged approach to analysing power dimensions within the study.25 He advocated for agnosticism, generalised symmetry, and free association in exploring the interactions between actors. In doing so, he gives equal agency to all human and non-human actors in the study. Callon finds that processes of ‘translation,’ or the methodological underpinnings of his highly balanced approach, can never be a complete achievement and may fail. A critical ‘spatial’ text within the STS/ANT cannon is Bruno Latour’s 1999 essay Give Me a Laboratory and I Will Raise the World.26 Latour argues that the space of science, or the laboratory specifically, is no different to other social contexts as both are mutually constitutive. Through his analysis of Pasteur’s methods, he argues that the scientist did not just invent a vaccine for anthrax in the space of his laboratory but transformed all of French society into his laboratory. A vaccine can succeed only through replicating laboratory methods across farms and other contexts. Latour redefines and explodes the laboratory, collapsing scale and space. Gieryn critiqued Latour’s position that “for the world to become knowable, it must become a laboratory.”27 Gieryn counters that it never has and is unnecessary for laboratories to replace another zone of STSspace interest – the field-site – as a ‘truth-spot.’ Urban studies is, for Gieryn, a discipline of notable exception as: “The city becomes, at once, the object and venue of study – scholars in urban studies constitute the city both as the empirical referent of analysis and the physical site where the investigation takes place.”28 Gieryn’s critique embodies my approach, as I seek to interpret the formations of specific ‘truth-spots.’ I do so by drawing lightly on important ANT insights but not flattening complex, uneven, and hier­ archical power structures into actor networks. I depart from the ANT tradition by acknowledging the centrality of social actors while being weary of social determinism. In response, I advocate for an analysis that fore­ grounds the technological not as possessing agency equal to human actors but as important socio-spatial mediators. It is through human agency as emboldened, extended, or indeed hampered by material mediation that space finds relevance and meaning. These formative STS approaches have found development and critique from within the spatial disciplines and geography in particular as scholars have begun working in an interdisciplinary way. By borrowing methods from STS and geography specifically, they can develop much stronger

24 Fortress Science analyses and theorisations of the interactions between space and science. Research performed within the boundary zone between the spatial disci­ plines and STS draws on the situated analytical strengths of STS and the broader conceptual and theoretical traditions that have defined geography and urban studies in particular. Boundary Exploration I examine cross-disciplinary studies within the spatial disciplines and STS in this boundary exploration. This review is by no means exhaustive but as­ sembles significant contributions from geography, urban studies, STS, and the history of science. In establishing this review of the disciplinary boundary, I set in motion an analytical plan that I develop further through the subse­ quent sections, Technology and Infrastructure, Landscape and Territory, and Glacis. It is essential first to foreground a condition regarding geography as a discipline. While geography both synergises with and benefits from STS approaches, the broad field of geography is primarily split into humancentred social sciences and physical-science-oriented geography. One may expect geography to be a blurred disciplinary formation crossing the social and physical sciences, existing precisely as the ‘boundary’ condition I seek to explore here. However, while maintaining the same disciplinary umbrella and often sharing the same academic departments, these branches seldom interact in research and, instead of producing fertile overlaps, serve to en­ trench divisions. This is due, argues Doreen Massey, to the “assumed model of ‘science,’” which dictates the relationship between the physical and the human.29 She advocates for space, time, and space-time as a means for the two traditions to find commonality as they both increasingly turn to space (context, subject, arena, condition, etc.) and time (history, forecasting, change etc.) as foundational methodological apparatuses. As Massey demonstrates through her methodological boundary-crossing, epistemological alignment between the social and physical arms of geog­ raphy can be established. As such, so can STS and human geography more broadly. Space is a central tenant of how Massey structures the opportunity for alignment. While STS has traditionally turned to space as a means to interpret the context of scientific processes, we have seen a developing branch of researchers looking to space neither as a context for nor an influence on scientific research but rather as highly enmeshed and coconstitutive. The outcomes of this approach are significant, as my previous foray into the production of space demonstrates. By employing a historicalgeographical materialist and spatial basis for investigating the influences, outcomes, processes, and externalities of the interactions between science and space, two often opposing knowledge traditions are meshed together: those claiming greater autonomy and objectivity from social process; and those recognising the socially rooted nature of knowledge.

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Within this disciplinary friction, there is a tendency for STS to abstract the spatial in the quest for such constructs as power relations and social and material interactions, among others. A geographical approach, however, spatialises science within territorial configurations and sociopolitically embedded sites and flows. These two approaches build a solid synergy for further theorisation and investigation but can flounder by not adequately embracing the multidisciplinary approach. Struggles may take the form of STS scholars approaching the study of space but not engaging with the mechanics contained in the production of space or scholars from the spatial disciplines limiting their engagement with the ‘scientific’ as a subject broadly speaking. At the turn of the millennium, David Livingstone, one such spatial scholar, published Science, Space and Hermeneutics30 and Putting Science in its Place: Geographies of Scientific Knowledge.31 The latter soon became a foundational text in studies of science and space. In the introduction, he asks, “Can the location of scientific endeavour make any difference to the conduct of science? […] can it affect the content of science?” His answer is an unqualified ‘yes.’32 In a review of Science, Space and Hermeneutics, Steven Shapin argues that space is not an influencing factor but a founda­ tional prerequisite for science to exist.33 Both Livingstone and Shapin could have taken their analysis beyond the near apparent facts that the space in which scientific activity operates can influence the process and that science always exists in space. However, these initial contributions are essential building blocks to further forays into the subject. Geographer Simon Naylor elaborates on Shapin and Livingston: Of course, both Shapin’s and Livingstone’s point goes further than this. It is not simply the case that science can be spatialised; it is also that science itself creates spaces and places for its own activities and in turn spatialises the world in a wide variety of ways.34 I find great insight in Simon Naylor’s elaboration as he advances the debate by activating science as an agent in spatial production. In producing its own spaces, it structures other spaces in the world. I’ve chosen to include Naylor’s perspective as he grapples with three valuable approaches to categorising the interactions between space and science: (1) The intimate quotidian ‘microgeographies’ of science, between a field worker and a sample perhaps; (2) science as located in scales of space; and finally (3) those geographies that come to shape science itself, such as mapping for scientific representation and geographies of flora and fauna.35 His account underscores the need for more nuanced analyses and theorisations in the studies of space and science. It demonstrates three spatial arenas in which these interactions occur, notably the micro, the experiential, and the representational. Other geographers have developed essential studies of science spaces from implicitly spatial orientations. This shift was identified in 1996 by

26 Fortress Science Steven Hinchliffe, who noted that not only had STS turned towards space but that there was a growing trend of geographers turning towards science studies.36 One such significant contribution was that of David Turnbull, who considered how modern science could be decentralised through the localism implicit in many STS approaches, foregrounding a narrow focus on a process or subject. Bringing a geographer’s perspective to a postcolonial context, Turnbull interprets science as an implicitly spatial and ‘messy’ phenomenon.37 In doing so, he challenges the highly structured and rationalised way ‘modern science’ exists outside society. He compares sci­ ence to the gothic immensity of Chartres Cathedral. Complete, orderly, and beautiful, the cathedral embodies a comprehensive plan or an architect’s vision. The truth was far from reality as the soaring cathedral was built in the most haphazard, embedded, and unpredictable way, as is the reality of ‘modern science.’ He calls for local knowledge traditions to be performed together with those of ‘modern science,’ situating post-colonial geographies within a science studies framework. His analysis builds both geography and STS: geography as borrowing analytical approaches from STS, and STS as bolstered through the geographer’s concern with space and local social processes. Turnbull’s analysis of Chartres Cathedral treated the fixed architectural formation of the building as concealing the numerous, complex, and em­ bedded processes that saw its resolution in space. In doing so, Turnbull not only employs an architectural icon in France as a site for analysis, he uses it as a metaphor for how science often presents itself as an irrefutable whole but, in reality, comprises many negotiations, contradictions, and inequities. These are all processes of social and spatial production. Turnbull offers a powerful progenitor of my fortress science formulation. I extend his approach by directly analysing scientific space and drawing on an archi­ tectural and spatial metaphor to explain its numerous spatialities. In addition, I challenge the concept of fortress science by holding it in a similar analytical tension. I do not set out to prove or disprove that large science projects exist as fortresses but rather to employ the fortress lens – a spatial and architectural formation – which sharpens a reading of the spatial processes underway at these scientific sites. Fortress science makes essential the notion of boundary, the edge con­ dition, the territorial and landscape processes underway, the tension between the concentrated assemblage of the fort and the distant territories it structures, and the many networked formations that structure the landscape and support the functioning of the fort. It is here, too, that Naylor’s approach has inspired my multi-pronged analysis of the spatialities of these sites. His micro, experiential, and representational – as I have interpreted them – have expanded my research to the territorial and the hyperconcentrated. The first concerns the broader territorial formation of the radio telescope and extends Naylor’s desire for analysing scientific space as located in more comprehensive systems and structuring space elsewhere.

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In contrast, the second examines the radio telescope as a human and tech­ nological assemblage drawing on aspects of Naylor’s ‘micro-geographies of science.’38 Sven Dierig et al., David Aubin, and Matthew Gandy demonstrate the relationship between spaces of science and urban processes is an important site for interdisciplinary research across STS, geography and urban studies. These authors examine the scientific and technological as embedded in urban processes, each bearing a close effect on the other. In Toward an Urban History of Science, Sven Dierig et al. explore how urban areas have played in shaping scientific practice and knowledge through a historical reading of nineteenth- and twentieth-century urban history.39 They consider the history of science as embedded within urban history and each as co-constitutive of the other. The authors argue that historians of science, technology, and medicine have often written about the city but situate it as a mere backdrop or thin context to their interests. Methodologically, Dierig et al. build their argument through four essays within a single piece, each “show[ing] a commitment to studying science as local practice.”40 David Aubin continues Dierig et al.’s foray into urban history through the Paris Observatory as an emblematic science space in close relationship to the city of Paris.41 He broadly analyses the social, political, and eco­ nomic entanglement of the observatory within the city, which, when the lights of Paris became too bright for the observatory to function, made its relocation a complex proposition. Aubin specifically places his analysis outside the laboratory and outside the field of science within the broader technologies, material cultures, and social organisation implicit in urban observation and circulation. He builds a political economy of science approach, which he describes as reminiscent of ANT as it foregrounds the changing interactions and relationships between the city and the observa­ tory. A dialectic emerges as urban space, and the urban processes that constitute it are essential for the observatory to function but at the same time directly impede the functioning of the observatory. Continuing a focus on urban geographies, Matthew Gandy’s text Cyborg Urbanisation: Complexity and Monstrosity in the Contemporary City conjoins Donna Haraway’s (1984) ‘cyborg’ construct with the urban. Haraway’s ‘cyborg’ refers to a condition which counters static boundary definitions between the networked technological state of the ‘cybernetic’ and the living ‘organism,’ as I develop later. Gandy, however, uses ‘cyborg urbanisation’ as a means to theorise urban process:42 The richness of the cyborg concept allows us to negotiate a multiplicity of spaces and practices simultaneously and in so doing develops epistemo­ logical strategies for the interpretation of urban life which come closer to any putative ‘reality’ than those approaches which long for the mechanistic or deterministic simplification of their object of study.43

28 Fortress Science By drawing on foundational STS literature, Gandy conceptualises the urban as a technological construct fueled by almost human metabolisms caught between agency and functionality. Gandy’s evocative position sutures society and technology together into a bio-mechanical hybrid. These approaches offer critical analyses and theorisations of the scientific interactions with the urban but, importantly, foreground powerful analyt­ ical and methodological apparatuses that go beyond the putative exercise of examining science in the urban. Dierig et al.’s study is essential in colocating science and the urban within history; notably, it establishes urban process as implicit in the scientific and vice versa. The conjoined nature between scientific processes and others at play in numerous contexts offers an essential analytical baseline that does not falsely demarcate the scientific as outside or separate from other human, spatial, and technological pro­ cesses. Instead, Gandy uses the interactions between all three to forward an urban theoretical agenda located within the form of the cyborg, a condition that eschews bounded definitions and is purposefully slippery, complex, and multidimensional much like the conjoined nature of humans, tech­ nology, and the urban. Similarly, Aubin’s critical analysis of the Paris Observatory examines the evolution of the urban and astronomy and how both, through time, outgrow one another but remain so dependent. Aubin and Gandy’s analyses are foundational as Aubin presents a pre­ condition to the extension of the observatory: one finding an anchor in the urban and the other in a suitable location away from human activity. Despite this, both are held together through an infrastructural tether that traverses space. Gandy’s Cyborg Urbanism centres on the fusion of the human and the material/technological in space through the formation of hyper concentration. Here, the human, technological, and spatial do not necessarily find fusion but rather constitute concentrated assemblage in space, standing in stark contrast to the broader context surrounding the radio telescope site. These studies demonstrate that those interdisciplinary forays into the boundary zone between science and space offer a methodologically rich and theoretically diverse realm. The authors achieve this by extending essential concepts such as ‘cyborg,’ ‘knowledge traditions,’ or ‘witnessing’ across from traditional studies of science and technology into rich theoretical contexts such as ‘urbanisation,’ ‘the production of space,’ and ‘territory.’ In identifying and theorising the multiple and complex spatial interac­ tions as play in these scientific formations, I open up new conceptual tools for interpreting scientific interactions with space: technology and infra­ structure; and landscape and territory. While both are commonly used terms, I demonstrate their specific and deliberate application. Importantly, they extend limited STS interactions with the structuration of scientific space, as opposed to merely considering space as a vessel or, at best, an influence on scientific activity. These find primary application in the fortress technology and metaphor of the glacis. This techno-spatial and historically

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embedded formation combines the tools of technology, infrastructure, landscape, and territory in the designed feature of the fortress edge, with broad application to the nature of scientific space.

Technology and Infrastructure Landscape, territory, technology, and infrastructure all bear a long histor­ ical entanglement. What is the fortress without the network of roads and supply lines that support it? These spatial embodiments of networks – of power and defence/domination in the case of the fortress – radically inscribe and structure landscapes and territory. Through this section, I examine technology and infrastructure as two significant material formations ex­ isting in the overlap between studies of space, and science and technology. From a historical-geographical materialist perspective, technology and infrastructure are material conditions with broad effect and influence through their interaction with and mediation of social activity. Through time, infrastructure and technology exhibit different social meanings, as clearly demonstrated through the nineteenth-century cele­ bration of technology and infrastructure, compared to twentieth-century integration, burying, and streamlining of infrastructure in particular. An example is the installation of sanitary infrastructure in European cities such as London and Paris in the nineteenth century. East London’s Abby Mills Pumping Station (1868), an intricately detailed Victorian example of san­ itary infrastructure, celebrated the pump that brought improved sanitation to parts of London in Byzantine style.44 The Victorian architects celebrated and elevated its function as a pump, inscribing social meaning on and transforming the space.45 Maria Kaika and Eric Swyngedouw importantly foreground the reduction of infrastructure to a hidden system or an abstract chart of flows to the prerogatives of high modernism through the twentieth century, which: crusaded towards clarity, towards veiling what lay underneath the city. The rhizomorphous underground networks, which ceaselessly trans­ form nature into city, became an underground city that veiled the failure of modernisation to create a better society.46 Today we regard infrastructure systems as bearing little agency or influence in our lives, as long as they operate smoothly. An effect of this, for example, is that removing infrastructure from our public consciousness has aided the human social externalisation of nature by further disconnecting the user at one end of a network from the other. All forms of infrastructure carry those systems they extend and perpetuate, whether visible or not. As I establish, infrastructure tethers extend the territorial influence of a facility such as a radio telescope and connect it to broader networks. These may have little human effect as buried cables or satellite transmissions, but through their

30 Fortress Science interaction with space may find amplification in their social meaning. As a form of technology, infrastructure mediates human interaction, processes, and exchanges in space. The mediatory role of technology has found advancement through the work of post-phenomenologists. As a contribution to a centuries-old debate on the social nature of technology, Peter-Paul Verbeek establishes technology as a mediator, not merely an instrument or a means to an end, as was typical for classical philosophies of technology.47 He similarly rejects the modern dichotomy between humans and technology. Verbeek’s approach shows that through mediation, the social and technological are in a constant state of cotransformation. In locating this within other analytical traditions, the postphenomenological perspective finds parity with Latour’s ANT as technolo­ gies are interpreted as actor mediators within networks.48 However, a Marxist critique of both demands greater acknowledgement of the power structures inherent in technology and human agency’s role in controlling technology.49 As a mediator of life, technology and infrastructure are not deterministic in themselves but, through social mediation, partake in social change. As such, technology and infrastructure are neither inert nor con­ trolling. Instead, they mediate aspects of social reproduction, which humans have the agency to accept or reject.50 Other scholars agree with Verbeek. Kathryn Furlong, for example, looks explicitly to both STS and geography as a means to overcome the ‘blackboxing’ common in studies of infrastructure in both fields.51 Her research on water utilities investigates new infrastructural technologies as ‘mediating technologies,’ which restructure long-held relationships between society, technology, and the environment. Geography, for Furlong, is well suited to political, economic, and social research but weak in interpreting the “impact, function and use of technologies.”52 She reads STS generally in the opposite, privileging the technical while “exhibiting less refined approaches” to the political, economic, and social and harbouring a “generic notion of place and space.”53 Methodologically, she approaches infrastructure as mediating society and technology and the fields of STS and geography. It is within this framework that we can begin to see the technological encrusting of the border or the in-between, in which technology is a mediator between the human and a socially externalised nature or between an individual and a friend in a distant country, a craftsperson and a board, Galileo and the universe. These technologically facilitated processes all mediate the social production of space at multiple scalar networks of varying intensity, complexity, and hierarchy. Infrastructure emerges as a technology that similarly operates at highly differentiated scales. The social division created between the notions of technology and infrastructure is unnecessary, as both are implicitly similar. However, infrastructure has born a scalar significance over technology, in that airports, undersea cables, and freeway networks have a ‘bigness’ over cell phones, hearing aids, and hammers. Infrastructure also facilitates human spatiality in ways that

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smaller technologies do not. These are commonly sweeping abstract and often concrete spaces of connectivity and flow in which the human driver or airport passenger is part component and part spectator. However, the social production of space is tied to evolving and variegated scalar processes that cut across space and time, being at once global and local, or perhaps neither. Is a railroad local or global? Neither. It is local at all points, since you always find sleepers and railroad workers, and you have stations and automatic ticket machines scattered along the way. Yet it is global, since it takes you from […] Brest to Vladivostok. However, it is not universal enough to take you just anywhere. There are continuous paths that lead from the local to the global, [… ] so long as the branch lines are paid for. […] Networks, as the name indicates, are nets thrown over spaces. […] They are connected lines, not surfaces. […] [They] can be extended almost everywhere; [they] can be spread out in time as well as in space, yet without filling time and space. […] Now, as concepts, “local” and global” work well for surfaces and geometry, but very badly for networks and topology. […] One branch of mathematics has been confused with another!54 In affirming the vast infrastructure of a railway network as neither local nor global, Latour importantly situates the material technology of infra­ structure within a spatial quotidian. His approach highlights the benefits of ANT and how assembling the network of connections between actants reveals scales and intensities of relationalities. The railway line cannot just be a means to get from Brest to Vladivostok, as it winds across the land­ scapes of Europe and Asia. It will support shorter trips that local com­ munities rely on, slow the farmer as he tries to cross the tracks every morning in his tractor, and create a cosy, protected embankment for a fox to nest in a busy urban centre. Global techno-infrastructural networks are thus intensely rooted in scalar space; they are both actant and mediators in social reproduction at multiple scales. However, while an ANT approach here highlights the material form of infrastructure in space, a historical materialist approach such as that advanced by Furlong supports this reading. Still, it usefully extends it beyond mere networks, foregrounding the much broader effect of an infrastructure or technology on space and society. With the relationship between the social and techno-infrastructural es­ tablished, it is vital to consider the effect of these conduits on global space itself. The common-held notion that through shortening time, global net­ works overcome or annihilate space is one example of the perceived spatial effects of global infrastructure systems that enact the so-called ‘global vil­ lage.’ It is evident that vast networks socially reproduce space. It does not disappear when in contact with them. Kirsch makes this argument ex­ plicitly: “The same technologies which annihilate space, reducing frictions

32 Fortress Science of distance and eliminating spatial barriers, are also implicated in the production of social space at the scale of experience.”55 This production occurs in a highly unequal way, often across a series of landscapes etched with existing life and the immense complexities these contain and reflect. Consider, for example, the Dakota-Access Pipeline, an underground crude oil transfer infrastructure 1,172 miles in length that cuts across four states which was actively protested for months by the Standing Rock Sioux Tribe members, environmental justice activists, and other supporters. A tech­ nology designed to ferry resources great distances gains devastating political significance in the lives of the Dakota and Lakota as the prospect of it crossing their sacred landscapes, saturated with meaning and history, becomes a reality.56 The transfer of crude oil underground occurs in many parts of the world, and pipelines are a core component of supplying oil to the global fossil-fuel-reliant economy. They embody the types of infra­ structures that serve to ‘annihilate space and time’ across a considerable distance but, in reality, contain numerous externalities that intersect with societies and landscapes on multiple scales. At moments, these intersections find meaning and influence and, as in the case of Standing Rock, expose nascent colonial undercurrents. The interactions between urban space, infrastructure networks, and what they term ‘technological mobilities’ are the primary concern of Stephen Graham and Simon Marvin in their 2001 book, Splintering Urbanism.57 They examine the assumptions of a post–World War II modernist ideology that infrastructure networks “bind cities, regions, and nations into func­ tioning geographical or political wholes, […] so that they somehow add cohesion to the territory.”58 They assert that this belief is unfounded in reality as networked infra­ structures are political and splintered in their interactions with people, territories, and urban environments, supporting an urbanisation of pro­ found social, economic, and political division. In doing so, infrastructure networks become significant loci for examining and interpreting the pro­ duction of space in relation to scalar ebbs and flows of resources, labour, utilities, data, knowledge, political power, and people, among others. In her book Extrastatecraft, Keller Easterling examines the interplay between unequal and variegated global systems and their uneven territorial effects.59 Hers is an implicitly spatial account of infrastructure systems, offering a methodological framework for analysing space and systems. Building upon the foundations established by Graham and Marvin, she expands them through variously scaled processes such as broadband rollout in Kenya, or free-trade zones, which are formations of urbanisation but not examined through the urban but rather the spatial and systemic. Easterling demands attention to the space of systems. In this tradition, I, too, seek awareness of spatial processes under science. The volume of recent scholarship in geography and urban studies on infrastructure demonstrates its increased importance for many reasons. As

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countries of the global south invest in infrastructure as critical social and economic development drivers, old infrastructure networks generally in the west slip into disrepair. Climate change mitigation and resilience strategies demand infrastructural solutions. Other infrastructural imaginaries height­ ened by such prospects as the Hyperloop, the settlement of Mars, space tourism, and autonomous vehicles gain prominence. Technology, broadly defined, and the more extensive and spatially con­ ceived networks of infrastructure are material relics of the ongoing nego­ tiation between humankind and a socially externalised nature. Through the material consequences of a desire for efficiency and practicality, universal knowledge, access to food, water, and other resources, immediate com­ munications and overcoming the limitations of distance, the human is increasingly a product of the network as much as they are creators of it. As an embodiment of the variegated spatial effects of scalar networks, tech­ nological systems and infrastructures reveal significant social, political, economic, biological, and material processes in constant interaction with the daily lived experience of people. As Appel, Anand, and Gupta surmise, Attention to the lives of infrastructures helps us think about possible worlds and new relations between life, matter, and knowledge.60 Infrastructure and technology are not inert networked phenomena. Both find significant embeddedness in social processes, including the production of space, as mediators. The means through which sociopolitical influence and symbolism satiate infrastructure networks and technologies show us how these systems transform space radically. These transformations can occur through the guises of landscape and territory, which I discern, are both evolving embodiments of human and technological processes in space.

Landscape and Territory The devices of landscape and territory are fundamentally spatial in their three-dimensional application to the world. These terms are like ‘technology’ and ‘infrastructure,’ evolving human constructs forged through social meaning, practice, and interpretation. However, landscape and territory are foundational spatial constructs that embody the context of context, so to speak, revealing unequal, variegated, and shifting forms of human power and control over space. These exist in much larger spatial formations than a narrow study on local actor networks, for example, would attempt to cap­ ture. I begin this analysis with ‘landscape’ followed by an analysis of ‘terri­ tory,’ and I conclude with a definition for both: landscape is a structuring of land through social practice, and territory embodies the structuring of land through power. These spatial tools are operationalised in this book to demonstrate the nature and extent of spatial influence and transformation as required and enacted by processes of scientific knowledge production.

34 Fortress Science Landscape In 1984, Dennis Cosgrove defined ‘landscape’ as a perspective imbued with subjectivity through which social relationships are interpreted or presented. Landscape, he argued, has its own history, but a history that can be understood only as part of a wider history of economy and society; that has its own assump­ tions and consequences, but assumptions and consequences whose origins and implications extend well beyond the use and perception of land; that has its own techniques of expression, but techniques which it shares with other areas of social practice.61 In the second edition of Social Formations and Symbolic Landscape, Cosgrove returns to the subject as he lists several theoretical imperatives excluded from the original book. Among these are considerations such as technologies of vision and representation (photography, film) coupled with the technologies implicit in urbanisation and science (infrastructure, test facilities) and how these support notions of the ‘landscape sublime,’ which extends nineteenth-century landscape discourse into the twentieth.62 For Cosgrove, landscape is the embodiment of complex and historically rooted economic, political, and indeed technological, social processes ex­ ercised in space. These occur in relation to the broader environment and its “constant […] modification, manipulation, destruction, and creation, both material and imaginative.”63 He argued that landscape embodies the political realm of socio-material relations, which in turn frame how the socio-material is understood, and landscape experienced and interpreted. Despite the social production implicit in Cosgrove’s materialist reading of landscape, the term continues to find entrapment within the visual arts and design disciplines. Both commonly seek ways of interpreting environmental space and its human entanglements to represent, critique, record, analyse and intervene in them. Notwithstanding the historical materialist prerogatives that underpin such disciplines, landscape as a socially produced space deeply entangled in questions of scale, network, technology, and the political and economic are side-lined in favour of symbolic and aesthetic interpretations. In providing an example of Cosgrove’s approach to landscape, I turn to a foundational dia­ gram that demarcates the landscape as one of social production. A pioneering urban theorist, planner and geographer, Patrick Geddes developed the Valley Section diagram (1909) as a simple, regional repre­ sentation of much more complex processes that dictate human economic relationships. The diagram demonstrates how various occupations find their place within zones of varied natural resource availability across a valley. Geddes explains this diagram as representing the roots of different urban agglomerations forged through human settlement patterns and labour divi­ sion.64 The Valley Section is a diagram and, as such, carries an immutable

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agency. It represents a valley demarcated by a line that signifies the topog­ raphy of a simplified landscape. The line joins a water body on the right to a rocky outcrop on the left. Various natural features follow a logical position along the topographical stretch. Symbols represent the technical apparatus necessary to perform the economic activity associated with each natural feature, such as a net for fishing and an axe for wood cutting. Below, words demarcate the human roles necessary for these activities, such as shepherd or miner. In the distance, other valleys appear, as is the silhouette of a contained urban form. As a well-known representation of regional urban processes, Geddes’ diagram is a good base for examining various spatial terms rooted in the interactions between society and a (socially externalised) nature. The diagram contains the representation of landscape as defined by Cosgrove, as it recognises both human and natural processes as interlaced, albeit structured by a human economic impetus that constructs, nourishes, and enriches the urban settlement in the distance. The presence of tools affirms the surplus generated through processes of resource extraction that will intensify as mechanisation increases. As powerfully demonstrated in Nature’s Metropolis by William Cronon, these environmental systems are natural resources under capitalism.65 Through this translation, these material goods are ascribed an exchange value and become liquid com­ modities in the market. The layered historiographical relationships between humans and nature are saturated with social meaning and represent a social production of space across a specific topography at a scale accessible to a viewer surveying the landscape. In Landscape as Urbanism, Charles Waldheim seeks a general theory for the burgeoning landscape architecture sub-field of landscape urbanism. Through landscape urbanism, Waldheim aims to position the landscape architect as “the urbanist of our age.”66 Arguably, as a profession that foregrounds an expansive and multi-scalar interpretation of ecologies that extend across structured readings, presenting the landscape architect as the best suited ‘urbanist’ for the twenty-first-century pigeonholes not only landscape architecture but other disciplines into highly delineated forma­ tions. In this disciplinary treaty, Waldheim defines landscape as, a genre of cultural production, as in landscape painting, or landscape photography. […] as a model or analogue for human perception, subjective experience, or biological function. Alternatively […] as a medium of design.67 In contrast to Cosgrove’s perspective on landscape, Waldheim locates his definition in the realm of human subjectivity and perception. He accurately captures elements of the human-landscape relationship. Still, he strips landscape of its sociopolitical and economic impetus as a spatialised em­ bodiment of social forces such as capitalist production, state authority, property dynamics, technological change, protest, and revolution. This

36 Fortress Science flattening of landscape, so to speak, denies the term its important sociospatial prerogative, as identified by Cosgrove, as a material and spatial expression of complex and unequal social dynamics. In my use of the word, I argue that landscape embodies a strong representational formation and is inherently a socially and technologically structured way of seeing and interpreting diverse spatial contexts. Territory Landscape is not alone in social/spatial theory, and we should consider it among other theoretically generative terms. Stuart Elden provides a com­ plementary analysis of land, territory, and terrain. In his 2010 paper, Land, Terrain, Territory, Elden seeks clarity around territory as distinct from other similar terms. Elden first investigates land as a propertied form of territory, inscribing ownership over this finite resource. Symbolically, land denotes power and is of significant economic and political concern.68 Terrain for Elden indicates the struggle for political and economic control over land and the site of this struggle.69 While land recognises a measure or property logic imposed on the Earth, terrain denotes an accumulation of land – possibly violently – and its direct control. Finally, territory is a political technology related to land and terrain but is more than both.70 Territory speaks to the process of measuring land and controlling it: “the technical and the legal.”71 As Elden notes, territory is highly dependent on technologies of observation and measurement that enable Earth to be charted, mapped, and controlled. Throughout history, the evolution of these techniques and technologies has crafted territory, both in a spatial sense and a socio-cultural and political-economic sense, as logics of mea­ surement and control restructure social and socio-environmental relation­ ships. Territory embodies the political impetus in Lefebvre’s formulation of abstract space and notions of hierarchy, exclusion, extraction, ownership, and violence.72 The exploration of territory for Elden came as a response to an increased interest amongst scholars in the subject, specifically as it relates to the spatial complexities of the state.73 Brenner and Elden argue: Insofar as it is generally understood simply as a bounded space, or as a strategy to achieve bounding, the theorisation of territory in recent discussions of state space represents a significant analytical blind-spot.74 In narrowing this blind spot, Brenner and Elden individually and collect­ ively tackle the subject of territory in successive published works. At the heart of the state space and certainly territory discussion is the ‘Territorial Trap,’ of which John Agnew warned scholars to be weary.75 The trap consists of three assumptions: (1) that territorial space and sovereign space are a concrete unit, (2) that domestic and foreign are workable and

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distinguishable categories within territorial debates, and (3) that the terri­ torial state is bounded and comes to contain society. The trap has come to infuse work on state space since. However, solid attempts at interpreting or understanding territory itself, as opposed to mere rules for engaging it, are few. Compared to landscape, which has deeper historiographical roots, territory requires greater theorisation regarding its socio-spatial and sociotechnical capacities. One attempt at establishing a broader understanding of territory is his­ torian Charles Maier’s book, Once Within Borders. For Maier, territory is “global space that has been partitioned for the sake of political authority, space in effect empowered by borders.”76 It is a decision space that enacts economic and political dominion but also an identity space that aligns socio-cultural and political belonging. Through a historical reading of ter­ ritory and the borders that Maier argues enclose them, he establishes that the synchronicity of decision space and identity space have diverged through globalisation.77 Maier’s extensive historiographical overview of territory and borders largely situates territory within a bounded form, an approach that Elden hesitates to take. Elden argues that boundaries result from a way of seeing and determining space that, in the case of territory, emerges from “a particular sense of calculation and concomitant grasp of space.”78 For Elden, the boundary is the result of the sociopolitical pro­ cesses of territorial formation. The resultant edge condition is seldom fixed or even agreed upon; it is multiple, shifting, scalar, and variegated and occurs in various dimensions simultaneously. The production of territory is an insight into Lefebvre’s writings that Brenner and Elden parse out with clarity.79 While Lefebvre neither directly formulates a foundational theory of territory nor offers a defi­ nition of the concept, he did use the term mainly for adjectival purposes. Despite this, Brenner and Elden engage Lefebvre’s extensive writing on state space to draw out a foundational interpretation of territory grounded primarily in its nation-state formation. For Brenner and Elden, territory is woven into and often synonymous with Lefebvre’s thinking on space and the state, both historically and analytically. They determine that for Lefebvre, State power comes to serve as the institutional site, medium and outcome for the production of territory. Territory enables, facilitates and results from the evolution of state action; and concomitantly, state action produces, facilitates and results from the evolution of territory.80 Territory is, therefore, a material process constantly under production in which the state is both an actor and a recipient. This reading could be extended beyond the nation-state, as one interprets the territorial as an abstract space from within Lefebvre’s spatial triad. Abstract space, argues Lefebvre,

38 Fortress Science is the tool of dominion, asphyxiates whatever is conceived within it and then strives to emerge […], (it) destroys the historical conditions that gave rise to it, its own (internal) differences, and any such differences that show signs of developing, in order to impose an abstract homogeneity.81 In extending any control over space, from a corporate campus to a middleclass suburb, the abstract and homogenising regimes that govern space produce territory. These territories are historical and ongoing processes in which abstract space is created, fashioned, and destroyed across scales and beyond the terrestrial. This examination of landscape and territory, specifically Cosgrove’s interpretation of landscape, reveals significant similarities between the for­ mations. Landscape reflects a dynamic relationship between humans and the environment, constantly transformed through society and our material pro­ cesses. Landscape embodies the social production of space within scalar constraints, for a household is not a landscape nor a continent. It is the resolution of landscape that enables reading of the socio-spatial process. The aesthetic form of landscape is often the result of historical processes, cultural practices, and social values that govern human relationships with their broader environment. These aesthetic qualities are a by-product of social processes encapsulating a romantic ideal. Landscape is thus a comprehensive and hierarchical structuring of socio-material relationships in space occurring at a scale in which these processes can be seen or interpreted. Similarly, territory is the result of the social production of space but specifically suggests the dominion over space by a controlling interest. The abstract qualities of territory invoke significant influence over space that comes to structure human relationships with it. Both landscape and terri­ tory refer to different yet overlapping and mutually constitutive processes of spatial production. Still, they offer specific impetus to socio-material re­ lationships within landscape and the political structuring of space within territory. Both are essential for reading, interpreting, and reflecting on spatial transformation as they foreground elements of the complex spatial processes enacted through scientific knowledge production. I now return landscape, territory, technology, and infrastructure to the fortress science concept through the defensive technology of the glacis. This spatial tool is an essential conceptual site for examining the convergence between these human, spatial, and material tools. Glacis These forays into technology, infrastructure, landscape, and technology all find convergence within the notion of the glacis (Figures 2.2 and 2.3). As a military defence technology, the glacis is a tract of sloped empty land maintained outside a castle wall mainly for defence ballistics. Military

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Parapet Rampart

Glacis Scarp Covered Way Counterscarp

Inner Slope

Cunette Ditch

Figure 2.2 A cross-section through a seventeenth-century military defence structure demarcating various defensive layers. The glacis is located outside the fortification. It is maintained during periods of warfare as an open field to enable a clear line of shot.

Figure 2.3 The glacis demarcated in green surrounding the city of Vienna in 1778.

engineers have used it since ancient times in fortress design, and the term today describes the sloped front panels of an armoured tank. The strength of the glacis is its emptiness and camber. When used in the seventeenth century and later French fortress design, the glacis was generally a very shallow and long slope designed to create an open field to fire weapons at an approaching force. Throughout history, the glacis was always a zone

40 Fortress Science outside the significant walls. While maintained as empty during wartime, this zone often came to be occupied with residential buildings and other assemblages during peacetime, which would have been cleared or forfeited should the castle come under attack.82 The empty zone around the castle wall was commonly an opportune space for recreation, trade, and other activities when not used as a defensive technology. As a spatial technology, the glacis represents a boundary condition wherein different uses find occupation. It serves as a negotiated and func­ tionally porous edge to the fortress. The glacis found purpose as both a technology and an infrastructure. The spatial reconfiguration that created this opportune ground for defensive warfare was as significant as any ballistic technology militarily employed across it. As such, the glacis em­ bodies a technological and spatial mediator akin to the technology of the drawbridge, the crenellated wall, or the moat. Within the glacis and fortress design, a substantial overlap occurs between architecture and technology. The designed expression of the fortress is built, detailed, and fundamentally spatial, but it is also a defensive strategy and an extension of other tech­ nological defence mechanisms. Similarly, the glacis embodies a systemic spatial infrastructure. The glacis is part of a network of defensive technologies at play, usually across a territory protected by other similar fortifications. As such, it is a technology extended across a broader territorial and networked fortification while representing a spatialisation of this extensive military network. At the same time, the glacis embodies the features of landscape and territory as I have introduced them. Firstly, the glacis is a powerful terri­ torial expression, a sizeable, sloped piece of land designed on which any foreign force would find themselves in the line of fire. However, the terri­ torial formation of the glacis is not fixed to the fortress boundary zone. Instead, it travels outwards and could seem to merge with the surrounding landscape as the outermost fortification technology. Identifying the point at which the glacis starts may not be as easy as placing its end. The territorial effect of the fortress on the surrounding land starts at the glacis and extends outwards to distant border zones; however, demarcated. At the same time, the glacis is also a landscape condition, as a transient and negotiated space. Within this vague edge zone exists social meaning and transforma­ tion (even if temporary), revealing multiple uses such as marketplaces, farming, a space for events and celebrations, or additional housing space when neighbouring towns and villages encroach on the castle walls.83 Today the occupation or filling-in of the glacis is remembered in names such as Glacis Road in Gibraltar, Glacisstraße in Graz, Austria, or Glacis Square in Luxemburg, to cite a few of many lasting contemporary examples. I activate the fortress as a symbolic tool to examine the numerous spa­ tialities of large radio telescope installations. As a technological, infra­ structural, landscape, and territorial condition, the glacis embodies the crux of the fortress concept in one spatial formation. The fortress is not an

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isolated outpost or a romantic folly but is an intensely networked, spatial condition that comes to define territory and structure landscapes. The glacis is an example of a critical fortress technology and its broader influences, connectivities, and interpretations. Extensive scientific facilities such as radio telescopes appear to occupy space, much like a fortress, in a way that is delineated, often isolated, and opportunely situated. However, their location belies their embeddedness, their ongoing production of landscape and territory, their existence as complex accruals of technology, humans, and knowledge, and their deep infrastructural tethers to other places. In effect, the glacis is an obscuration in which apparent ‘emptiness’ conceals significant influence and connectivity. Like the Sphinx Observatory at Jungfraujoch, not only the fortress of science not only shapes our human understanding of outer space through its findings but also its spatial pro­ cesses broadly enacted across a vast landscape are intrinsic to its scientific purpose. These are not merely ‘knowledge spaces’84 but active forces in the production of space more broadly. As such, scientific knowledge produc­ tion is implicit in the production of space, as the historical events around the Mont Blanc Observatory demonstrate.

On a Mountain Peak I need not say that I do not suggest moving large observatories to rebuild them on elevated sites. Large observatories must stay in intimate relation with great intellectual centers.85 Jules Janssen, then acting president of the French Academy of Science, made this statement in 1890 after founding the Mont Blanc Observatory (MBO). Janssen had the MBO assembled at an exceptionally high-altitude site close to the summit of Mont Blanc at roughly 4,400 metres. The small timber and steel structure was heaved up the mountain and built on top of a glacier. In their analysis of Janssen’s efforts, Stéphane Le Gars and David Aubin chart the conception of the observatory as an almost laboratory-like placeless place in a highly opportune location where “crucial experiments and observations could settle debates about the validity of astronomical or physical theories.”86 Instead, the extreme conditions of the site led to the failure of the instruments, and when scientists released findings, they “were just too specific to the top of Mont Blanc, and were not universal en­ ough.”87 In effect, the MBO functioned as a field site, a research shelter near the summit of the mountain rather than an observatory or laboratory. The observatory was also an act of adventure infused with French patri­ otism. Building a scientific installation at the top of Europe, on the face of Mont Blanc visible from the town of Chamonix, Janssen was creating an icon of science and an adventurous French spirit. A statue of HoraceBénédict de Saussure and Jacques Balmat pointed towards the top of the mountain, and the observatory opened in 1887.88

42 Fortress Science The MBO can be examined through the lens of territory, landscape, infrastructure, and technology, as a symbolic technological device installed within the iconic landscape formation of Mont Blanc. In being built near the summit, and with a statue constructed in the town to draw public gaze upwards towards the peak and the MBO, the scientific installation enacted a landscape transformation and a territorial reconfiguration. Who could look towards the peak of Mont Blanc without noticing the MBO, then visible from Chamonix, and not associate the mountain with the ambition of Janssen? As Le Gars and Aubin demonstrate in their fascinating account of the Mont Blanc Observatory, various forces, including the prospect of scientific findings, patriotism, and competitiveness, resulted in and propelled the material artefact of the MBO. The observatory was a manifestation of an individual’s socially conditioned aspiration and significant sociopolitical processes in France, such as the public popularisation of science in the nineteenth century89 and increasing scientific competition from Europe and the USA. Despite its ambitious scientific goals and the extreme human labour requirements needed to design, run, and assemble the observatory, the observatory was no more a scientific outpost than a timber structure embodied with evolving social meaning to its numerous users and onloo­ kers. In effect, the mere presence of the scientific installation, despite the limited science performed there, served to restructure the space of Mont Blanc, re-scripting the mountain as a space of knowledge production, a fortress of science. Through this chapter, I have ranged the undefinable boundaries between two components of much broader and more significant disciplinary for­ mations. The overlaps between geography specifically and STS studies are substantial and, as various researchers have demonstrated, can together operate with theoretical and methodological clarity. Through my analysis of the social underpinnings of science and technology, it is evident that a causal social impetus fuels both approaches. Within the production of space, however, long-established historical-geographic materialist ap­ proaches have revealed unequal and hierarchical networks between the social and the material. These take place in and through space, but importantly inscribe and make space. These relationships are less developed within STS, as the material is given less ontological weight by operating outside a traditional ANT framework. Chief amongst these concerns are the mutually embedded nature of sci­ ence and space. That scientific activity is both a product of space and actively shapes space to its requirements. The result is not an interpretation of what spaces are necessary for science or how science produces space, but rather science as space. The two are entwined and made acutely visible through the increased scale of a giant radio telescope facility. In arguing science as space, I draw on the glacis to situate my approach within science as a human and technological concentration in space. These historically

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embedded sociopolitical structures find utility in science and its expressions. They are less evident than they may seem, as the broader structural for­ mations that dictate such products as the observatory’s symbolism, the funding regimes that support it, its locational effects, and its contextual embeddedness. Through this review of approaches to technology and infrastructure, I developed a rationale for using critical terms throughout the rest of this book. Notably, I identify technology as a mediator and not a determiner of human life, while I classify infrastructure as a technological formation operating at an extended scale across space. I elaborate both further in Chapter 5 as ‘tethers’ that bind disparate spatial components of the same telescope and in Chapter 6 as components of the human technological concentration that embodies the scientific site. I develop landscape and territory as dual modes through which land is brought into social production and control. Landscape refers to space’s social and scalar structuring within a bounded sense, while territory activates the power relations that control land. Before journeying this route, I present a historiographical sweep of each case study radio telescope. I situate each telescope within a historical con­ text and demonstrate the social, political, economic, scientific, and spatial forces that shaped their development.

Notes 1 Scientific American. 1938. ‘A Fortress of Science on a Mountain Peak,’ Scientific American 158. p. 132. 2 Jungfrau Top of Europe. NA. Jungfrau Top of Europe. Online: https://www. jungfrau.ch/en-gb/jungfraujoch-top-of-europe/ 3 Kirsch, Scott. 2014. ‘Laboratory/Observatory,’ in Agnew, John and Livingstone, David (eds.) Sage Handbook of Geographical Knowledge. Thousand Oaks, CA.: Sage Publishing. pp. 76–87. 4 Latour, Bruno. 1999 (a). ‘Give Me a Laboratory and I Will Raise the World,’ in Biagioli, Mario (ed.) The Science Studies Reader, New York, NY.: Routledge, pp. 258–275. 5 Redfield, Peter. 2000. Space in the Tropics: From convicts to rockets in French Guiana. Berkeley, CA.: University of California Press, p. 14. 6 Jasanoff, Sheila. 2015. ‘Future Imperfect: Science, Technology, and the Imaginations of Modernity,’ in Jasanoff, Sheila and Kim, Sang-Hyun (eds.) Dreamscapes of Modernity: Sociotechnical Imaginaries and the Fabrication of Power. Chicago, IL.: University of Chicago Press, p. 2. 7 Jasanoff, Sheila. 2015. p. 22. 8 Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. Nicholson-Smith, Donald (Transl.). The Production of Space. Malden. MA.: Blackwell. p. 288. 9 Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. 10 For a useful interpretation of Lefebvre’s interest in the relationship between Hegel’s idealism and Marx’s materialism as foundational components to his representations of space and perceived space as combined in his spaces of rep­ resentation see Elden, Stuart. 2007. ‘There is a Politics of Space because Space is Political: Henri Lefebvre and the Production of Space,’ Radical Philosophy Review 10(2). pp. 101–116.

44 Fortress Science 11 12 13 14 15 16

17 18 19 20 21 22 23 24 25

26 27 28 29 30 31 32 33 34 35

Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. p. 288. Lefebvre, Henri. 1991. Marx, Karl and Engels, Fredrich. 1845. The German Ideology. Moscow, Russia: Marx-Engels Institute. See Kirsch, Scott. 2009; Kirsch, Scott. 1995. ‘The incredible shrinking world? Technology and the production of space,’ Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 13, pp. 529–555; Swyngedouw, Erik. 1999. ‘Marxism and historicalgeographical materialism: A spectre is haunting geography,’ Scottish Geographical Journal, 115(2), pp. 91–102; Anderson, James. 1980. ‘Towards a Materialist Conception of Geography,’ Geoforum 11(2), pp. 171–178; Loftus, Alex. 2019. ‘Gramsci as a Historical Geographical Materialist,’ in Revisiting Gramsci’s Notebooks. Leiden, Belgium: Brill. Soja, Edward. 1989. Postmodern Geographies. London, UK: Verso. p. 42. Pinch, Trevor. 1992. ‘Opening Black Boxes: Science, Technology and Society,’ Social Studies of Science 22(3), pp. 487–510. Gallie, Walter B. 1956. ‘Essentially Contested Concepts,’ Proceedings of the Aristotelian Society 56, pp. 167–198. Gray, John. 1977. ‘On the Contestability of Social and Political Concepts,’ Political Theory 5(3), pp. 331–348. Kuhn, Thomas. 1962. The Structure of Scientific Revolutions. Chicago, IL.: University of Chicago Press. Bloor, David. 1976. Knowledge and Social Imaginary. Chicago, IL.: University of Chicago Press. Gieryn Thomas F. 1995. ‘Boundaries of Science,’ in Alfred I. Tauber (ed.) Science and the Quest for Reality. Main Trends of the Modern World. London, UK: Palgrave Macmillan. Warf. Barney. 2017. ‘Spatial turn,’ in The Wiley-Blackwell Encyclopedia of Social Theory. Online: https://onlinelibrary.wiley.com/doi/abs/10.1002/9781118430873. est0533 Callon, Michel. 1986. ‘Some elements of a sociology of translation: domestication of the scallops and the fishermen of St Brieuc Bay,’ in Law, John (ed.) Power, action and belief: a new sociology of knowledge? London, UK: Routledge, pp. 196–223. Latour, Bruno. 1999 (a). Latour, Bruno. 1999 (b). Pandora’s Hope: Essays on the Reality of Science Studies. Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press, p. 34. Gieryn, Thomas. 2006. ‘City as Truth-Spot: Laboratories and Field-Sites in Urban Studies,’ Social Studies of Science 36(1), p. 6. Massey, Doreen. 1999. ‘Space-Time, ‘Science’ and the Relationship between Physical Geography and Human Geography,’ Transactions of the Institute of British Geographers 24(3), p. 261. Livingstone, David, N. 2001. Science, Space and Hermeneutics: Hettner Lecture 2001. Germany: Heidelberg University, Department of Geography. Livingstone, David, N. 2003. Putting Science in Its Place: Geographies of Scientific Knowledge. Chicago, IL.: University of Chicago Press. Livingstone, David, N. 2003, p. 1. Shapin, Steven. 2003. ‘Review of David Livingstone’s Science, Space and Hermeneutics,’ The British Journal for the History of Science 36, pp. 89–90. Naylor, Simon. 2005. ‘Introduction: historical geographies of science – places, contexts, cartographies,’ British Society for the History of Science 38(1), pp. 2. Naylor, Simon. 2005. p. 3.

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36 Hinchliffe, Steven. 1996. ‘Technology, power, and space – the means and ends of geographies of technology,’ Environment and Planning D: Society and Space 14, pp. 659–682. See Kirsch, Scott. 1995; and Thrift, Nigel. 1994. ‘Inhuman geographies: landscapes of speed, light and power,’ in Cloke, Paul; Doel, Marcus; Matless, David; Phillips, Martin; and Thrift, Nigel (eds.) Writing the Rural: Five Cultural Geographies. London, UK.: Paul Chapman, pp. 191–248. 37 Turnbull, David. 1997. ‘Reframing science and other local knowledge tradi­ tions,’ Futures, 29(6), pp. 551–562. 38 Naylor, Simon. 2005. p. 3. 39 Dierig, Sven; Lachmund, Jens; and Mendelsohn, J. Andrew. 2003. ‘Introduction: Toward an Urban History of Science,’ Osiris 18(1), pp. 1–19. 40 Dierig, Sven; Lachmund, Jens; and Mendelsohn, J. Andrew. 2003. p. 3. 41 Aubin, David. 2003. ‘The Fading Star of the Paris Observatory in the Nineteenth Century: Astronomers’ Urban Culture of Circulation and Observation,’ Osiris 2(18), pp. 79–100. 42 Gandy, Matthew. 2005. ‘Cyborg Urbanization: Complexity and Monstrosity in the Contemporary City,’ in International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 29(1), pp. 26–49. 43 Gandy, Matthew. 2005. p. 40. 44 Designed by architects Charles Driver and Edmund Cooper. 45 For more on infrastructure networks and social meaning, see Kaika, Maria and Swyngedouw, Eric. 2000. ‘Fetishizing the modern city: the phantasmagoria of urban technological networks,’ International Journal of Urban and Regional Research 24(1). pp. 120–138. 46 Kaika, Maria and Swyngedouw, Eric. 2000. p. 134. 47 Verbeek, Peter Paul. 2011. 48 Latour, Bruno. 1994. 49 Bantwal Rao, Mithun; Jongerden, Joost; Lemmes, Pieter; and Ruivenkamp, Guido. 2015. ‘Technological Mediation and Power: Postphenomenology, critical Theory, and Autonomist Marxism,’ Philosophy & Technology 28. pp. 449–474. 50 Winner, Langdon. 1986. ‘Do Artifacts Have Politics’ in The Whale and the Reactor. Chicago: University of Chicago Press, pp. 19–39. 51 Furlong, Kathryn. 2010. ‘Small technologies. Big change: Rethinking infra­ structure through STS and geography,’ Progress in Human Geography 35(4), pp. 460–482. 52 Furlong, Kathryn. 2010. p. 461. 53 Furlong, Kathryn. 2010. p. 461. 54 Latour, Bruno. 1993. We have never been modern. Cambridge, Ma.: Harvard University Press. p. 117. 55 Kirsch, Scott. 1995. p. 545. 56 For an analysis of the settler colonialism dynamics implicit in the Dakota-Access Pipeline project, see Powys Whyte, Kyle. 2017. ‘The Dakota Access Pipeline, Environmental Injustice, and U.S. Colonialism,’ Red Ink 19(1), pp. 154–169 and Friedman, Lisa. 2020. ‘Standing Rock Sioux Tribe Wins a Victory in Dakota Access Pipeline Case,’ New York Times. Online: https://www.nytimes. com/2020/03/25/climate/dakota-access-pipeline-sioux.html 57 Graham, Stephen and Marvin, Simon. 2001. Splintering Urbanism: Networked Infrastructures, Technological Mobilities, and the Urban Condition. London, UK.: Routledge. 58 Graham Stephen and Marvin, Simon. 2001. p. 8. 59 Easterling, Keller. 2014. Extrastatecraft. New York, NY.: Verso. 60 Anand, Nikhil; Gupta, Akhil, and Appel, Hannah. 2018. The Promise of Infrastructure. Durham, NC.: Duke University Press, p. 25.

46 Fortress Science 61 Cosgrove, Dennis. 1998. Social Formation and Symbolic Landscape. Madison, WI.: University of Wisconsin Press. 62 Cosgrove, Dennis. 1998. p.xvi. 63 Cosgrove, Dennis. 1998. p.xxix. 64 Geddes, Patrick. 1923. ‘The valley section from hills to sea,’ Ciudades para un Futuro más Sostenible. Online: http://habitat.aq.upm.es/boletin/n45/apged.en.html 65 Cronon, William. 1991. Nature’s Metropolis: Chicago and the Great West. New York, NY.: W.W. Norton & Company. 66 Waldheim, Charles. 2016. Landscape as Urbanism: A General Theory. Princeton, NJ.: Princeton University Press, p. 5. 67 Waldheim, Charles. 2016. p. 3. 68 Elden, Stuart. 2010. ‘Land, Terrain, Territory,’ Progress in Human Geography 34(6), p. 806. 69 Elden, Stuart. 2010. p. 806. 70 Elden, Stuart. 2010. p. 809. 71 Elden, Stuart. 2010. p. 812. 72 Lefevre, Henri. 1991. 73 Brenner, Neil and Elden, Stuart. 2009. ‘Henri Lefebvre on State, Space, Territory,’ International Political Sociology 3, pp. 353–377. 74 Brenner, Neil and Elden, Stuart. 2009. p. 355. 75 Agnew, John. 1994. ‘The territorial trap: the geographical assumptions of international relations theory,’ Review of International Political Economy 1(1), pp. 53–80. 76 Maier, Charles S. 2016. Once Within Borders: Territories of Power, Wealth, and Belonging since 1500. Cambridge, MA.: Belknap Press of Harvard University Press, p.1. 77 Maier, Charles S. 2016. p. 3. 78 Elden, Stuart. 2010. p. 811. 79 Brenner, Neil and Elden, Stuart. 2009. 80 Brenner, Neil and Elden, Stuart. 2009. p. 364. 81 Lefevre, Henri. 1991. p. 370. 82 See Lepage, Jean-Denis. 2010. Vauban and the French Military Under Louis XIV: An Illustrated History of Fortifications and Strategies. Jefferson, NC.: McFarland & Company. 83 See Sennett, Richard. 2017. ‘The Public Realm,’ in Burdett, Richard and Hall, Suzanne (eds.) The SAGE Handbook of the 21st Century City. London, UK: Sage. 84 See Turnbull, David. 1997. 85 Le Gars, Stéphane and Aubin, David. 2009. ‘The Elusive Placelessness of the Mont-Blanc Observatory (1893–1909): The Social Underpinnings of HighAltitude Observation,’ Science in Context 22(3), p. 514. 86 Le Gars, Stéphane and Aubin, David. 2009. p. 526. 87 Le Gars, Stéphane and Aubin, David. 2009. p. 525. 88 Le Gars, Stéphane and Aubin, David. 2009. 89 Bensaude-Vincent, Bernadette. 1995. ‘A public for science. The rapid growth of popularization in nineteenth century France,’ Reseaux 3(1), pp. 75–92.

3

Making Science

At the core of this book are four case studies. Each is a remarkable human, scientific, and technological accomplishment that, in most cases, results from a multi-decade effort. These projects were designed through collective and co-developed strategies, which first had to find broad traction within a larger scientific community. Dedicated scientists carried these projects from an early and seemingly impossible concept, through to securing institutional and governmental support. In effect, making them real, viable, and neces­ sary for the advancement of the field. New organisational bodies would be established, and they would undertake a site selection process in line with the key scientific goals of the project. The arduous process would continue, with design adjustments made constantly. Some projects would persevere or mutate into others, while some would die away completely. Opportune organisational structures, strong political willpower, and demonstrable technical and scientific feasibility would emerge as foundational to suc­ cessful projects. The project would then find leadership from within the scientific community, engineers and scientists would develop prototypes and components, governments would sign treaties, funding agencies and governments would finalise their commitments, management organisations would emerge, and construction would start. Throughout the process multiple spatial transformations occur. Science finds a foothold, extends linkages to other places, establishes a facility, and develops researched outcomes. Funding remains an ongoing requirement, as does remaining relevant to a broader public. This extensive process underscores the immense complexity of building and managing a leading radio astronomy facility, one that is neither linear nor as evident as I have described it. The intensely political and negotiated processes (that belie the development and operation of a radio telescope site) often have little to do with scientific knowledge production. Still, they are an implicit part of ‘science’ writ large. Within the fortress science framework, these processes structure the spatialities of these sites outwardly as expressions of scientific advancement and political success or inwardly as complex lived environments wherein humans and technological mediators together produce knowledge of outer space. DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-3

48 Making Science This chapter covers four critical aspects of each case study telescope. Firstly, I introduce each case study’s spatial form and technical com­ plexity to outline each telescope’s different components and processes. Secondly, I chart a broad historiographical account of the realisation of each telescope. These accounts demonstrate the numerous political, sci­ entific, and funding agencies and individuals that come to structure a significant scientific project. Third, these combined historiographical narratives enable me to establish a basis for the further comparative analysis of each case study in the following chapters. Finally, this chapter offers a contribution to the history of radio astronomy, in which I have assembled accounts of recently built significant telescope projects from disparate sources. These provide future researchers in the history of sci­ ence and, indeed, the architecture of science with a beneficial resource that charts a record of these sites specifically and a history of radio astronomy more generally. I begin by examining the oldest radio telescope of the four case studies. The Arecibo Observatory was opened in 1963 and found great success in its first two decades, including a Nobel Prize. However, with the advent of newer instruments such as Array (ALMA), funders began to reduce their contribution to the observatory, sending it into successive organi­ sational and funding restructuring processes. Despite the tumultuous nature of this period, the observatory continued to do meaningful work, commonly in the field of planetary radar, albeit until the challenges of Hurricane Maria and the events of late 2020 that directly undermined the structural stability of the telescope and led to its decommissioning and later collapse. Next, I chart the history of the highly ambitious and expensive ALMA. I do this first through the advances of millimetre/submillimetre-wave astronomy and second through the substantial international effort to realise an array of 66 highly sensitive dish antennae on a plateau above 5,000 metres in the Chilean Atacama. I then introduce FAST, built in the southern region of Guizhou Province, China. A growing radio astronomy community in China realised this 500-metre diameter fixed telescope. Tracing the development of radio astronomy in the country, I chart the genesis of the telescope’s early concept and how Chinese astronomers leveraged the international effort to build the SKA to achieve FAST. I examine the SKA process to the point where China was not shortlisted to host the massive telescope array and demonstrate how China built FAST despite losing the SKA and other significant infra­ structure and urban development projects in parallel. Finally, I return to the SKA and the large 64-dish antennae array built by South Africa as a forerunner to the much bigger SKA project. MeerKAT, as it is known, was built in the Karoo, a semi-arid region in South Africa’s Northern Cape province. I examine the development of radio astronomy in

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the country, which started from a low base, and I track the significant commitment enacted by the country’s astronomy community and govern­ ment in cementing its role as a leading radio astronomy destination through the construction of MeerKAT.

Arecibo Observatory Located in the central Puerto Rican municipality of Arecibo, the 305-metre diameter William E. Gordon radio telescope at Arecibo Observatory was among the oldest active radio telescopes before its 2020 decommissioning and later collapse. The significant spherical reflector was engineered into a densely vegetated karst landscape between 1960 and 1963 and was the first fixed reflector of its size and design ever built.1 Its scale and uniformity dramatically contrasted with the irregularity of the surrounding hills and the dense tropical vegetation that constantly encroached on the reflector (Figure 3.1). In mid-2019, after a long drive through numerous winding roads that lace Puerto Rico’s northern karst region, my impression upon arrival at the observatory was that of displacement. A large gate guards the property. On opening my car door, the sounds of the tropical night exploded around me – frogs, insects, and birds. The air was heavy, and the night a solid black. This critical scientific outpost is no sterile laboratory but an infra­ structure embedded into and increasingly becoming a part of the Puerto Rican tropical forest. The following morning, I walked up to the science and administration buildings and down the depression towards the sus­ pended spherical reflector dish positioned within the natural Karst sinkhole (Figure 3.2). Cables draped across the limestone depression with perforated aluminium panels fixed to them. These panels together formed the reflecting surface of the dish. Three reinforced concrete towers surrounded the dish, two at 81 metres in height and one at 110 metres. The variation was due to the undulating natural ground level, as the tops of all three towers were at the same height above the reflector. A massive triangular steel platform hung from the three towers 150-metre above the reflector. This structure was fixed in space and supported the instrumentation needed to receive and transmit radio waves to and from outer space. These instruments occupied another prominent feature; the Gregorian dome, which contained a subreflector system, was connected to the feed arm and hung from the trian­ gular platform. Together the dome and the feed arm would work in unison to steer the telescope. The arm could rotate 360° on the azimuth rail, and the Gregorian dome could slide up and down, as could the damaged line feed antenna. The basic functional premise of the telescope was that because the 305-metre diameter fixed dish did not move, the receiver system within the Gregorian dome moved within a limited range, not using the entire reflector surface but rather a portion 221 metres in diameter that could effectively point the

50 Making Science

Figure 3.1 Arecibo Observatory in context.

telescope. This limited steerability was effective due to the telescope’s location close to the northern tropic. While a location in the tropics was not necessary for the telescope’s original purpose to examine an outer layer of the Earth’s atmosphere known as the ionosphere, it became beneficial to studying plane­ tary bodies that pass above the reflector using the telescope’s unique radar transmission capabilities. Despite the significant size and 900-ton weight of the suspended feed platform and instrumentation, the telescope had to operate at high precision

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Figure 3.2 The road approaching the dish reflector with cables running up the rock face to run along the catwalk to the platform (top-left), the experience of the telescope as it emerges from the forest on approach (top-right), the observatory entrance gate (bottom).

as minute differences in its steering amplified significantly across outer space. The many working parts of the telescope operation could have suffered downtime should, for example, a drive motor have failed or a power line become interrupted. When this occurred, technical crews would access the platform from a small cable car or across a suspended bridge that carried power and data cables between the platform and ground facilities. Other facilities at the observatory include a helicopter pad adjacent to the reflector, a control centre raised above the dish on the edge of the natural basin, various mechanical and electrical engineering laboratories and warehouses, a threestory office building, meeting rooms, a cafeteria, and a swimming pool. Above the dish at the base of the northern tower and commanding the most expansive view is the visitor’s centre, museum, and souvenir shop. The site

52 Making Science hosts a Fabry-Perot interferometer, a Light Detection and Ranging (LIDAR) station, and an optical laboratory used to study terrestrial airglow. Outside the main gate is an accommodation building for visiting scientists and guests. The nearest large town is Arecibo, a 17-kilometre drive away, and the village of Las Marías is 4 kilometres away. The nearest residential building is, as the crow flies, one kilometre from the centre of the reflector. Despite the Arecibo Observatory’s historical and cultural significance as once the largest spherical reflector dish in the world, the observatory has experienced significant structural and political change over the past two decades. These almost resulted in shuttering the observatory due to reductions in funding. Combined with the challenge of Hurricane Maria in September 2017, the observatory has always fought to remain functional, funded, and relevant. This challenge is especially so as other more advanced radio telescopes came online, and Arecibo has lost its status as the largest single dish reflector in the world to China’s FAST. I have structured the history of the project in four periods. In ‘Clearing the Forest,’ I trace the origin of the Observatory from its initial conceptualisation by William E. Gordon to its completion in 1963. I set out the initial funding components of the project and describe in detail the Observatory’s design. In ‘Making Waves,’ I set out some of the project’s early findings and how its scope widened from a narrow military focus to research and civilian-oriented endeavours through changes in the design and the institutional structures of the project. In ‘New Capabilities,’ I highlight significant upgrades to the Arecibo telescope, culminating in 1996 with the opening of the visitors’ centre. Finally, in ‘Uncertainty,’ I outline the significant funding challenges that almost resulted in the closure of the observatory and the organisational changes that, until November 2020, had kept it operational despite such challenges as the devastating Hurricane Maria. Clearing the Forest Research into the Earth’s upper atmosphere and outer space increased in the decade post World War II. A focus of early radio astronomy research was a process known as radio scattering. When a radio signal transmits from the ground towards the distant horizon, it sees significant distribution within the troposphere. Some of the signal scatters in a forward motion, extending the reach of a radio transmission beyond the horizon. William E. Gordon, a doctoral student at Cornell University in the 1950s, studied radio scatter. He expanded this interest post-PhD with his super­ visor Henry Booker. Both studied scattered radio transmissions in the stratosphere and the higher ionosphere. They found the stratosphere sub-optimal for radio scatter as it required substantial transmission technology. Still, Booker discovered that the lower ionosphere was capable of forward scattering for about a thousand kilo­ metres.2 As global communications utility in the higher ionosphere seemed

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unfeasible due to the scale of infrastructure and the power of transmitters required, and because science knew so little of these upper reaches of the Earth’s atmosphere, Gordon turned to study the ionosphere further: So, I said: Suppose I just wanted to measure how many electrons were up there, and I built radar instead of a communication system? I’d point the antenna straight up. How big an antenna would I need? How powerful are the current transmitters? How good are the current receivers? How far away are we talking about? All of those things are known. So it was a practical solution to a problem. But the question that had to be answered was: How big an antenna would it take? And that was enormous. That turned out to be a dish a thousand feet in diameter.3 Initially, there were doubts concerning the viability of Gordon’s idea. The initial proposition seemed somewhat uncertain as Gordon had to develop other reasons as to why a 305-metre diameter dish would be helpful to the science at the time: It was an exciting prospect to be able to measure the atmospheric properties. It turned out there are many properties once you get into it seriously. But even the first ones, the idea of the weather up there, were enough to say, well, maybe it’s worth doing.4 He approached two Cornell University colleagues in the Civil Engineering Department, George Winter and Bill McGuire, who had worked on designing and constructing the Fermi Lab particle accelerator in Chicago’s western suburbs.5 The team quickly ruled out building a steerable radar antenna of that size and instead turned to investigate ground-based options. Civil engineer, Donald P. Belcher, was approached for advice. A world expert in air photo interpretation, landform analysis, and remote sensing at Cornell, Belcher introduced the team to karst landscape formations and suggested numerous options where landscapes of rounded basin-like valleys existed reasonably close to the USA. These included such formations in Mexico, Cuba, Hawai’i, Puerto Rico, and the Bahamas.6 Gordon notes that the small team had already settled on a large dish with advanced radar transmitting capacity by the time their site deliberations ensued. This radar would study the ionosphere, so it could be built any­ where on Earth, but it also held significant prospects for planetary sciences. Should the dish be located as close to the equator as possible, it would be able to bounce radio waves off planets as they pass almost directly over­ head. As a US territory in the tropics, Puerto Rico held a significant advantage over the other sites. Still, Gordon and Booker had already been introduced to the island by a PhD student in his department, Braulio Dueno, a native of Puerto Rico. The decision to select the island is described by Gordon as follows:

54 Making Science Puerto Rico was a freely associated state. It was in some sense part of the U.S.; it was a commonwealth and still is. Probably always will be. It seemed to be an attractive place. It was a great deal more prosperous than the neighboring islands, some of which are pitiful in terms of living conditions. So Puerto Rico was picked.7 Gordon and Belcher determined the actual site for the observatory. They “walked over some of Puerto Rico looking at sinkholes, getting lost, and finally finding one that seemed to do the job.”8 Between mid-1958 and 1960, Gordon took many trips to Washington to persuade the Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA), part of the Department of Defence, to fund the observatory.9 ARPA’s specific intent in funding the project came from an interest in tracking Soviet missile exhaust ion trails. While we are aware of few other military applications of the Arecibo Ionospheric Observatory (AIO) – as it was then known – its broader findings would have been helpful to any agency seeking clarity on the structure and behaviour of the ionosphere and, indeed, the solar system beyond. The fund-raising process and the design of the final instrument delicately entwined as ARPA sought clarity that the observatory was the best possible instrument for their investment. Ward Low, the individual at ARPA responsible for the potential project, made significant contributions to the finalisation of the design. The shift from a parabolic dish reflector to a spherical dish reflector was substantial. A parabolic dish reflector seemed the obvious choice as waves bouncing off a parabolic surface all meet at a single focal point. At this focal point, a traditional radio telescope would have its receiver, and transmitter in the case of a radar telescope. Low ar­ gued, however, that a parabolic dish would be extremely limited in its function as it could only focus on celestial objects directly overhead, given that even the slightest attempt to steer a parabola would throw off the focal point and severely limit the instrument’s functionality. The alternative was to build a spherical reflector, which maintains the same curve and is steered by pointing the receiver/transmitter at any point on the surface. However, unlike a parabolic surface that produces a single focal point, a spherical surface instead makes a focal line, so any receiver or transmitter would need to occupy the entire line of focus. A focal line was a challenge because a receiver would need to take the form of an extended aerial rod, or line feed, instead of a single receiver point, as is more common (Figure 3.3). Air Force Cambridge Research Laboratories (AFCRL), where Gordon turned, operated 10-foot diameter steerable spherical dishes. They demon­ strated to Gordon and his team that a line feed was feasible and that shifting from a parabolic to a spherical reflector could liberate the fixed instrument by enabling a degree of steerability. After sustained interaction between ARPA, Gordon’s Cornell team, and the AFCRL, they agreed upon a design with 20° steerability from its zenith and a feed roughly 30-metres long.10 In 1958, the

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Figure 3.3 Two diagrams demonstrating the difference between a parabolic reflector (left) and a spherical reflector (right). The parabolic dish reflects waves into a focal point, while the spherical dish reflects waves into a focal line. At Arecibo, a line-feed receiver, instead of a focal point receiver, was designed initially to occupy this focal line.

team sent the final construction proposal to ARPA, and AFCRL signed the contract in November 1959.11 ARPA would fund the built components of the observatory, and Cornell would perform three tasks: designing the vertical radar probe, examining other potential uses for the instrument, and estab­ lishing a plan of the buildings that would comprise the site.12 ARPA agreed to finance the engineering and construction of the dish. The Center for Radiophysics and Space Research (CRSR) would manage the AIO and oversee most astronomy and electrical engineering/radar research at Cornell.13 The CRSR developed a list of the observatory’s first 20 priority research projects. The first ten dealt with planetary radar and ionospheric research, while the remaining ten were radio astronomy projects.14 In June 1960, construction on the radar-radio telescope began (Figure 3.4).15 The US Army Corps of Engineers oversaw all construction and engineering works built by subcontractor teams. First, the significant sinkhole blanketed by forest vegetation had to be re-engineered into a larger basin without any protruding landscape elements. Rock blasts and earthmoving machinery soon exposed underlying rock strata. They came to resemble significant landscape gashes, the likes of which are familiar to surface mining and dam-building operations. Close to 206,500 m3 of soil was excavated, and 153,000 m3 was reused as compacted fill to smooth the curve of the basin.16 The three tall concrete towers soon soared over the undulating green landscape, having risen at 20 centimetres per hour. Constructed in a slip form, the concrete formwork for the towers would be slowly lifted upwards, revealing concrete poured five hours earlier while new concrete was poured into the formwork.17 A local cement plant built on-site provided around three Olympic swimming pool-sized volumes of concrete for constructing the three towers. Large cable stay blocks were

56 Making Science

Figure 3.4 The construction process of the Arecibo Observatory telescope running sequentially from top-left (June 1960) to bottom-right (August 1963). The construction process demonstrates the tensile nature of the structure supported by the three concrete towers. The original line feed is visible in the centre-bottom image just before being winched up to its carriage house support on the platform.

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built just beyond each tower into which the cables suspended from each tower were anchored. With an elegance commonly ascribed to suspension bridges, four 3-inch main cables were strung across the excavated sinkhole from above the centre of the future dish reflector to each tower. Simultaneously, the steel trusses that comprise the triangular prism struc­ ture of the feed platform were assembled on-site at the centre of the future reflector dish. By October 1962, the prism, weighing 550 tons, was lifted by cables to 152 metres above the future dish surface. This suspension oc­ curred at a rate of 15 metres per hour and took three days.18 Photographs of the event reveal how the white, abstract, and latticed form lifted into the sky above the irregular and forested karst depression, which appears alien in its geometric weightlessness. According to astron­ omer Bob Price: the raising of the platform was very impressive […]. They had all these very strong Puerto Ricans pulling at cables. It was like some 1930s Mexican mural painting. Labor at its best. All coordinated pulling at these cables, and pouring cement at the same time, and getting the right tension on everything.19 Once the feed platform was secured, work began assembling the ring girder and feed arm on the ground directly below the feed platform. They were hoisted into place and fixed to the underside of the suspended platform. Once the aerial structures were assembled, the construction team began installing the dish reflector. They cast a long concrete ring beam around the periphery of the dish, and 318 cables running east to west and ten cables running north to south were suspended from the ring. Altschuler notes that these were increased to 39 after the first dish upgrade was completed in 1974, which also saw the soldered mesh panels that originally surfaced the dish replaced with aluminium panels. These allowed for greater observation precision while still allowing light to penetrate the vegetation under the dish, which controls erosion.20 The north-south cables were fixed to the concrete blocks on the ground to force the dish into a circular form. Finally, on 14 August 1963, with the mesh panels welded to the cable lattice, the observatory’s first line feed, a 430 MHz square in cross-section aluminium rod with hundreds of slots for receiving or transmitting radio waves, was raised to meet the azimuth arm.21 The site’s various scientific and engineering buildings were constructed between 1961 and 1963.22 These buildings are a distance from the primary dish reflector but remain integrated into the broader functioning of the entire instrument. On 1 November 1963, the AIO was inaugurated, costing roughly $9 million.23 Making Waves In the early days of the AIO, many significant findings were made. These include the 1964 radar signal bounce off Mercury which determined that

58 Making Science the planet’s rotation was 59 days instead of the 88 days as once thought.24 Also, a soviet arctic radar signal reflecting off the Moon was intercepted and analysed under the cover of a project studying ‘lunar temperature.’25 William E. Gordon was the first director of the AIO, with Gordon Pettengill as associate director.26 Pettengill came to the AIO from the Lincoln Laboratory in Massachusetts, where he carried out radar astronomy research as a hobby. His association with Lincoln Laboratories enabled a close working relationship between the two centres.27 For ex­ ample, Lincoln Laboratories offered AIO access to their leading software, computing, and ephemeris research. Pettengill reportedly embraced the move to AIO as he enjoyed the university-run nature of the observatory and its lack of direct military contracts.28 Pettengill’s association with Lincoln Laboratory and the Massachusetts Institute of Technology’s (MIT) Haystack Radio Telescope, combined with an increase in Cornell PhD students exploring theses on radar astronomy onsite at Arecibo, meant that the AIO became a leading global hub for radar astronomy. When Haystack ended its planetary radar program, AIO was ready to pick up the baton.29 Despite this motivated start, by 1972, planetary radar research at AIO only peaked at 9.5% of total telescope operations.30 The limited use of the telescope’s radar functionality had to do in part with the limited efficiency of the original line feed. It operated at only 21% power.31 Also, with Jocelyn Bell’s 1967 discovery of the first pulsar, it became clear that AIO was uniquely positioned to study these puzzling phenomena.32 Radio astronomy, as opposed to planetary radar research at AIO, became increasingly important, taking up 50% of instrument time by 1969.33 Still, the telescope was not operating at total efficiency due to original design limitations, and options for improvements were limited as uncer­ tainty regarding the stability of the feed platform abounded. Higher fre­ quency work, for example, required significant platform stability as new weights and instrumentation forms would be added. However, evidence of the telescope’s engineering success, and the platform’s true strength, would soon come in the form of Hurricane Inez’s 70-mile-per-hour winds, which slammed into Puerto Rico in 1966. Throughout the onslaught, the feed platform moved by barely half an inch.34 In the late 1960s, ARPA had gradually reduced AIO funding, which was quickened by the onset of the Vietnam War. ARPA sought to reduce their role to funding only those core components of the AIO’s scientific mission that directly served them, notably the ionospheric work. In 1967, however, ARPA granted the AIO permission to seek outside funding sources; its funding for the Observatory dropped to a third of its ordinary expenses. As such, the AIO, under director Frank Drake, approached the National Science Foundation (NSF)35 for backing to resurface the reflector and replace the radar and astronomy line feeds to enable Arecibo to function at S-Band. This higher frequency would provide greater radar image resolu­ tion and allow the study of neutral hydrogen in the universe.36 The NSF’s

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Dicke Panel gave the proposal top priority. Only once Alan Love and L. Merle LaLonde could design and construct an appropriate S-Band line feed did the NSF release the funds, and the upgrade went ahead.37 ARPA and the NSF also initiated discussions in 1967 for the NSF to take over the mandate as the government agency overseeing the AIO contract. AIO, NSF and ARPA agreed upon a new contract in December 1967, and the observatory took a significant step toward full civilian operation and funding.38 The new agreement also prohibited secret work from being carried out at the observatory. By 1971, following extended debates between the NSF and Cornell over the observatory’s management structure and core scientific mission, the facility was renamed to resemble other National Research Centers and the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO) more closely.39 The AIO became the National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center (NAIC). The new management structure saw Cornell take a centralised role in the observatory’s management. The observatory director was responsible to Cornell’s vicepresident for research and would be based primarily in Ithaca, under whom the director of observatory operations – located at Arecibo – would run onsite activities.40 With these institutional changes complete and Love and LaLonde’s suc­ cess in designing a line feed to replace the problematic original version in 1972, the NSF released the funds for the reflector resurfacing. Given the precision required of S-Band observations, the dish’s surface had to be improved substantially. Dish deviation from a perfect sphere could occur up to three centimetres, but for S-Band, this number had to reduce to a nearimpossible six millimetres. The old mesh reflector was removed to achieve S-Band functionality, and extra cables were added to support the higherprecision surface. In total, 38,778 perforated aluminium panels, each measuring 40×80 inches, were installed. By this stage, the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) has partnered with the NSF as joint funders of the AIO upgrades. Eager to map planetary bodies to a resolution of a few kilometres, NASA funded the 1 MW transmitter and receivers, enabling a radar capacity of 3,000 MHz.41 The upgrade was completed in November 1974. To celebrate the improved instrument, Cornell astronomer and NAIC director Frank Drake conceptualised what was fundamentally a piece of public performance. For the first time in human history, the telescope would intentionally broadcast a carefully considered code into space. Known as the Arecibo Message and conceptualised by Carl Sagan and Frank Drake, the telescope was aimed at the solar system cluster known as Messier 13, and a sequence of radio wave pulses was transmitted for three minutes:42 After a series of speeches, the assembled crowd sat in silence at the edge of the telescope while the public-address system blasted nearly three minutes of two-tone noise through the muggy afternoon heat.

60 Making Science To the listeners, the pattern was indecipherable, but somehow the experience of hearing those two notes oscillating in the air moved many in the crowd to tears.43 The sound the assembled crowd of dignitaries heard was merely an aural representation of the radio waves reflecting off the dish and travelling into space at the speed of light.44 The moment was as hopeful as it was con­ troversial: it soon drew criticism for potentially alerting intelligent life with unknown – and possibly destructive – intent to the existence of Earth. Sagan and Drake were forebears of the Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence (SETI). Drake designed the message as 1,679 pulses, arranged into 73 lines of 23 characters – or pixels – each.45 Visually represented in the pixelated graphic are items like the Arecibo telescope, a human figure, a gesture towards a DNA helix, our solar system, and some biochemical signatures.46 We may never know the outcome of the Arecibo Message. It is currently just beyond our solar system, with a few hundred trillion miles left to go.47 New Capabilities The following two decades saw the NAIC operated by Cornell University under the auspices of an NSF facility. Significant work in the discovery of pulsars was carried out during this time,48 as was the radar mapping of the surface of Venus in 1981, the world’s first imaging of an asteroid in 1989,49 and Aleksander Wolszczan’s 1990 discovery of the first planets outside our solar system that orbit a Sun. Funding for the facility remained stable during this time. There had always been discussions about improving the AIO instrument’s line feeds and possibly replacing them with another technology altogether. Numerous line feeds were used during the telescope’s first few decades, and as Gordon recounts, When the thing was first built, we had tons of lead weights up there with the idea that, if we added a feed or added a heavy something or other, we would take off some of the ballast. At some point, we ran out of ballast.50 Adding a Gregorian reflector to the feed platform had been a reoccurring desire amongst Arecibo astronomers. Named after the seventeenth-century Scottish astronomer James Gregory, the Gregorian reflector enables an optical correction. When used in radio astronomy, it produces a single focal point by reflecting waves off a series of curved surfaces. At Arecibo, a Gregorian reflector could replace the line feed. It would ensure that radio waves reflected off the main dish came to a single point instead of a line (Figure 3.5), and various receivers or transmitters could be placed at this point for different studies.

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Figure 3.5 The Gregorian dome offers an optical correction to the spherical reflector. When radio waves reflect off the spherical dish and enter the dome casing, a secondary reflector and tertiary reflector focus the waves on a point. This receiver and radar instrumentation are housed on an indexer at this point. The result is a more capable and flexible telescope not reliant on the complexity of line feeds alone.

In the mid-1980s, radio astronomy had advanced significantly enough that the NAIC recognised the importance of designing and developing a Gregorian reflector system for the AIO. This upgrade was essential for both the telescope’s future viability. With this design, the receiver coverage would run from 300 MHz (1 metre) to 10 GHz (3 centimetres), and the S-Band radar transmitter would double in power to 1 MW.51 Under the directorship of Norwegian astronomer Tor Hagfors,52 Sebastian von Hoerner, an NRAO antenna expert, was hired to design the Gregorian reflector system.53 Von Hoerner joined Per-Simon Kidal, a former student of

62 Making Science Hagfors and an expert in antenna diffraction. They worked with Lynn Baker, the NAIC line feed designer, to develop a workable Gregorian solution, and produced a range of preliminary viability studies. These included the devel­ opment of a miniature Gregorian reflector funded by the NAIC and testing a ground screen to shield the primary reflector surface from interference as it would now operate at greater sensitivities.54 While these studies were underway, the NAIC submitted separate funding proposals to the NSF. The first sought funding for the ground screen, and the second desired funding for the Gregorian dome system and associated receivers, transmitters, and additional equipment. The NAIC entered nego­ tiations with the NSF and NASA to fund the improvements. In 1990, the NSF and NASA approved the $23 million project. As Butrica notes, the total budget, spread over four years, pushed the upgrade into a small project category. Due to the NSF and NASA splitting the costs, neither had to con­ tribute substantially.55 NASA covered the ground screen and radar trans­ mitter as these directly aided their planetary radar and asteroid observation research, and the NSF paid for the rest. The Arecibo Observatory’s second major upgrade was realised in stages and finally completed in 1997. The 16-metre-high ground screen was completed in 1993. It runs the entire 1-kilometre perimeter of the reflector dish and soars above the perimeter road, seemingly extending the dish further. The assembly of the Georgian dome in the centre of the reflector dish reached completion in 1996, and on 16 May, the egg-shaped structure was lifted 137 metres and attached to the azimuth arm of the feed platform. The feed platform was braced with two additional auxiliary cables tensioned across each tower from the platform to each anchor block to support the six-story high Gregorian dome (weighing 75 tons). Two dynamic tiedown cables were added at each corner of the triangular platform and ran directly vertically through the reflector dish to large concrete anchors. These could be adjusted with millimetre accuracy to ensure the stability and precision of the platform instrumentation. On the platform, 26 electric motors were added to operate the feed arm, the Gregorian dome, and the carriage house. A 22-metre secondary reflector and a 9-metre tertiary reflector were designed as part of the dome. The latter was adjustable to improve focus if required. A rotating floor of instrumentation receivers and transmitters was installed within the dome at the point at which the tertiary reflector pro­ duces a single focal point. Depending on the project, the floor could be rotated to ensure the correct instrument was aligned to the focal point, producing radar pulses, or receiving sensitive radio waves at a specific frequency. Fibre optic cables were installed to connect the dome to the control room, and new computers with purpose-designed software were procured to manage the new instrumentation (Figure 3.6). The upgrade results were described by then Director Daniel Altschuler as ‘astounding.’ The upgraded capacity meant the NAIC could make incredibly sensitive observations far quicker than other observatories.56 The powerful

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Figure 3.6 The William E. Gordon Telescope components at the Arecibo Observatory.

radar, operating at roughly the exact electricity requirements for 650 average homes,57 could image asteroids millions of kilometres from Earth to a res­ olution of 15 metres. At the time of the upgrades, the press animated the telescope’s new capacity for public consumption: “It could be used to listen into a cellular telephone call on Venus; the radar could detect a steel golf ball at the distance of the Moon.”58 In an interview at the time, and being pro­ tective of the original structure that he was so integral in designing, Gordon noted: “I know what they’re trying to do, [but] they’re spoiling our elegant geometry by adding all kinds of extra cables.”59 In 1997, the NAIC inaugurated the ‘Angel Ramos Foundation’ Visitors Centre, located at the foot of the north tower. Funded by the Angel Ramos Foundation, with the NSF paying for the exhibits therein, the Centre was intended in part to support the educational and cultural landscape of Puerto

64 Making Science Rico. The building integrates the original 430 MHz line feed in its archi­ tecture and steps up the side of the hill, culminating in a comprehensive view of the telescope. Every year, close to 100,000 visitors walk through the centre’s exhibitions, attend talks, tour the facilities, and shop in the small gift shop.60 An essential addition, as two prominent websites ranked the Arecibo Observatory as the seventh and eighth most popular tourist attraction on the island.61 Uncertainty Despite the optimism evident in the 1990s, the decades following were challenging, and the facility’s existence became tenuous. In December 2001, NASA announced they would reduce their funding by 27% and called on the NSF to fund the difference.62 While the Arecibo Observatory was highly equipped for researching and imaging asteroids once discovered, it was not well suited to the discovery of asteroids. NASA had a congressional mandate to discover all asteroids potentially threa­ tening Earth by 2008 and was eager to shift their funding to other programs better suited for this task.63 The NSF countered that their core annual funding of $9.5 million at the time was the basis on which the planetary radar program existed in the first place.64 In stepping out of the ob­ servatory’s funding agreement, NASA pushed the NAIC into a competitive peer-reviewed pool for future funding. All NASA funding had ceased by the end of the 2005 financial year.65 In 2006 the NSF reviewed their observatories.66 They recommended that funding reductions at Arecibo continued but only at a level that allowed for completing numerous active astrophysical surveys. They also urged the closure of the facility should outside funding not be secured.67 The review also determined that the observatory’s scientific value was lacking com­ pared to newer contemporaries.68 The NAIC immediately cut its budget by 24%, reduced its staff by a quarter and radically decreased its use of the planetary radar.69 Aware of the fiscal challenges faced by the observatory, the Puerto Rican government approved a bond of $3 million to fund repairs to the three towers.70 The NSF increased pressure on NASA to pick up the outstanding bill. Still, with an eye fixed on space-based telescope technol­ ogies at the time, NASA’s director of their planetary science division James L. Green retorted: “We haven’t asked NSF to operate any of our space­ craft.”71 A congressional appeal was launched by Congressmen Luis Fortuño of Puerto Rico and Dana Rohrabacher of California in 2007 to ensure federal funding for the observatory. Rohrabacher noted at the time: Arecibo is a key resource in understanding the characteristics of potentially hazardous asteroids and comets so that they can be dealt with effectively. There is no room for error when it comes to eliminating a threat that could kill millions.72

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An additional bill was filed in congress by Senator Hillary Clinton in April 2008, just over a month before the Puerto Rico Democratic primary, which called for a reversal in the NSF’s decision to reduce funding.73 Neither bill made it into law. However, the fortunes of the facility soon began to look up. First, the National Register of Historic Places listed the entire site and its buildings as a facility younger than 50 years that achieved significance within that time.74 Importantly, it was recognised both for the science performed at the observatory but also for embodying the distinctive characteristics of a type, period, or method of construc­ tion or represents the work of a master, or possesses high artistic values, or represents a significant and distinguishable entity whose components lack individual distinction.75 Second, in 2010, a year from the end of Cornell’s contract to manage the facility and during a call for management proposals, the NSF recommitted to funding the telescope until 2016. This was made possible through a re­ structuring of NSF funding mechanisms and an increase in funding from their Division of Atmospheric and Geospace Sciences, followed by a decrease in funding from their astronomy division.76 And third, NASA returned to the project pledging $2 million per year. The funding contributions from the NSF and NASA now averaged roughly $10.5 million annually.77 With the facility’s funding secured for an additional five years, in 2011, the NSF announced that Cornell University was unsuccessful in its bid to retain management of the Arecibo Observatory. Various accounts indicate that Cornell lost Arecibo primarily due to their distant approach to the facility.78 The NAIC director was based in Ithaca, New York, which limited their interaction with local interests and organisations. Management of the facility was awarded to a consortium including SRI International, Universities Space Research Association (USRA); the Metropolitan University in Puerto Rico (UMET); and other collaborators. The five-year contract led by SRI International totalled $42 million, and the observatory’s management re­ located to Arecibo.79 Robert Kerr, a former observatory director and the principal investigator of the successful bid, was made the facility’s new director.80 The agreement saw SRI International and USRA lead the research and management functions of the observatory, while UMET supported the education, public outreach, facilities management, and site operations activities.81 Existing staff were brought into the new structure, including scientists that had worked for Cornell University for decades. In 2015, Robert Kerr resigned as director of Arecibo Observatory. While NASA’s annual contribution had risen to $3.7 million, the NSF continued to decrease their yearly funding in favour of new and expensive telescopes such as the Large Synoptic Survey under construction in Chile.82 Kerr ar­ gued that his decision to leave was based on a breakdown in communica­ tion with the NSF and SRI International. Given the funding challenges

66 Making Science plaguing the telescope, Kerr considered accepting funding from Russian billionaire Yuri Milner’s Breakthrough Listen project, which funds searches for extraterrestrial life. The NSF delayed deciding on the implications of the outside project funding, and Kerr was aware that his acceptance of the grant might trigger increased funding cuts from the NSF.83 After taking his frustrations to the media,84 Kerr felt marginalised in the organisation and resigned. In 2016, Francisco Córdova replaced Kerr, a native of Puerto Rico who came to Arecibo from Boeing, where he led the research and design portfolio for composite materials in superstructure fabrication. Córdova resigned in mid-2022 and was replaced by the observatory’s first Puerto Rican director, Olga Figueroa Miranda, a former observatory specialist in commercial operations and director of facilities and operations. Following Kerr’s departure, the NSF sent out a ‘Dear Colleague Letter’ in 2015 that announced a new call for management proposals in light of a “substantially reduced funding commitment from NSF.”85 The NSF initi­ ated an Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) process and concurrently issued a second ‘Dear Colleague Letter’ in 2016 calling for a solicitation for the future management of the observatory, with the “submission of formal proposals involving the continued operation of Arecibo Observatory under conditions of a substantially reduced funding commitment from NSF.”86 The EIS process was undertaken to establish the effect of funding changes and various management configurations on the telescope and its broader social, economic, and environmental context. It investigated six different scenarios, which ranged from “collaboration with interested parties for continued science‐focused operations (the Agency‐preferred Alternative)” to “complete demolition and site restoration” and a “no-action alterna­ tive.”87 The EIS specifically did not consider the scientific success of the observatory as this formed part of the NSF’s decadal review process. In September 2017, Hurricane Maria hit Puerto Rico, increasing uncer­ tainty over the observatory’s future. The hurricane caused widespread devastation across Puerto Rico and reminded the world of the island’s secondary status within US governance structures as a territory, not a state. The Arecibo Observatory took a direct hit from the storm, and numerous employees came to remember the period as one of the most challenging of their lives. With substantial effort from employees, which I explore in greater detail later in this book, the observatory minimised damage from the hurricane. The storm’s most significant impact at the time was the destruction of the modified 430 MHz line feed, which snapped in half and crashed down onto the dish surface, damaging numerous aluminium panels. There were many challenges in bringing the telescope back to total capacity and sensitivity.88 Five months later, perhaps assisted by the sub­ stantial media, the observatory received around Hurricane Maria, a bipartisan budget act approved $14.3 million in funding to bring the facility back to complete working order.89 The NSF announced the new group selected to manage the observatory that same month.

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The winning consortium included the University of Central Florida (UCF), Yang Enterprises, and the Metropolitan University in Puerto Rico, renamed Ana G. Méndez University (UAGM) in 2019. UCF broadly managed the Arecibo Observatory and their scientific operations, while Yang Enterprises managed the engineering program. UAGM administered the educational and facilities management aspects of the observatory.90 As anticipated, the NSF continued to decrease its funding from $7.5 million in 2018 to an estimated $2 million by 2023.91 Like many of his employees, Francisco Córdova kept his post and found himself working for UCF as the observatory changed hands.92 Despite their substantial funding reduction for the Arecibo Observatory, the NSF remained the facility’s owners. Few would have foreseen that so soon after Hurricane Maria, the ob­ servatory’s prized telescope would briefly teeter on the brink of structural collapse and then succumb dramatically to its final demise. After an aux­ iliary cable broke on 10 August 2020 – causing a 30-metre gash across the reflecting surface – a second main support cable broke on 7 November 2020. The second cable break revealed that the original structural lines supporting the 900-ton platform had a degraded load capacity. A week later, on 19 November 2020, the NSF released a statement that the William E. Gordon Telescope would be decommissioned and dismantled.93 Extensive engineering reviews determined the entire platform structure was at high risk of collapse and could bring down the towers, destroying the reflector and surrounding facilities. Engineers also found that the structure could not be repaired safely without risking the lives of repair personnel. The NSF also noted that following the controlled dismantling of the telescope, other facilities on the site would remain operational, and the site would remain a significant educational hub for visitors through its continued use. Following the announcement of the telescope’s decom­ missioning, many Puerto Ricans and those privileged to have visited or worked at the observatory took to Twitter and recalled important memo­ ries of the observatory using the #WhatAreciboMeansToMe hashtag.94 These include school trips for locals, observatory marriages, and those inspired by the site to pursue studies in space science. With the decommissioning of the telescope, engineers started developing strategies to dismantle the telescope safely. These were never implemented, as less than two weeks after the telescope decommissioning, the final cables holding the 900-ton platform gave way. The entire platform structure and Gregorian dome crashed into the dish and cliff face adjacent to the control room. The top portions of all three towers came down, as did the other cables causing significant damage to a few smaller buildings on the site. In a matter of seconds, the William E. Gordon Telescope ceased to exist, reduced to mangled constituent parts that had previously synchronously expanded our human understanding of outer space. Despite this significant loss, the Arecibo Observatory continues to function today, managing a rigorous education program and operating the remaining instruments on the site.

68 Making Science

ALMA Unlike the verdant hills of Puerto Rico’s interior, the Chilean Atacama is one of the driest places on Earth. Its low level of humidity combined with thin, high-altitude air makes it perfect for radio and optical space obser­ vation. The desert is a stark landscape of rocks, sand and shrubs, contained by the Andes in the east. The mountains no longer resemble the jagged peaks near Santiago. Instead, the cordillera is dry here and intensely vol­ canic, reminiscent of a time before flora and fauna. The Chilean Coast Range and the coastal cliff straddle the Pacific Ocean to the west. Despite the Atacama’s harsh features and dramatic diurnal temperature shifts, many peoples have for millennia made it home, entangling their lives, cultural practices, and economies in its extreme landscapes. Recent recorded history demonstrates the Atacameño people (also known in English as the Likanantaí) have lived in the Atacama for at least 1,500 years.95 The region fell into Inca control in the fifteenth century and by 1556 was ruled by the Spanish colonisers.96 By 2017, the Chilean census counted 30,369 people who identified as Atacameño. In the heart of the Atacama and today close to major radio astronomy infrastructure is the bustling town of San Pedro de Atacama. It was established initially by the Atacameño, who settled near an oasis. While the settlement saw a degree of formalisation under the Incas, the Spanish developed the oasis into the small town of San Pedro de Atacama with an adobe church and market square at its centre.97 Today the town is a World Heritage Site and the beating heart of the Chilean Atacama tourism trade. Its low adobe buildings, narrow streets, and rudimentary infrastructure all heave under the throngs of crowds and endless tourist bus dust plumes. In-between this madness, the town’s many dogs (stray or not) casually meander, curling up in the middle of the main road to sleep or assembling into cliques to reconnoitre the neigh­ bourhoods. The constant sense of being somewhere other-worldly permeates the town, probably brought about by the Sun’s intense glare, the way the dust lingers, and the giant volcanoes beyond (Figure 3.7). Licancabur is the most prominent landscape feature near San Pedro. Its iconic volcanic cone speaks to an eruptive history somewhat less violent than its close neighbours, Acamarachi, Aguas Calientes, and the highly active Láscar. This string of volcanoes, part of the Central Volcanic Zone of the Andes, is rich with cultural and religious meaning. For example, Llullaillaco, the volcano where the well-known mummified Incan children were dis­ covered, can sometimes be seen from San Pedro when looking to the distant south. The town rests on a high plain along which the string of volcanoes runs. Known as the Puna de Atacama, the plain averages 4,500-metres in elevation and today stretches across this corner of Chile eastwards into Argentina. To the south of San Pedro is the extensive salt flat or Salar de Atacama, which at 3,000 square kilometres, is the third largest in the world. The significant sedimentary runoff from the mountainous east has made the

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Figure 3.7 Popular Caracoles Street in San Pedro de Atacama (top-left), a view of the Licancabur volcano from the Valley of the Moon (top-right), dogs playing as they followed me on a morning walk (bottom-left), the Salar de Atacama (bottom-right).

region rich with copper, lithium, and rare-earth deposits. These are mined extensively in the Atacama today at a high environmental cost. The Salar de Atacama is responsible for a quarter of the world’s lithium mining, while the world’s largest open pit copper mine is just an hour’s drive near Calama.98 These resources are essential for the global production of batteries, cell­ phones, computers, and other technological devices, which force this geo­ graphical periphery into the centre of the worldwide tech trade.99 If you arrive at Calama International Airport and are not working at a mine or touring the region, you will probably have an affiliation to one of the Atacama’s many observatories. Some of the world’s most advanced optical and radio telescopes were built in the broader Atacama in the past few decades. These include the European Southern Observatory’s (ESO)

70 Making Science Paranal Observatory,100 La Silla Observatory,101 the European Extremely Large Telescope (E-ELT),102 and ALMA, together with other facilities such as Las Campanas Observatory.103 This central-northern portion of Chile is excellently suited for optical observatories given its low humidity, high altitude, and distance from sources of human light pollution. These same qualities made it one of the best earth-based locations for the millimetre/ submillimetre frequency band ambitions of ALMA. Costing over $1.4 billion, ALMA is the world’s most expensive groundbased telescope ever built.104 Three partner institutions, ESO, the NSF, and the National Institutes of Natural Sciences, Japan (NINS), funded the sub­ stantial facility. Located a 33-kilometre drive southeast of San Pedro, the ALMA OSF is visible as a short horizontal white stripe across the distant hillside. It sits at 2,900 metres above sea level and is the operations and staffing base for the telescope, located a further 30-kilometre drive east. The Array Operations Site (AOS), located at 5,000 metres above sea level on a large open plain known as the Chajnantor Plateau, includes a technical building and 66 high-precision dish antennae (Figure 3.8).105 The dish antennae are designed to work at incredible sensitivity within these wavelengths. They can view the universe’s cold clouds, which are invisible to the light spectrum.106 These are among the oldest and furthest away galaxies known to science.

Figure 3.8 ALMA OSF (top), and ALMA AOS (bottom).

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The road to ALMA from San Pedro de Atacama is long and straight. It runs parallel to the mountainous volcanic landscape to the east and carries many by trucks and tourist buses. After a 25-minute drive, a turn to the left demarcates the entrance to the ALMA site (Figure 3.9). The white streak on the hillside is now more discernible as a large high-tech facility in direct contrast to the brown and red hues of the surrounding soils. I arrived at the security gate at the foot of the hill, a short distance from the main road. A small, white prefabricated steel structure housed two security guards who asked me to blow into an alcohol breathalyser. I collected my name card, demonstrated my car was in working condition and watched a 5-to-10-minute video on safety at ALMA. I was then allowed to drive

Figure 3.9 ALMA in context. The dotted circle denotes the extent of Figure 3.10.

72 Making Science slowly up a long and straight dirt road to the OSF, the high-tech streak on the hillside. Minding a wild donkey as I exited my car, the scale and complexity of the facility were immediately palpable. Designed with a-contextual con­ fidence, the long series of administrative and engineering buildings look out across the entire Salar de Atacama, from the lithium mines on the left to San Pedro on the right. A long line of empty flagpoles confirmed I was on a property analogous to an embassy in Chile, an international space without local reference. The immense view constantly reminded me of my detached location. The OSF is an enclave which functions with very little connection to the world outside. Scientists, administrators, engineering crews, and facilities personnel live here on a shift system. Potable water is delivered to the site, electricity is generated locally, sports facilities provide some exercise, and a comfortable residencia houses most scientific staff. From the mudbricks of San Pedro to the white steel of the OSF, the sublime dissonance of big science in the Atacama was disorientating, a feeling aided by the increasing altitude. After passing a blood pressure and blood oxygenation test at the OSF, I was allowed to progress up to the AOS at 5,000 metres (Figure 3.10). Leaving the facility to drive the one-hour trip to the Chajnantor Plateau slowly, my guide radioed the OSF for clearance and checked in at every 1,000-metre marker we passed. The landscape gradually changed from scrubby bushes to yellow grass. We passed a sea­ sonal Llama and Alpaca ranch, the Estancia Barrio, which was last occu­ pied by native Likanantaí herders until the 1960s.107 Somewhere around the 3,000-metre mark, we found ourselves in Echinopsis Atacamensis ter­ ritory, where the thick-stemmed and sometimes 10-metre-high cacti reach upwards, silently pointing at the sky. Finally, rounding a corner and passing the 5,000-metre mark, the Chajnantor Plateau became visible. Meaning ‘place of departure’ in the Likanantaí Kunza language, the Chajnantor Plateau is today a high-tech place of reception, where some of the most feint universal radio waves are recorded. Adjacent to the volcanic landforms of Cerro Toco and Complejo de Puricó, the 66 dish antennae of the telescope scatter across the plain. Except for the 16 comprising the Atacama Compact Array (ACA), all antennae can be repositioned to other prebuilt footings, each with data and electricity links to increase the array from a compact to an extended form. The NRAO explains, “More ex­ tended arrays will give higher spatial resolution; more compact arrays give better sensitivity for extended sources.”108 Large purpose-built diesel transporters named Otto and Lore achieve the reconfiguration. German manufacturer Scheuerle built the transporters. Each telescope weighs over 100 tons and must be lifted off its current footing and often moved quite a distance to another.109 Although ALMA consists of 66 separate dish antennae, the instruments work together or as a sub-set, depending on the scientific project. This approach results in a much more powerful and flexible telescope known as an interferometer. The synchronisation of the array is achieved through the

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Figure 3.10 ALMA Operation Support Facility and Array Operations Site in con­ text. The dotted circle denotes the extent of Figure 6.2.

science of interferometry, where powerful computers combine signals received from each antenna relative to their location in space and time. At the centre of the plateau is the curved glass façade of the AOS tech­ nical building. This oxygenated facility serves as the high-altitude base for teams of engineers working on the array, from where local maintenance and repositioning exercises are managed. No one is permanently based here, and the building is only occupied when work is carried out on the array. Walking around the array site, the air is bitingly cold, but the sunlight is intensely bright. You must move slowly and deliberately. You are constantly aware of the mechanical hum of the dish antennae, which stand upright like

74 Making Science gleaming white robotic versions of the Easter Island Moai, all staring together into the eternal beyond. ALMA embodies one of the most complex terrestrial scientific projects ever undertaken. I chart its planning and development through four time periods. Firstly, in Millimetre Wavelengths, I outline the origins of millimetre-wave astronomy as developed in those regions that came together to build ALMA. Next, I examine early proposals for three separate millimetre-wave telescopes in the Atacama. These projects found a common cause and united to form ALMA, a process discussed in Assembling Consensus. Finally, I examine the global effort that went into the telescope’s construction, creating the foremost millimetre/submillimetre telescope ever built in terms of its capabilities, cost, and complexity. Millimetre Wavelengths ALMA is the result of sustained growth in millimetre and later submillimetrewavelength astronomy in the United States, Japan, and Europe in particular. In the USA, during the 1960s, radio astronomers were intrigued by the prospect of expanding the range of wavelengths available to analyse space. MIT PhD student Sandy Weinreb and fellow collaborators made the first radio observation of an interstellar molecule, the hydroxyl radical (OH), while working at Lincoln Laboratories in 1963.110 This finding was signifi­ cant because, until this point, the dominant scientific theory was that the space between stars was mostly empty or contained only neutral or ionised hydrogen atoms. These were visible as dark clouds that obscured parts of the Milky Way. Optical astronomers saw them as an annoyance as they had little ability to study them.111 Weinreb et al.’s discovery of a complex molecule within the interstellar medium indicated that these dark clouds contained and, in some cases, were saturated with far more complex molecular struc­ tures than previously thought and became important sites for studying star formation.112 Scientists discovered unexpected water, ammonia, and form­ aldehyde molecules after that. As a result of this discovery, astronomers increasingly realised the importance of the millimetre, or extremely high-frequency radio band (EHF), as any diatomic molecule composed of carbon, nitrogen, oxygen, or sulphur has a rotational transition frequency of between 50 and 150 GHz. This frequency fits squarely within the EHF band’s 30–300 GHz millimetre parameters. As such, millimetre wave astronomy (as opposed to traditional radio wave astronomy) evolved as the method of observing the molecular structure of the universe.113 In 1965 Weinreb moved to the NRAO site at Green Bank Observatory in West Virginia. He worked for the NRAO for 23 years and was integral in designing the Very Large Array (VLA) com­ pleted in 1979 near Socorro, New Mexico.114 Meanwhile, Frank Drake – then at Green Bank – was inspired by early insights into millimetre wave science and began developing early millimetre

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wave radio telescopes. The first was a five-foot diameter dish antenna which enabled several significant planetary findings.116 After that, Drake’s team repurposed an old 12-foot diameter telescope for millimetre wave science. They designed new receivers and coated the entire reflecting surface of the dish in gold to improve its smoothness and reflectivity.117 Successful observations from these small but important forerunners convinced the NSF to fund the construction of a sizeable 36-foot millimetre wavelength telescope at Kitt Peak, Arizona, which was completed in 1968.118 Like the Chajnantor Plateau, the high and dry site was well suited for millimetre science. The 36foot telescope at Kitt Peak, widened into a 39-foot telescope in 1983, was a crucial instrument for decades in the burgeoning field of astrochemistry, described by the NRAO as “the world’s premier molecule-hunting tele­ scope.”119 The NRAO ran the telescope until 2000 when budgetary pressures from the NRAO’s commitment to ALMA resulted in the telescope’s closure and the transfer of ownership to the University of Arizona.120 In 2012, the telescope was dismantled to make way for a 12-metre ALMA prototype antenna.121 While the NRAO were developing the Kitt Peak site in the late 1960s, scientists identified Hawai’i’s Mauna Kea (the summit of the tallest island mountain in the world) as an outstanding location for optical, infrared, and submillimetre astronomy. The State of Hawai’i built a road to the summit of the mountain in support of an early bid by the University of Hawai’i to build a 2.24-metre infrared telescope which saw first light in 1970.122 With access to this opportune site now a possibility, numerous other institutions built telescopes at the site, collectively creating what came to be known as the Mauna Kea Observatories (MKO). Three powerful submillimetre telescopes have operated from the MKO. These include the Caltech Submillimeter Observatory (SMO), the James Clerk Maxwell Telescope (JCMT), and the Submillimeter Array (SMA).123 The JCMT is the largest single-dish submillimetre telescope in the world, while the SMA is the first purpose-built submillimetre interferometer. As a result of its relatively small collecting area and challenges with operating at wavelengths shorter than 2.4 millimetres, a new millimetre wavelength telescope was proposed for Mauna Kea by the NRAO to replace the original Kitt Peak 36-foot telescope.124 By the early 1980s, however, it became increasingly clear that the new telescope would not be built due to funding constraints. While early advances in millimetre astronomy were gaining traction in the USA, Japan also grew interested in radio and later millimetre-wave astronomy. Japanese radio astronomy had seen significant advancement through the 1960s, spearheaded by the 1963 design and construction of the 24-metre fixed ground spherical dish at the Tokyo Astronomical Observatory (TAO) by Takeo Hatanaka and Kenji Akabane.125 By 1969, Akabane, together with Masaki Morimoto and Norio Kaifu, would inau­ gurate Japan’s first millimetre wave telescope, a 6-metre diameter steerable

76 Making Science receiver at TAO’s Mitaka site.126 Seeking to contribute to the global interest in astrochemistry and millimetre wavelength research, Japanese radio astronomers considered building either a 200-metre diameter spherical reflector or an interferometer with two 50-metre diameter tele­ scopes.127 However, by 1967, the Japanese National Committee for Astronomy (NCA) had settled on a single 45-metre diameter telescope and an interferometer with five 10-metre dish antennae and 30 antennae footing pads to reconfigure the interferometer array.128 The NCA, TAO, and Mitsubishi Electric designed the steerable 45-metre diameter millimetre wavelength telescope and the adjacent interferometer at what became the Nobeyama Radio Observatory.129 Fifteen years later, in 1982, the Nobeyama 45-metre Radio Telescope and the Nobeyama Millimeter Array (NMA) were inaugurated. The 45-metre telescope remains functional today, but the NMA was decommissioned in 2011 as ALMA came online. At the same time, various European institutions had rapidly developed research in radio astronomy since the end of World War II. After early foundational work into radio astronomy by researchers at the Cambridge Mullard Radio Observatory in the UK and by scientists in both the Netherlands and Germany, the 1950s saw radical developments in the design and construction of powerful radio astronomy telescopes.130 Over two years, Europe saw the construction and inauguration of the world’s largest steerable radio telescope, the 25-metre Dwingeloo Telescope in the Netherlands in 1956,131 and the 76.2-metre (250-foot) diameter Lovell Telescope at Manchester University’s Jodrell Bank Observatory in the UK. Despite a post-war ban on radio astronomy research lasting until 1950, Germany inaugurated the 25-metre telescope at Stockert Observatory in 1957, and the Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy (MPIfR) later opened the world’s largest steerable radio telescope, the 100-metre tele­ scope at Effelsberg in Germany in 1971.132 It was surpassed only in 2000 by the marginally larger (100×110 metres elliptical diameter) Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope (GBT) built at the NRAO site in West Virginia. While early investigations into millimetre wavelengths were underway in Europe through the 1960s, the following decade saw advancements in the field through the inauguration first of Sweden’s 20-metre diameter millimetre-wave radio telescope in Onsala in 1976 and the founding of the Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimetre Wavelengths (IRAM).133 The genesis of IRAM can be seen in 1973 when the Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development (OECD) identified millimetre-wave astronomy as an arena for intra-European ‘Mega-Science Project’ cooper­ ation. In pursuit of this goal, the OECD established a group consisting initially of the UK, France, and Germany.134 The Scientific Advisory Group for Millimetre Astronomy (SAGMA) identified a potential millimetre wa­ velength project for Europe that consisted of a 30-metre radio dish antenna and an interferometer of four 10-metre dish antennae.135 A 1979 part­ nership between the Max Plank Society (MPG) and the French National

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Centre for Scientific Research (CNRS) formalised the establishment of IRAM. Grenoble hosted their headquarters, and after extensive negotiations and disputes, mainly regarding a good site for the telescopes, a 30-metre millimetre radio telescope was built at 2,850 metres above sea level near Pico Valeta in Spain and became fully operational in 1986. The interferometer design was refined to three 15-metre diameter dish antennae and built at 2,550 metres above sea level on the Plateau de Bure in France, becoming fully operational in 1989. Each array antenna was designed to be self-propelled on a shared railway track arranged in a ‘T’ design with 26 specific base stations.136 Seeking an advanced millimetre-wave telescope to observe the southern skies, the Swedish Onsala Space Observatory (OSO) partnered with IRAM to add a 15-metre diameter telescope to their interferometer production line. Despite Sweden already being a founding member of ESO, Onsala and IRAM partnered with the organisation to share the costs and observing time of the new Swedish-ESO Submillimetre Telescope (SEST) telescope.137 SEST was located at the La Silla Observatory in Chile and became the first ESOmanaged radio telescope facility and the first millimetre wavelength telescope in the Southern Hemisphere.138 Installation of the telescope was delayed after the instrument caught fire from accidentally being pointed at the Sun but managed to open slightly later than scheduled in 1987.139 In 2003, SEST ceased operations as funding was directed towards ALMA forerunner, the Atacama Pathfinder Experiment (APEX), and ALMA itself.140 The IRAM Interferometer on the Plateau de Bure in France has since seen significant improvement and expansion to a twelve-dish array. It is today known as the NOrthern Extended Millimetre Array (NOEMA) and is the Northern Hemisphere’s most advanced telescope for millimetre astronomy.141 Three Observatories The USA, certain European nations, and Japan established themselves as lea­ ders in the development of millimetre band radio astronomy. All three regions had grand ambitions to expand their millimetre and submillimetre research by building the most advanced telescope for each band. For the NRAO, this took the form of the Millimeter Array (MMA). At the same time, European partners planned to build the Large Southern Array (LSA), while the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan (NAOJ) conceptualised the Large Millimeter and Submillimeter Array (LMSA). Following the NRAO’s inability to source funding for their proposed 25-metre millimetre radio telescope on Mauna Kea, the NSF Advisory Committee for Mathematical and Physical Sciences (MPS/AC) initiated the Subcommittee on Millimeter – and Submillimeter – Wavelength Astronomy in 1982, which Alan H. Barrett chaired.142 The Barrett subcommittee became the most viable forum for expanding millimetre and submillimetre astronomy in the USA and recommended scientists undertake a design

78 Making Science study for the future MMA in 1983.143 Since completing the VLA near Socorro in New Mexico in 1979, the NRAO already had early designs for the MMA by 1981.144 The NRAO emerged as the best agency to progress with the project. Site selection began in 1985, scientists erected testing instrumentation at sites in New Mexico and Arizona, and they undertook a comparative test at the summit of Mauna Kea.145 By 1990, following three community-wide meetings to refine the design and scientific ambitions of the MMA in 1985, 1987, and 1989, the two conti­ nental USA sites remained the only official options. The NRAO’s report was submitted to the NSF by their managing organisation, Associated Universities Incorporated (AUI), in September 1990. In May the following year, the NSF’s report ‘The Decade of Discovery in Astronomy and Astrophysics’ recom­ mended the MMA as the second most crucial ground-based telescope initiative, after an 8-metre infrared-optimised telescope for Mauna Kea.146 The final MMA plan consisted of an array of forty 8-metre telescopes with a collecting area of 2,010 square metres to be constructed at a site in Arizona at 2,500-metres above sea level. It would cost roughly $120 million.147 The NSF ratified the proposal in 1994, and in 1997, the US Congress approved funding.148 During this time, the NSF strongly urged the MMA team to involve international partners and consider sites outside the continental USA, spe­ cifically Mauna Kea and the Atacama.149 The scientific benefits of these locations would outweigh Arizona’s cost savings and convenience. By 1998, a report by the NRAO strongly recommended the MMA be built in the Atacama, as the site would result in a telescope with greater capability and be the NRAO’s first telescope trained on the southern skies.150 At the same time, European plans were afoot to build the LSA. As a significant role player in advancing global optical and radio astronomy in the Southern Hemisphere, the European Organization for Astronomical Research in the Southern Hemisphere, commonly known as the European Southern Observatory, was well positioned to expand its facilities to include radio observation.151 ESO was established in 1962 by the signing of an international convention between Belgium, France, Germany, Sweden and The Netherlands primarily to build a large, 3.6-metre diameter optical telescope to study the southern skies and to foster intra-European rela­ tions.152 Before the ratification of ESO, it functioned as a collaborative group of scientists from European partners and the UK.153 Between 1955 and 1962, the groups conducted an extensive study to find the best location for their planned telescope. After a seven-year multi-sited investigation of South Africa, which already had many European astronomers working at its observatories, the group decided in 1962 that the area around La Serena, Chile offered the best physical environment for their optical needs.154 After signing a treaty in 1963, the Chilean government granted ESO the land to build La Silla Observatory and its local headquarters in Vitacura, Santiago.155 As an international organisation, ESO was exempt from paying

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taxes and Chilean court jurisdiction, symbolic of the many concessions made to international organisations before and during the military dictatorship.156 Three years after the military coup in 1976, the ESO 3.6-metre telescope at La Silla Observatory began operations, and, in 1988, the Chilean state donated land for ESOs future Paranal Observatory.157 By 1990, Pinochet had stepped down, and ESO was in political turmoil. They faced disputes over their right to the Paranal land, questions regarding their labour practices outside local labour laws in a post-Pinochet dispen­ sation, and Chilean astronomers problematised the limited direct benefits provided to them by ESO observatories.158 Following these challenges, Chile renegotiated their agreement with ESO in 1996. ESO made labour concessions to increase their alignment with local practices,159 agreed to part-fund affected local communities and Chilean astronomy generally, and granted Chilean astronomers 10% viewing time at all current and future ESO observatories in the country.160 By the organisation’s 50th anniversary in 2012, ESO had achieved the construction of the Very Large Telescope (VLT), the VLT interferometer, the Visible and Infrared Survey Telescope for Astronomy (VISTA), and the VLT Survey Telescope (VST) at Paranal Observatory in the Chilean Atacama.161 They also participated in the APEX telescope, which was operational on the future ALMA site. Given ESO’s early foothold in Chile, and their successful partnership with IRAM and Sweden in building SEST at La Silla, the coalition initiated plans to build the first millimetre interferometer in the Southern Hemisphere. The project, developed by the director of the OSO, Roy Booth, in the early 1990s, involved building ten 8-metre diameter antennae near the Paranal Observatory. As David Leverington notes, however, the discovery of carbon monoxide in the universe at a redshift of 2.3162 expanded the possibilities of millimetre and submillimetre astronomy. Still, it necessitated a telescope with a much greater collecting area, improved sensitivities, and a higher resolution than previously planned by the SEST team.163 In 1995, ESO, IRAM, the OSO, and a new partner, the Netherlands Foundation for Radio Astronomy (NFRA, later ASTRON), designed the LSA. Based on the science objectives deemed necessary by the group, the initial design for the millimetre-wavelength interferometer would consist of either fifty 16-metre or sixty 15-metre dish antennae, with a collecting area of 10,000 square metres.164 A two-year study, including a survey of potential Chilean sites, progressed. However, in 1997, the NRAO – spurred by the NSF to find international partners for their MMA project – and the LSA grouping found a common cause and embarked on a joint study to consider merging the two proj­ ects.165 After all, both groups were investigating sites in the Atacama to build an extremely high-frequency wavelength interferometer of previously unseen sensitivity and expense. There were a few critical differences between the LSA and the MMA. The European group were concerned with

80 Making Science a large collecting area and millimetre capabilities. At the same time, NRAO planned the MMA as having submillimetre ability and a smaller collecting area of 2,000 square metres.166 ESO and NRAO established three working groups split into technical, scientific, and management focuses to ascertain how a US-European collaboration on the project would function.167 The resultant compromise was an array of sixty-four 12-metre dish antennae spread over a collecting area of 7,000 square metres with a target budget of $400 million, located on the Chajnantor Plateau.168 Early designs saw the control centre for the array built at San Pedro de Atacama. A new Chilean Foundation administered the project with an equally split NRAO and ESO board.169 In 1999, the NSF, ESO, and the other European signed a mem­ orandum of understanding to design, build, and operate ALMA.170 The choice of name not only follows the astronomy trend of naming telescopes after their relative ‘bigness,’ but the word alma in Spanish evocatively translates to ‘soul.’ Concurrently, the Tokyo Astronomical Observatory had, since 1983, planned the construction of the Large Millimeter Array (LMA). Initially conceptualised as a twenty-five 10-metre diameter antennae extension to the Nobeyama Millimeter Array, discoveries in submillimetre astronomy necessitated a purpose-built millimetre and submillimetre array.171 As such, the LMA became the LMSA, and work began on finding a good site that would allow for submillimetre observations. In 1988, the TAO was re­ configured and renamed the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan, and the NAOJ oversaw all future work in developing the LMSA concept. Without a preference for northern or southern sky observations, the NAOJ considered both Mauna Kea and the Chilean Atacama as options for sites. While the astronomy specifications of Mauna Kea were well known, the NAOJ initiated a study of roughly twenty different locations in northern Chile between 1992 and 1993.172 Rio Frio, at 4,100 metres above sea level, was identified as the most promising. It is 270-kilometre southwest of the Chajnantor Plateau.173 Through the 1990s, it became increasingly clear that all three parties testing sites in northern Chile for similar telescopes should seek a means of collaboration. While the 1999 memorandum of understanding between ESO and the NRAO established formal parameters of cooperation, numerous meetings between the NAOJ and the project team resulted in Japan taking an ‘informal’ role in the development of the joint project with a view to formal involvement in future, when funding could be secured.174 With relations improved between ESO and Chile, in 1999, Chilean President Eduardo Frei declared the Chajnantor Plateau a science preserve, which protected the site for the future development of the ALMA project.175 In 2002, the USA, Canada, and European partners signed an agreement to build the project. In early 2003, the NSF and the National Research Council of Canada signed an agreement to jointly construct and operate ALMA and its 64 dish antennae with ESO and Spain,176 which by this stage had risen in cost to an estimated

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$650 million. The project advanced substantially from this point for­ wards, with Japan formally joining the ALMA consortium in 2004 and Taiwan through Japan in 2005.178 Assembling Consensus Building ALMA was a massive undertaking, not only due to the scale and complexity of the array but because ALMA was an experiment in intercontinental collaboration. As former ESO director general (1993–1999), Riccardo Giacconi recounts, the fundamental management issue for ALMA was whether the partners would form a truly ‘supranational’ organisation to manage the project, like the European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) or indeed ESO.179 He argued that no organisation had achieved such a large scale of internationalisation in astronomy.180 In addition: ESO was certainly not planning to emerge from the ALMA project weaker rather than stronger, and neither was NRAO. Both organiza­ tions realized that they had to face new challenges, but these challenges were welcome, because they resulted in technical and managerial advancement.181 The partners modelled the resultant managerial approach instead on the agreements that govern research between agencies such as NASA and the European Space Agency. In effect, each partner was responsible for con­ tributing their expertise, at their own expense, relative to their own fixed portion of the project.182 Consequently, ALMA became governed by each partner’s specific investments, instruments, and institutional approaches. In response to their agreed-upon contributions to the project, each partner would receive proportional instrument time.183 This approach allowed each partner to manage their research requirements and funding mechanisms separately, as each came to the project from significantly different research communities. As I discuss later, this came to have varied effects. Following this early partnership agreement in 1999, the NRAO and ESO developed their antenna prototypes. Each partner would provide half of the required 12-metre dish antennae designed to an agreed minimum standard but their own design. ESO ordered a prototype from a partnership of French Alcatel and the Italian company EIE. The NRAO ordered their prototype from a then subsidiary of General Dynamics SATCOM, VertexRSI in Texas, who used their German company Vertex Antennentechnik to do most of the work due to their experience on IRAM and the Submillimeter Telescope (SMT).184 Both prototypes were set up at the VLA in New Mexico and tested for nearly five years. While Japan was not yet a full project partner, their anticipated formal involvement in the project led to Japan erecting their own 12-metre prototype dish antenna, built by the Mitsubishi Electric Corporation, along­ side the NRAO and ESO prototypes at the VLA in 2003.185

82 Making Science By 2005, with the result of the prototype study imminent, the signed-up project partners sought quotes to build their portions of the array.186 They discovered that costs had, in the interim, escalated substantially, and they made a resolution in 2005 to cut the array down to 50 dish antennae to save money. NRAO placed an order for 25 dish antennae from VertexRSI, as did ESO from the AEM Consortium, an adjusted partnership of Thales Alenia Space, EIE, and the German company MT Mechatronics.187 While Japan had played a foundational role in planning, designing, and testing aspects of their LMSA project, their direct involvement in ALMA continued despite no formal ratification of the partnership. However, with funding secured through the Japanese government, ESO, the NSF, and the National Institutes for Natural Sciences of Japan (NINS) signed an agree­ ment in 2004.188 With the loss of the fourteen-dish antenna in the array due to escalating costs, Japan and Taiwan (who joined ALMA through Japan in 2005) would contribute new dishes and their own separate array to ALMA. These included an additional four 12-metre dish antennae and twelve 7-metre dish antennae.189 The new 7-metre dish array would be located in the centre of the ALMA array on fixed stations and replace some of the lost fourteen dish antennae capacity while providing a lens on celestial objects with a large angular size, such as nearby galaxies and molecular clouds.190 In addition, Japan and Taiwan would build the receivers for the entire array covering bands four, eight, and ten (which denote very low frequency, very high frequency, and super high frequency, respectively) and contribute 25% of the ALMA budget.191 ESO and North America (the USA and Canada) would contribute 37.5% of the budget. As an outcome of the East Asian participation in ALMA, the ‘/submillimeter’ was added to the project name,192 making it more closely resemble Japan’s LMSA project. The formal involvement of Japan and Taiwan in ALMA was a significant moment for the project. It not only expanded the telescope’s capacity but also improved ALMA’s global representation by including those important millimetre centres and submillimetre band radio astronomy. Assembling Parts With each project partner responsible for their contribution, and no formal oversight granted to any institution, the construction of ALMA was more of a patchwork process than a traditional single large-scale construction project. There were two major components to the building of the facility. The first concerned the establishment of the ALMA site, its support buildings, roads, power, water, and data networks, and the second con­ cerned the global effort to build the immensely complex, high-precision antennae by the three partners, each to their design. I cannot overstate the immensity of this effort as builders, engineers, scientists, cleaning crews, politicians, truck drivers, materials experts, police officers, shipping crews, bureaucrats, utility experts, and many other skilled professionals rallied

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together across the world to ensure that 66 dish antennae and their support facilities would come together in this isolated corner of Chile. In November 2003, ground broke on the construction of the ALMA project. After a decade of astronomers and engineers studying, exploring, and mapping this extreme place, the Plateau would transform into a hybrid technological landscape over the next several years. Natural advantages would be sutured with human technical systems and enable us to capture and interpret the radio waves that this high and dusty plateau had received for millennia. First, a gravel road was built connecting Route 23 to the future Operations Support Facility (OSF), located at 2,900 metres above sea level. A base camp for construction workers and technical staff was established at the OSF site. In 2004 work on the road from the OSF to the future AOS at 5,000 metres above sea level began. ESO financed both roads, which were graded and sealed with gravel. These winding roads had to handle the total 230-ton weight and 12-metre diameter of a loaded antenna transporter and enable a smooth albeit slow 5-hour drive for the transporter from the OSF to the AOS. The road system was responsible for 33 accidents and three fatalities during construction.193 And second, while the road network was advancing, extensive work was being carried out at the OSF to build the technical, scientific, administrative, and residential buildings that would enable the functioning of the telescope at a more reasonable height above sea level than the AOS. Large antenna components would also arrive at the OSF, be assembled into functioning dish antennae, and be tested extensively for defects or aberrations. Each antenna group built its own antennae’ assembly facility at the OSF, triplicating the process. German engineering company Fichtner designed the main OSF complex as a series of long buildings that stretch in parallel along the hillside. Broad terraces step down from the white pavilions towards the expansive western view over the Salar de Atacama. The structure was built as a steel portal frame, with insulated metal panels on the exterior and a second roof above the buildings to ensure protection from the Sun. The complex was paid for by ESO and embodies the international and scientific nature of the work. Nowhere in the neighbouring towns would one find a steel structure of this size, let alone one gleaming white in the harsh sunlight. Through its stark difference in form and materiality, the building declares its presence across the landscape as an international architecture of science through its clean lab coat-like sterility (Figure 3.11). As a facility detached from its context by choice, the OSF shares much in common with an Antarctic research base or a military outpost; numerous amenities support this detachment. Located east of the complex is a power generation plant comprising three multi-fuel gas turbines (MFGT) of 3.75 MW each. Using mainly liquid petroleum gas (LPG), ALMA consumes roughly 20GWh per year.194 Adjacent to the power plant is a water tank and water sanitation facility. Today, potable water is delivered to the OSF via truck when

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Figure 3.11 ALMA OSF with the European dish assembly site on the top-right, the East Asian dish assembly site below it, and the United States site in the bottom-right corner (top), the European dish assembly site (bottomleft), and the AOS Technical Building (bottom-right).

required. Housing and residential facilities were built to the east of the OSF, slightly down the slope. Originally built as a separate contractor’s camp and employees camp, it is today a modern residencia building for ALMA workers. At the same time, their former lodging is used to house all outsourced labour. To the south of the OSF are the three antennae assembly and maintenance facilities for ESO (AEM), Japan (Mitsubishi), and the NRAO (VertexRSI), each descending the hillside. These connect to the OSF via a roadway that allows engineers to test assembled antennae on pads adjacent to the technical buildings. Each site was specifically designed for the varied requirements of each team and supports this complex undertaking made more challenging by the high altitude for the predominantly international groups working at each assembly facility.

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Once the road connecting the OSF to the top of the Chajnantor Plateau was completed in 2005, work could progress on the AOS Technical Building, located near the centre of the array. The Chilean construction company Con Pax built the facility, funded by the North American con­ tingent.195 When the shell was completed in 2006, the NRAO celebrated the building as the second highest in the world.196 The primary function of the facility is two-fold. First, to act as a base for engineering crews working at the AOS and, second, to house the array correlator mega computer, among other technical components essential for the functioning of the array. The design of the building resembles a low warehouse with a sweeping round façade. It is a highly rationalised building with standar­ dised material choices for ease of construction and high-altitude perform­ ance. Like an aeroplane, it is pressurised with oxygen to provide respite from the thin atmosphere outside. The AOS location also brings wind gusts of up to 165 km/h and temperature variations from −20°C to 12°C throughout the year.197 The building houses open plan and individual offices along its glazed curve, all with excellent views across the plateau. There are various mechanical and electrical rooms, refuge beds in case of sustained poor weather, a loading bay, and an ambulance.198 Parking is provided for specialised vehicles outside the building. Unlike the OSF and despite the reflectivity of the structure, concrete used in the building’s construction was mixed using local sand, giving parts of the building a material rootedness. While the AOS was nearing completion, so was the array’s first antenna. During the site construction, testing of the three prototype antennae continued at the VLA in New Mexico. Three separate dish antenna pro­ duction processes ensued, albeit with strong similarities. Each antenna was designed in the Cassegrain configuration with a parabolic primary reflector that directs the signal to a secondary mirror supported above it (Figure 3.12). The secondary mirror or sub-reflector then directs the signal to the centre of the primary reflector, where a bank of receivers cooled to hundreds of degrees below zero is located. These signals would be digitised at each antenna and sent to the correlator in the AOS to be combined. The correlator is one of the most advanced computers in the world and operates at seventeen quadrillion operations every second.199 The three project partners each developed different antennae designs designed to work together in the array (Figure 3.13). In July 2005, the AUI signed an agreement with Germany-based VertexRSI to build their twenty-five 12-metre diameter antennae.200 Most of the dish fabrication and assembly for the AUI was completed at VertexRSI facilities in Kilgore and Mexia in Texas. Other primary com­ ponents were also developed abroad, such as the backup structure built in the Netherlands and the control system assembled in Germany.201 Major telescope components were made and shipped in large pieces to the Port of Mejillones. They would then move to the OSF by truck for final assembly.

86 Making Science

Figure 3.12 All ALMA antennae use a Cassegrain dish reflector design. Incoming radio waves are bounced off the primary reflector and again off a subreflector into the centre of the primary reflector where the receiver systems are located.

A feature of the VertexRSI antennae, shared with the 12-metre East Asian antennae, is its ‘spider-web’ arms that support the secondary mirror.202 Also, unlike the other antennae, their elevation mechanism, which drives the up and down motion of the reflector, uses a track system. The European telescope saw significant development from the initial prototype, which delayed its contracting process. The go-ahead for the AEM consortium consisting of Thales Alenia Space (France and Italy), European Industrial Engineering (Italy), and MT Mechatronics (Germany) was granted in February 2007.203 Components for the European telescope

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Figure 3.13 The components of the ALMA ESO dish antennae. While the East Asian and United States dish antennae use different technologies, the basic principles and components are similar.

were developed across Europe, with companies in Belgium, Denmark, France, Germany, Italy, Romania, Spain, Switzerland, and the UK con­ tributing.204 The pedestals which support the reflectors, yoke arms which connect the primary reflector to the base, and main platforms were shipped to Chile from Spain, and the receiver and backup structures, which support the reflector panels, were sent from France and Romania, respectively. These twenty-five 12-metre diameter dishes are distinguishable mainly through the simple poles that support the secondary mirror or sub-reflector and the fact that the robotic mechanisms operate with a magnetic sweep drive.205 Other advances include measures to limit joints, which can expand and contract with the extreme temperature changes on the site.

88 Making Science The East-Asian antennae were the most advanced in terms of their timescale. Developed by Mitsubishi Electric Corporation (MELCO), the twelve 7-metre dish antennae and the four 12-metre dish antennae forming the Atacama Compact Array share aspects of the other telescopes. The 12-metre antenna uses a ‘spider-web’ secondary mirror support and bolted design similar to the VertexRSI antennae while employing a magnetic drive, as demonstrated in the AEM antennae.206 The smaller 7-metre antennae support their secondary mirrors on smooth poles and share the appearance of the AEM dishes. After being assembled into a few major components, the antennae were shipped from Osaka, Japan, to Chile. A 12-metre MELCO dish was the first to be fully completed, installed, and integrated into the array (of one) on the Chajnantor Plateau in September 2009.207 Two VertexRSI antennae followed in 2009. The pace of antenna integration slowly increased through 2010, with seven VertexRSI and one MELCO antennae being integrated during the year. July 2011 saw the first AEM antenna integra­ tion.208 By January 2014, the last antenna, built by AEM, was added to the now complete array, despite the array being fully operational since March 2013. The enormous international effort involved in manufacturing, ship­ ping, assembling, and integrating each antenna is particularly remarkable when one considers that this occurred 66 times. The final array is an impressive expanse of incredibly sensitive technology. Each antenna moves at speed with high precision synchronicity to point at the same location in the sky. This robotic choreography occurs while icy winds pick up or the blazing sunlight cuts through the thin atmosphere at 5,000 metres. The array is rearranged regularly; antennae are relocated by the massive transporters or brought back to the OSF for maintenance. This highaltitude performance repeats itself under the dedication and commitment of crews of engineers, without whom the array would grind to a halt. Far away from the freezing heights of the Chajnantor Plateau, the ALMA headquarters in Santiago occupy the same property as ESO. The long, white building is festooned with images from the array. Upon visiting it for the first time and while waiting for a meeting, I feel a strange sense of dislo­ cation: I am connected to the dry plains of the Atacama, yet completely removed. I recognised some faces from the engineering activity a few days ago at 5,000 metres. These high-altitude workers are without their radios and overalls: They chat around the cappuccino machine wearing leather shoes. Their lives must be in permanent flux, constantly crossing the threshold between here and there, the urban and the outpost.

FAST China had become increasingly isolated in the post-war years. This was a formative time for the development of radio astronomy elsewhere. In 1960, astronomer Wang Shouguan noted that China had limited contact with Russia and no contact with the West.209 Despite national momentum for

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the country to ‘March towards Science,’ China was behind the world in the technology boom, and the field of radio astronomy was limited to a very young group of astronomers. Their technological limitations prevented them from attempting anything other than metre-wave observations.210 To improve Chinese radio astronomy research, astronomers tried to construct a Chinese copy of the Chris Cross array built by Wilbur N. (Chris) Christiansen at Fleurs in his home country of Australia. However, China did not manufacture coaxial cables; a data transfer cable replaced mainly by fibre optic cables in modern telescopes and an essential component of the array. Sourcing coaxial cables from Russia or Eastern Europe was tough.211 While astronomers in China struggled to source the vital technologies required to copy an existing array, Arecibo had been built, showing the disparity between the West and China at that time. Fortuitously, as Shouguan recalls: “the Chinese scientific community at the time had been cut off from the West for more than a decade, as though we were sealed inside an (sic) hermetic wall. And this was the first time that a small door would open in this wall, and who should come through that door but the very man we most wanted to meet, Professor W.N. Christiansen!”212 Christiansen was one of the first – of very few – scientists to visit Mao’s China. After a lifelong interest in China, Christiansen sent a speculative letter to the Chinese Academy of Science asking for permission to visit and offered to meet and lecture to radio astronomers in return. They approved his request, and he was welcomed with open arms, particularly by the astronomy community, who forged an ongoing relationship with the very person whose telescope they were trying to copy.213 Christiansen initiated informal academic exchanges between China and Australia, and work progressed on the Criss Cross duplicate, named the Miyun Meter Wave Aperture Synthesis Telescope. Unfortunately for the astronomers on the project, its construction coincided with the Cultural Revolution (1966–1976), which saw the thirty-two dish antennae dismantled and re­ located across the country. After the Cultural Revolution, astronomers went about sourcing and reassembling most of the antennae. They finally completed an array of 28 telescopes running in an east-west array with an increased reflecting surface of nine metres each in 1984.214 Radio astronomy in China evolved through the 1980s with the construction of the 25-metre Very Long Baseline Interferometer (VLBI) station at Sheshan in 1986,215 and the second VLBI 25-metre diameter dish antenna station at Nanshan in 1993.216 Both form part of the European VLBI Network (EVN), which comprises 22 telescopes worldwide, including the Arecibo Observatory. The early 1990s also completed China’s only millimetre wave telescope. The Delingha 13.7-metre telescope belongs to the historical Purple Mountain Observatory, located at 3,200 metres above sea level on

90 Making Science the Tibetan Plateau.217 The building of radio astronomy telescopes con­ tinued during the 2000s in parallel with growth in Chinese space research. Advanced telescopes such as the Miyun 50-metre radio telescope and the Kunming 40-metre radio telescope were completed in 2005 and 2006, respectively. In 2009, construction started on the Chinese Spectral Radioheliograph (CSRH) array of one hundred 2-metre and 4.5-metre dish antenna, as did construction on the Tian Ma 65-metre, the largest steerable dish antenna in Asia a year later. Tian Ma was completed in 2015 after over three years of testing.218 These many vital advances in Chinese radio astronomy have developed a strong astronomy community in the country. They have come together in developing China’s most sizable contribution to radio astronomy, FAST – a massive dish similar in concept and appearance to Arecibo but different in several significant ways. The origins of FAST, the world’s biggest fixed dish radio telescope, can be traced back to the decades-old international ex­ pedition to build radio astronomy’s golden fleece, the SKA. Because FAST and the following case study I examine, MeerKAT, both share a genesis in the SKA, I now present the history of FAST as framed by the history of the SKA. The Square Kilometre Array As radio astronomy’s largest and most ambitious project ever con­ ceptualised, the SKA today is tantalisingly close to finally being realised. As a prestigious and expensive flagship for the entire scientific community, a competitive bid process resulted in five countries competing to host the telescope. This process saw numerous institutions and governments come together in a substantial effort to finalise a design, site, and organisational formation for the telescope. Multiple leading telescopes were built as pathfinders through steps towards realising the SKA. For China, however, losing the bid to host the SKA became a catalyst for constructing their own major telescope, FAST. Radio astronomy had a highly successful period from the 1960s into the 1980s.219 The prolific number of important facilities built during this time, the substantial funding received by radio astronomy projects, and the general expansion of the field demonstrate this. I have shown moments of this boom period through the planning and construction of the Arecibo Observatory, the rapid growth of millimetre and submillimetre band astronomy, the swift global uptake in building large and complex radio telescopes, and the adjacent technological development and research. This success reached a high point in 1980 when the highly versatile VLA became operational. With twenty-seven 25-metre dish antennae, it would become the world’s most utilised radio telescope array. Soon, however, with ad­ vancements in millimetre and submillimetre wave, infrared, and optical astronomy, traditional radio astronomy fell into a self-diagnosed decline,

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with other types of astronomical facilities becoming more attractive to funding agencies.220 This slump inspired a handful of radio astronomers to begin conceptualising the next important step for radio astronomers. The most important way forward for many was to design a telescope with a radically increased collecting area. Radio astronomers have for some time considered various large collecting area array approaches, and since the 1970s, numerous and possibly coinfluencing ideas have stewed. The earliest example of a large telescope array is perhaps Oliver and Billingham’s 1971 ‘Project Cyclops,’ a 16-kilometre diameter array of one thousand 100-metre dishes arranged in a compact grouping primarily designed to aid in SETI observations.221 Almost two decades later, at the 1988 International Astronautical Congress in Bangalore, India, astronomer Govind Swarup proposed a radio telescope array of an unbelievable one thousand 45-metre dish antennae.222 He later revised his concept to one hundred and sixty 75-metre diameter telescopes, a proposal he termed the International Telescope for Radio Astronomy (ITRA) in 1991.223 This massive telescope would have a collecting area of roughly 750,000 square metres. In 1989, astronomers in Canada were considering a Radio Schmidt telescope consisting of one hundred 12-metre antennae,224 an idea that lost momentum due to the limited sensitivity proposed by the array.225 Concurrently, between 1988 and 1990, Dutch astronomers at the Dwingeloo Observatory considered the extragalactic HI telescope, which would have a large enough collecting area to detect hydrogen at high redshift.226 At a celebration of a decade of the VLA at Socorro in New Mexico in October 1990, global leaders in radio astronomy came together with a sense of melancholy, as Dutch astronomer Jan Noordham notes: There seemed to be a hovering consensus that, after a dizzy ride, the heyday of radio astronomy was more or less over, and the next great strides would be made in other wavelength areas.227 Noordham describes how the Dutch contingent saw no reason for the downbeat tone of the event and suggested a session on the future of radio astronomy. They proposed astronomer Peter Wilkinson as the speaker.228 In his hastily organised address, Wilkinson expanded on earlier research and called for a new radio telescope with a collecting area 75 times larger than the VLA and fourteen times larger than Arecibo to image hydrogen at higher resolutions.229 Specifically, he identified that this Hydrogen Array (HIA) should have a collecting area of one square kilometre and imagined this achieved with one hundred 113-metre diameter dish antennae. This future vision for a massive telescope dovetailed nicely with a presentation that Australian astronomer Ron Ekers had given a month earlier at the International Union of Radio Science (URSI) General Meeting in Prague, where he discussed a chart plotting significant radio astronomy

92 Making Science instruments.230 Time ran across the x-axis and sensitivity down the y. As time advances, it is evident that telescopes get increasingly sensitive. In the bottom corner, Ekers plotted a point somewhere around 2010 that asked ‘SKAI?’ or ‘Square Kilometre Array Interferometer?’. His graph evoked a sense of semi-accurate guessing and ambitious goal-setting for the radio astronomy community. The union of these independent approaches at Socorro served as a crucial moment to cement a direction for radio astronomy. The SKA would remain a goal for many during the next three decades, driving the formation of new institutions, multiple new telescopes, and many technological advancements. The 1993 URSI meeting in Kyoto, Japan, established the Large Telescope Working Group to investigate a new radio telescope of greater sensitivity than anything in existence and to develop its science case and technical parameters. The working group consisted of many of the early progenitors of the large telescope idea, including Ekers, Wilkinson, Swarup, Uri Parijski (Special Astrophysical Observatory, Russia), Robert Braun (Chair, Netherlands Foundation for Research in Astronomy, Netherlands), Lloyd Higgs (Dominion Radio Astrophysical Observatory, Canada), Wolfgang Reich (MPIfR, Germany), Wu Shengyin (Beijing Observatory, China), and Dick Thompson (NRAO, USA).231 A year later, at the International Astronomy Union (IAU) General Assembly in The Hague, the Future Large Scale Facilities Working Group was established to plan and discuss future large projects in all wavelengths. The working group was initiated for those radio astronomers close to the project to raise its profile within the broader astronomical com­ munity.232 The forum still exists today. With these early groups established, the roots of the SKA were planted within the international arena, and no single national interest ever came to guide or control the project. The URSI Working Group set in motion several processes, which included making contact with the OECD and their Mega-science Forum (today the Global Science Forum), and early work on the scientific and engineering requirements of the future telescope.233 A memorandum of agreement was signed in 1997 by institutions representing Australia, Canada, China, India, the Netherlands, and the USA for research cooper­ ation and joint technological development.234 All seven countries already had early representation in the URSI Working Group through members’ nationalities. In 1998 at a meeting in Calgary, Canada, the SKA name was decided on, above numerous other less popular choices.235 In 1999, with the need for improved organisation and global coordination following the establishment of national and regional consortia, the URSI Working Group became the International SKA Steering Committee (ISSC). In the USA, universities decided to form a consortium to lead their SKA effort. In the early years, they sought to explicitly exclude the NRAO as a means to rebuild university cooperation in radio astronomy and to reinstate public trust and funding in university-led projects following the success and ex­ pense of the NRAO’s VLA and GBT.236 Jackie Hewitt chaired the

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consortium formed in 1999 and included members from The University of California, Berkeley (UCB); MIT; SETI Institute; California Institute of Technology (Caltech); Cornell University; and Ohio State University.237 Representatives of the Netherlands, UK, Italy, France, Germany, and Spain established a European consortium in 2000.238 During the same year, at the IAU General Assembly held in Manchester, UK, the ISSC was formally established, as was the SKA Secretariat, with eighteen members representing eleven countries signing a memorandum of understanding. The ISSC was established as three separate voting blocks, Europe, the USA, and the world, each with six votes.239 Ekers chaired the new organisation. By 2004, different science and engineering working groups had begun their work. A project office had been formally established with Richard Schilizzi as a full-time director and Peter Hall as the lead project engineer.240 With an operational project office, efforts towards selecting a site for the future telescope were ramped up. In 2002, the ISSC released a call for expressions of interest in hosting the SKA, and Australia, South Africa, Argentina and Brazil, China, and the USA stepped forward. South Africa joined the ISSC in 2005 after being intrigued at the prospect of hosting the telescope. As a result, the committee was reconfigured to allow South Africa a vote as part of the ‘world’ block, with Europe and the USA each receiving an additional vote, which brought the ISSC up to 21voting members. Given the momentum achieved by the project thus far, the ISSC decided to begin approaching funding agencies. At a meeting in 2005 at Heathrow Airport where representatives of the NSF and the UK’s Particle Physics and Astronomy Research Council (PPARC Programme) were present, the ISSC presented their case for SKA funding.241 The response from the agencies noted the critical science case of the SKA. Still, it emphasised their current prioritisation of optical astronomy, particularly concerning the advanced progress of the Extremely Large Telescope (ELT). They also suggested that SKA’s technological readiness and initial attempts at site selection were ‘immature.’ With the end of 2005 approaching, and the deadline for the site proposals looming, competition ramped up. Despite expressing initial interest, the USA declined to submit a proposal.242 By 2006, with the proposals in hand, the funding agencies established their informal working group and requested an unranked shortlist of sites from the ISSC. The SKA Site Advisory Committee (SSAC) was formed to review the site proposals and provide an unranked selection of the most viable options. The SSAC specifically considered criteria such as Radio Frequency Interference (RFI), array layout viability, the atmospheric and climatic conditions at each site, infrastructure availability and cost, and data networks. After a three-day meeting, the committee determined that the Brazilian-Argentinian and Chinese proposals would not be shortlisted. The South American site would not be workable given distortions built into the array layout due to two mountain ranges that intercepted the array.243 The Chinese submission of an

94 Making Science Arecibo-like large-diameter fixed dish ran counter to the prevailing science that the SKA should be a large array of small-diameter dishes, and appre­ hensions regarding RFI in rapidly urbanising China were flagged as a sig­ nificant concern.244 The 2006 SSAC recommendation was for the SKA to be sited in South Africa or Australia, with a narrow preference for Australia.245 At this point, a notable but frequently ignored divergence occurred. The immensely complex and politically fraught SKA project continued to soldier on through further site selection deliberations, the construction of precursor telescopes (MeerKAT and ASKAP), ongoing budgetary concerns, and greater formalisation of both the telescope design and the institutional frameworks that support it. I investigate these processes as a part of the section on MeerKAT. China remained a full member of the ISSC, later the SKA Organization from 2012, and the SKA Observatory from 2019, but in failing to gain the support of the ISSC for their bid as the SKA, they decided to build it themselves. Going Alone With the formation of the Large Telescope Working Group at the 1993 meeting of the URSI General Assembly, astronomers from China, notably Nan Rendong, Bo Peng, Yuhai Qiu, and Shengyin Wu, established their research group at the Beijing Astronomical Observatory (BAO).246 Their motivation for a dedicated research group was to advance their strategy for building the SKA in China. Their scheme was named the Kilometre Area Radio Synthesis Telescope (KARST), after the picturesque karst region in Guizhou Province, an ideal landscape for building large fixed dish reflectors. The objective beauty of the area cannot be overstated. Through artistic representation predominantly in the Ming and Qing eras, these karst features have come to embody a Chinese landscape romanticism characterised by slowly meandering rivers and monolithic rocky hills interspersed often with precariously positioned flora. These were achieved in large paintings with highly restrained colour pallets. The KARST plan would see aspects of these landscapes radically transformed with an estimated thirty dish antennae of between 200 and 300 metres in diameter built in natural karst basins over an area roughly 300 to 400-kilometres in diameter.247 They would be arranged at greater concentrations at the centre, with 20 built in an area of between 30 and 50-kilometres wide. This large diameter, small number approach would achieve the square kilometre collecting area required of the SKA. With the basic outlines of the KARST concept developed, FAST was conceived as a forerunner to the larger project. The karst region of Guizhou Province was mapped extensively both for radio interference and suitable locations for the 500-metre diameter FAST and other KARST telescopes. In 1998, astronomer Qiu Yuhai suggested that to overcome the spherical aberration at Arecibo, solved with the Gregorian dome or line feed, FAST should have a surface actively transformed into a

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parabolic reflector. Doing so would enable a degree of steerability. The parabolic reflector could be formed in zones of the massive spherical reflector and provide a degree of directionality. Scientists developed a 30-metre pro­ totype at the Miyun telescope, exploring initial engineering options.249 With research advancing in the design of FAST, which included the assistance of 20 other domestic institutions, the telescope was developed into China’s pro­ posal for the SKA.250 However, as already noted, the SKA Site Advisory Committee decided against the Chinese proposal as a small diameter, large number solution had already been chosen, even if unofficially, as the most workable solution for the SKA project. Despite failing to gain traction with the SKA, FAST had already achieved prominence in China principally through the massive size of the telescope and the fact that it would dwarf the USA’s biggest dish at Arecibo.251 In July 2007, the Chinese National Development and Reform Committee approved funding for the telescope. Nan Rendong was named Chief Scientist and Chief Engineer of the project.252 The Dawodang Depression, located roughly 115-kilometres southeast of Guizhou’s capital city, Guiyang, was selected as the most suitable location for the 500-metre diameter telescope. FAST would be built in one of China’s poorest and underdeveloped parts. In 2013, Guizhou Province had the lowest gross regional product per capita of China’s provinces with direct jurisdiction, and by 2019 it had seen some improvement and ranked third lowest after Gansu and Yunnan.253 The Dawodang Depression is near the village of Kedu, in Pingtang County, a largely rural and undeveloped part of the Qiannan Buyei and Miao Autonomous Prefecture. As an autonomous prefecture, the state acknowl­ edges the significant population of ethnic diversity minority groups in the region and affords them greater independence. The lack of development in the broader area benefitted the science team. Not only had they located a natural basin wide enough for their 500-metre telescope but also the broader region had low levels of technological advancement and urbanisation and correspondingly low levels of radio frequency interference. However, the arrival of FAST caused significant social upheaval for residents who had deep ancestral ties to the land they had farmed for centuries. Imagining the area surrounding FAST before the development boom is difficult, but old aerial photographs – anything predating 2015 – certainly help. An undulating landscape of endless hills, and winding rivers, dotted with small villages and farm buildings, best characterise it. I experienced the effects of changes in the landscape near FAST even before leaving home. When planning my visit in 2019, I grew frustrated that I couldn’t find the hotel I had booked on Google Maps. Eager not to get lost in this rural part of China without having visited mainland China before and not speaking a word of Mandarin, I tried to be as organised as possible. I located a wellpriced yet intriguingly grandiose hotel operating near the FAST site. It was also aptly named the China FAST Hotel. I feared I was being sold a scam when I couldn’t match the photographs of the massive and sprawling hotel

96 Making Science with vast manicured gardens with the location on Google Maps. Instead, all I could find was a meandering village road, a river, and a few groupings of small village buildings. The Google image was from 2016. Of course, the hotel existed, as did the entire Astronomy Town, its museum, apartments, restaurants, and gardens. All were built in the few years between the aerial photograph and my visit. With project funding approved in 2007, Guizhou Province and the national government sought an avenue through which the science project could promote the region’s development.254 Initial plans proposed a large city near the telescope, but this would have dire consequences for the radio frequency environment in which the telescope needed to operate. A middle ground was found through compromise and the strengthening of relation­ ships between the government and the scientists, which included members of the scientific team taking up leadership roles within the municipality, such as Bo Peng being made the Prefecture’s Deputy Governor.255 The area around the Dawodang Depression was made a Radio Quiet Zone (RQZ) by the province, and a three-tier RFI zoning was enacted. Within five-kilometres of the telescope, all electronics were forbidden, between five and ten kilometres certain restrictions are maintained, and areas outside of the ten-kilometre diameter still face some form of radio control.256 Before construction on FAST began in 2011, a village of 65 people who lived in the depression was removed, and in 2016 under the new RQZ rules, at least 9,110 people living within five kilometres of the telescope were displaced (Figure 3.14 and Figure 3.15).257 Official Chinese media celebrated the displacement, claiming that “Villagers in nearby communities admired their luck,” and should “thank the aliens” regarding the oft-touted extra-terrestrial-search

Figure 3.14 The FAST telescope during construction, with the ring beam, towers and cable net complete, and the first reflector panels installed. The cable crane affixed to the ring beam is visible in the distance (left) (2015). The completed telescope with all reflector panels installed (right).

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Figure 3.15 FAST in context. The dotted circle denotes the 5-kilometre RFI-free zone around the telescope.

prerogative behind the construction of the telescope.258 However, accounts exist of suicide, the rampant demolition of homes and contents, and dis­ placement to “some wasteland” without economic prospects.259 It is re­ ported that the Chinese Government spent $269 million on poverty relief, more than the final cost of the telescope at $180 million.260 It is unclear what form the poverty relief measures took and who the beneficiaries were. Still, soon after the displacements were completed, workers began building the Astronomy Town directly adjacent to where villagers once lived, right on the edge of the 5-kilometre RQZ. The construction of FAST was a remarkable feat of engineering. Never has a large suspended surface been attempted, let alone one that can be manipulated mechanically into different curvatures. Around 15 other

98 Making Science companies were contracted to build the telescope, and thousands of workers took to the site.261 After clearing the area of houses and farm buildings, significant excavations took place to adjust the natural curve of the basin. Over one million cubic metres of land were excavated from the site, and earth stabilisation measures were implemented.262 Next, the six 100-metre-tall steel cable-support towers and the girder ring were as­ sembled. The ring is an intricate girder steel structure supported on large braced steel columns where the site’s topography is not available to support the design. The ring has an internal diameter of exactly 500 metres. From the outer girder, a cable net of over 7,000 cables is suspended, making up the spherical form of the dish reflector. These cables had to be designed specifically for the project due to the significant fatigue they experience, not only being suspended at such a considerable distance but being manipulated into a parabolic surface while supporting the aluminium panels of the dish surface. There are 4,300 of these rectangular aluminium panels. 150 square versions end the reflector’s rim as it meets the ring girder.263 Fixed to the underside of the panels is a sea of actuators. These hydraulic systems connect every panel joint to the ground and enable the manipulation of the reflector surface. When activated, each of the 2,225 actuators precisely realigns a portion of the surface to form a 300-metre diameter parabolic reflector within the 500-metre diameter spherical dish. As such, FAST is neither an active 500-metre nor an active spherical telescope, as its name suggests. Observations can still be completed using the entire dish aimed straight up and formed into a parabolic surface. Across the dish, at each plate intersection, is a laser target for measuring and controlling the reflector. Total stations located atop precisely located concrete towers constantly monitor the curvature of the reflector and the location of the receiver or’ feed cabin’ suspended above. Their foundations reach the bedrock of the depression (Figure 3.16).264 Above the dish, six robotically operated cables connect the feed cabin to the cable-support towers. The cables are strung over the towers and run down to ground-based motors that release or wind-up cables as required to position the cabin accurately, about 140-metres above the reflector. This technology is not entirely different to suspended stadium cameras that can swoop above the playing field at different heights (Figure 3.17 and Figure 3.18). The feed cabin is a standalone steel structure protected from RFI by a faceted and clad outer shell. Nine receivers covering nineteen bands are located inside the structure operating at a frequency range of 3 GHz–70 MHz. The Australian Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization (CSIRO) built the receiver system through an astrophysics collaboration agreement between the two countries known as Australian-China Consortium for Astrophysical Research (ACAMAR).265 When not used, the feed cabin is lowered to a base station at the centre of the dish. The telescope is supported by a larger campus of technical, scientific, and residential buildings. These include the Comprehensive Building (housing

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Figure 3.16 One of 2,225 actuators that work collectively to shape part of the reflector into a parabolic curve (top-left), a total station plinth pro­ trudes through the reflector to measure the declination of the adjusted reflector surface using spherical mounted retro-reflectors located at each panel joint (top-right), the centre of the reflector acts as a service cradle for the feed cabin (bottom-left), and a view of the underside of the feed cabin, note the receiver indexer inside, and the six cable connectors that steer the cabin (bottom-right).

the primary administrative office and residences), a secondary administra­ tion office, engineering warehouses, sports facilities, and a significant visi­ tors’ centre. The Comprehensive Building is a large steel, glass, and timber building. A statue at its entrance memorialises the since deceased Nan Rendong. It houses offices, the control centre, accommodation, meeting rooms, a gym, and other administrative functions. This complex is accessed through a dedicated entrance and road for all science and engineering-related functions, including access to the telescope. The visitors’ centre is reached through a completely different gate and, unlike

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Figure 3.17 This diagram demonstrates the steerability of the FAST telescope. Using actuators to distort a portion of the dish reflector surface into a para­ bolic surface, the surface can reflect incoming radio waves from a specific direction. The mobility of the cabin feed suspended above en­ sures it is positioned at the perfect focal point of the dish distortion.

at Arecibo, does not connect easily to the main administration building. Instead, one must drive the site’s winding roads for about 10–20 minutes before reaching it from the administration building. Here busloads of tourists churn through a choreographed system of checks and observations. No electronics are allowed, and neither are any private vehicles. All electronics are stored at the museum at the centre of Astronomy Town before anyone can board an official tourist bus. When driving the road between the administration building and the visitors’ centre, our contact at FAST, Bo Peng, asked us to stop and take in the view. He pointed out a small cluster of damaged farm buildings at the bottom of a depression similar to FAST’s. He looked on and pointed out the remnants of traditional architecture, the intricate canal system implemented by the farmers, and the bamboo forest in the distance. He noted a nearby cave in which locals would fish despite the darkness. “These buildings had

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Figure 3.18 The components of FAST.

to be demolished,” he remarked, “or else the local people would return.”266 Farmers still maintain ancestral rights to farm these hills with their cattle but are not allowed to cause any RFI or sleep on the property. The broader FAST site is alive with other anomalies too. When driving towards the Comprehensive Building from the main gate, a new road detaches from the main road and leads into a cave. Intrigued by this strange scene, we decided to take the road into the cave on one of our visits. The limestone stalagmites and stalactites were illuminated with neon lights; the former formations flattened in the centre to make way for the road. The experience was eerie and amusing, given the numerous ‘fire effect’ torches and blasts of colour that lit the cave. On the other side of the cave, we drove down the road into another basin where villagers once lived. Instead of more telescope infra­ structure, we discovered a village of brand-new pavilion houses and other buildings which will serve as a new base for visiting scientists, researchers, and their families. In the distance, one could make out ruined village structures previously used by the basin’s former inhabitants. Once open,

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this local-government project will again insert people in neighbouring proximity to the telescope, from where others were relocated.267 Construction of the telescope was completed in 2016, and a commis­ sioning period commenced. Significant challenges were experienced with cable fatigue and the failure of actuators. Despite these ongoing hurdles, on 21 January 2020, Tianyan or Eye of the Sky, as called in Mandarin, began full-time scientific observations. I now turn to the other leading telescope developed due to the SKA project, MeerKAT, located in South Africa’s dry Karoo region.

MeerKAT My short flight from Johannesburg to the old diamond mining metropolis and capital of South Africa’s Northern Cape Province, Kimberley, had been delayed. Landing in the town on the edge of the Great Karoo semi-arid region was spectacular. A deep orange sunset swept across the flat, grassy landscape. I had a mild sense of trepidation. My partner and I had a fourhour drive to the small town of Carnarvon ahead of us, and night-time driving in the Karoo is not advised. I had a visit to MeerKAT arranged for the morning. It was one of the most difficult to organise given their strict approach to visitors. We rented our tiny car and began our evening journey on the long road to the middle of South Africa. The road was long and dark, with the blazing headlights of massive trucks assaulting us every so often. One straight stretch of the dark road continued with a long and gradual right curve. As we made our way around the generous bend, our headlights suddenly flashed back at us the image of a large antelope, most certainly a Kudu female. She was running across the road, we swerved, and thud made contact with her hindquarters. Confused and concerned, it took us a few minutes to stop the car. The Karoo was silent, and the night was a solid black emblazoned with stars. Our vehicle had a damaged bumper and other plastic components, but it seemed drivable. We had no idea where the Kudu was nor how she fared. We drove into the nearby hamlet of Hopetown and reported the matter at their sleepy police station. Cursing our delayed flight, fearing another such incident, and worried about driving a damaged car at night, we found accommodation at an old hotel in Britstown, an hour away. The following morning, we woke up early to get to Carnarvon in time for my meeting. The car looked more damaged than we remembered but still seemed drivable. The visibility offered to us by the morning light made the last two hours to Carnarvon enjoyable. The endless horizon of this semi-arid landscape seemed to continue forever. It was punctured by small hills, rocky outcrops, small fences extending in impossibly straight lines, the odd farmhouse, and steel windmill pumps. In between these features, the dryness of the sparse vegetation was palpable, and the soil was scorched. Everything was hues of brown. A few trucks passed us carrying haybales, a strange sight in

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December. Emaciated sheep sometimes appeared at the roadside. The prolonged drought this region has been experiencing is far worse than I had imagined. Trucks brought donations from farmers in more fertile parts of the country. Farmers in the Karoo are famous worldwide for their lamb, and it seemed that the entire industry was on its knees. As we caught sight of the tiny town of Carnarvon in the distance, a sign saying SKA is nie welkom in ons Karoo nie or ‘The SKA is not welcome in our Karoo’ when translated from Afrikaans, was our first glimpse of the impact of the massive project (Figure 3.19). As we arrived in the dusty town, our bumper fell, preventing us from driving further. It seems the car knew its purpose and gave up as soon as possible. I walked a few blocks in the morning heat to a small white building with the SKA logo. This quaint

Figure 3.19 A sign on the road leading to Carnarvon from Kimberley: ‘The SKA is not welcome in our Karoo’ (top-left), the Carnarvon SKA offices located in an original Victorian house (top-right), a hot day on Alheid Street in Carnarvon (bottom-left), a service station opposite the SKA office on Victoria Street (bottom-right).

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town, founded in 1853, bears the name of a problematic historical figure, Henry Herbert, 4th Earl of Carnarvon. He was twice British Secretary of the Colonies in the mid-to-late nineteenth century. His plans for instilling a Canadian-style confederation of states in an entirely different Southern African context resulted in multiple battles and significant loss of life.268 Carnarvon’s streets are wide and sun-scorched. There is a palpable sense of historical moments frozen in time. Over multiple decades, little invest­ ment has preserved the built fabric’s scale, layout, and historical layering. Today Carnarvon serves the surrounding farming community as the loca­ tion of a lamb abattoir, a religious centre, and a place to buy products and find other essential services and amenities. It also supports a school and a post office. Besides the small white building with a SKA logo in the centre of the town and unlike the Astronomy Town in Pingtang County, Carnarvon does not reveal that it is the closest town to one of the most important radio telescopes in the world. In the following three sections, I examine the origins of radio astronomy in South Africa, present the substantial effort expended on prioritising the development of radio astronomy in the country, and finally detail the construction of the MeerKAT array. I build a comprehensive overview of the significant and recent strides South Africa has taken in the past two decades by leveraging radio astronomy to promote human and technolog­ ical development. A Low Base Radio astronomy in South Africa has a short history. The introduction of advanced radio technology came to South Africa through radar, mainly due to the impetus felt by allied forces to quickly expand radar deployment during the Second World War.269 The director of the Bernard Price Institute at the University of the Witwatersrand, and a world specialist in lightning, Basil Schonland, was appointed to develop and lead radar rollout throughout Africa during the war. In the aftermath of World War II, Schonland, under a directive from then Prime Minister Jan Smuts, estab­ lished the South African Council for Scientific and Industrial Research (CSIR) and became its first president.270 As optical astronomy had seen notable growth and expansion in Southern Africa with numerous observ­ atories at the time, Schonland decided in the post-war years that South Africa would only support optical research, not radio. His rationale was that other nations, such as Australia and the UK, were more advanced in radio science than South Africa. It would require significant resources to establish parity.271 Schonland felt he was keenly aware of the calibre of scientists currently working abroad and the high cost of establishing com­ parable facilities. Despite this, a few South Africans, including Bernie Fanaroff, later studied radio astronomy abroad at Cambridge University and the University of Manchester’s Jodrell Bank Observatory.

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By 1958, NASA, through the US Naval Observatory, had rolled out a global network of interferometers known as Minitrack, the first satellite tracking system used by the USA. It tracked such satellites as Sputnik, Vanguard, and Explorer. One station was built east of Johannesburg and cemented a small NASA presence in the country.272 In the early 1960s, NASA was establishing a dedicated network of three dish antennae to track deep space probes. They required three to be built on different sides of the Earth and in different hemispheres. Once launched from Cape Canaveral, the probes would travel in a south-easterly direction, and South Africa’s interior offered an important location for their 26-metre diameter antenna.273 NASA built other stations in California and Australia. A site in Hartebeesthoek, southwest of Pretoria, was selected for what was officially named Deep Space Station 51 (DSS51). A rationale for supporting the con­ struction of the DSS51 included the fact that the dish antenna could also be used as a radio telescope and could assist in kickstarting radio astronomy research in the country.274 The US government took a lot of persuading from South Africa’s government, which was a decade into their increasingly reviled apartheid policy.275 Despite political musings from the USA, the advanta­ geous location of the station was the ultimate deciding factor. DSS51 was completed in 1961 in time for the start of the generally unsuccessful early Ranger missions.276 No official US representatives attended the opening for fear of associating the project officially with the US government.277 Local astronomers such as George Nicolson used the dish antenna between mis­ sions for radio observations. These were enhanced when the antenna was upgraded in 1964, enabling greater sensitivity and observations at higher frequencies, up to 2,300 MHz.278 The antenna was also used as a part of early VLBI observations. In 1975, NASA finally bowed to international pressure and closed DSS51.279 They handed over the site and the instrument (with NASA equip­ ment removed) to the CSIR, who continued to operate the radio telescope until 1988, when it was transferred to the Foundation for Research and Development (FRD), which became the National Research Foundation (NRF) post-democracy in 1994. DSS51 is today known as the Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory (HartRAO). As an important radio astronomy site in the country, it continued to be a part of the global VLBI network. It hosted the 15-metre diameter Karoo Array Telescope 7 (KAT-7) precursor known as the eXperimental Development Model radio telescope (XDM), together with a NASA Satellite Laser Ranger, and satellite receiver stations for global posi­ tioning system (GPS), global navigation satellite system (GLONASS), and the European global navigation satellite system known as Galileo. Justin Jonas, the head of the Rhodes University Physics and Electronics Department, and former HartRAO Director George Nicolson were early progenitors of the MeerKAT project and South Africa’s involvement in the SKA. It is widely agreed, however, that Bernie Fanaroff was the primary driving force behind the effort, which he later came to formally direct.

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Fanaroff was educated in Theoretical Physics at the University of the Witwatersrand and completed a PhD in radio astronomy at the University of Cambridge.280 His influence in astronomy has been long-standing since his 1974 development of a classification for galaxies and quasars through two classes of radio sources with fellow astronomer Julia Riley.281 The FanaroffRiley Class I and II classification is still in wide use today. Fanaroff’s return to South Africa saw him shift focus entirely as he took up the anti-apartheid cause through his work as an organiser and later the National Secretary of the Metal and Allied Workers Union, which became the National Union of Metalworkers of South Africa (NUMSA), one of the largest in the country.282 He dedicated 19 years to this cause. He later served the first democratic administration under President Nelson Mandela as deputy director in the Office of the President and the head of the controversial Reconstruction and Development Program (RDP). With democracy coming to South Africa in 1994, the 1996 White Paper on Science and Technology set the initial policy direction for developing science and technology in the country.283 At the time, South Africa was aware of its natural advantages for astronomy but had not been able to use these advantages to its benefit. The 1996 White Paper explicitly outlined the importance of a knowledge economy and the need for the country to ex­ ploit its strategic natural assets. Astronomy was clearly defined as such, but instead of creating suitable environments in which international telescopes could be located, South Africa decided to lead the development of its own facilities to be best positioned to benefit both economically and develop­ mentally from these investments. The first significant telescope built since democracy was the Southern African Large Telescope (SALT), a 10-metre diameter optical telescope located in the Karoo region near the town of Sutherland. The telescope, inaugurated in 2005, remains the largest optical telescope in the Southern Hemisphere. With the near completion of SALT in 2003, scientists in South Africa began considering what the next major project in astronomy could be. Taking Advantage South Africa was not involved in the early conceptual discussions regarding the SKA. In 2001, however, South Africa’s small radio astronomy com­ munity nominated Justin Jonas to represent the country as an observer at the first SKA Steering Committee Meeting.284 He attended this and every subsequent SKA meeting to ascertain if any involvement from South Africa would be required or indeed possible. In 2001, the president of the NRF, Khotso Mokhele, held a national astronomy workshop to gain broad consensus on the way forward for South Africa’s astronomy interests, fol­ lowing the successful progress of the SALT project.285 Jonas presented the SKA project and piqued their interest. After a year of meetings and discussions and increased attention from numerous countries in hosting the

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SKA, Jonas, Mokhele, and Nicolson decided to approach the Director General of the Department of Science and Technology, Rob Adam, seeking support to submit a bid to host the SKA.286 Adam, who later became the Managing Director of the South African Radio Astronomy Observatory (SARAO), is known to be impulsive. He gave the project the go-ahead within ten minutes and drafted a cabinet memo.287 For South Africa, the challenge in participating in the SKA site bid lay in demonstrating its ability to host the most advanced and biggest radio telescope ever conceived: The country had HartRAO, but that is like comparing a three-bedroom house in suburbia with the Palace of Versailles. Yes, they are both homes; yes, they are made from bricks with the odd window; but that is pretty much where the comparison ends.288 Mokhele suggested that Fanaroff guide the project forward.289 As an oftcited astronomer with decades of union-management and government ex­ perience, Fanaroff accepted, fully aware that he needed to sell South Africa to the project and the project to South Africa. One of the significant benefits of the country hosting the SKA were the investment and development spin-offs identified early on. Not only did South Africa have the opportunity to develop skills in radio astronomy, which would have some economic out­ comes, but building the entire engineering, data, and infrastructure platforms around the project would have direct national benefits. These would signif­ icantly assist in establishing and expanding allied industries, such as those developing antenna instrumentation, space systems, and satellite engineering. Most importantly, the team decided that South Africa could not rely on the SKA bid process alone but should establish its own leading radio tele­ scope facilities independently. These would assist in proving their ability to host a project such as the SKA and ensure that the effort committed to the project would not be lost should the competitive bid be awarded to another country. With these early ideas in motion, South Africa submitted an intention to bid for the SKA project in 2003 and, in 2005, formally joined the project. The South African SKA bid team (SKA SA) set about finding the right site for their projects and their proposal for the larger SKA. A suitable location met several requirements, including local population size, infrastructure access, and seismic activity. RFI was undoubtedly one of the most impor­ tant considerations. After investigating 25 remote sites with various equipment, in a process led by the team’s Sheereen Rawat, the neighbouring farms Losberg and Meyersdam, 70-kilometre north-west of Carnarvon, were identified as ideal.290 Not only was the location far from dense human populations and shielded by low hills, but it was also close enough to the road and electricity networks that linked Carnarvon to the rest of South Africa. In 2006, South Africa was shortlisted to host the SKA along with Australia, and SKA SA moved ahead with increased impetus.

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To protect the region around Losberg, Meyersdam, and Sutherland (where SALT is located), South Africa passed the Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act of 2007 (AGA), establishing three concentric reserves. Each governs those different activities allowed at specific distances from the central or ‘core’ area.291 These depend on the area’s purpose and differ between optical and radio astronomy requirements. Areas deemed to be under the control of the Act today include the entire Northern Cape Province (excluding Sol Plaatjie Municipality), the Karoo Core Area, and the Karoo Central Areas. The primary goal of the AGA is to protect the core astronomy sites from RFI broadly and to ensure those bandwidths necessary to the radio astronomy project are free for use while ensuring that local populations are provided with viable alternatives to continue their ways of life.292 Affected technologies include, but are not limited to, cell phone communication, radio communication, terrestrial television broad­ casts, drones, and older welding machines. With these protections ensured, the NRF pursued an extensive program of buying up farms adjacent to the Losberg site to meet their land requirements and those of the future SKA. This controversial process had, by 2019, seen 42 farms purchased at market price.293 The process has laid bare many of the Karoo’s landed inequalities and racial and socioeconomic disparities more broadly. Farmers were concerned about how their removal would lead to a significant change in the land-use and socio-cultural history of the region since their arrival in the mid-nineteenth century, hence the disparaging sign that greeted us as we drove into Carnarvon. Their narrative is but one regarding the region’s complex and cosmopolitan history, which has been home to the Sān people for at least 2,000 years and their ancestors for at least 100,000 years.294 Today, the core area declared around the Losberg and Meyersdam sites is 130 square kilometres. Areas affected by the AGA account for 30% of South Africa’s total land area. With the land acquisition process underway following the promulgation of the AGA, work had begun to advance on the Karoo Array Telescope-7. This compact array of seven 12-metre dishes was built both as a forerunner and engineering prototype for the MeerKAT and as a means for SKA SA to demonstrate their ability to build a telescope array to the SKA bid com­ mittee.295 The KAT-7 initiated an approach that was to be mirrored by MeerKAT for the SKA, where a pathfinder telescope is built with far greater infrastructure and physical space than is required to enable a much larger future project. XDM, an engineering prototype telescope, was built as a forerunner to the KAT-7 and MeerKAT at HartRAO primarily to test the manufacture of a much cheaper composite fibreglass reflector. The proto­ type was successful, and KAT-7 was the first telescope array built using a composite structure. Despite mainly functioning as an engineering proto­ type for MeerKAT, KAT-7 was able to work as a good radio telescope in its own right. The array saw first light in 2009 and was fully commissioned in 2012.

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In establishing the AGA and procuring those first farms that comprised the Karoo Core Area, SKA SA, through the NRF, invested in infrastructure upgrades and the road, electricity, and data connections to the site. With these infrastructure links established, the protections of the AGA ensured, a compact array realised, and a much larger telescope on the way, South Africa submitted their bid to the SKA Site Advisory Committee in 2011.296 The bid included an expanded portion of the SKA that stretched north­ wards across eight African partner countries. Australia had, in the mean­ time, developed its pathfinder, the Australian Square Kilometre Array Pathfinder (ASKAP) and submitted its bid to host the SKA at their newly formed Murchison Radio-astronomy Observatory in Western Australia. A controversial outcome followed in 2012 when South Africa and its African partners were selected as the preferred bidders after “an objective technical and scientific assessment of the sites.”297 This outcome was overturned when the Australian SKA representatives challenged the result. A decision was made for both countries to share the project as both had invested substantial funds and effort. South Africa would receive the mid-frequency array, and Australia the low-frequency array. With a part of the SKA in hand, SKA SA progressed quickly by completing their second SKA path­ finder, the MeerKAT. They Gaze Alertly The meerkat is a part of the mongoose family of small mammals. They are endemic to many dry regions of southern Africa and are found throughout the Karoo. Besides being highly intelligent, the endearing creatures are social and collectively work to defend their pack and generally communi­ cate through a complex and specific series of sounds.298 The most char­ acteristic behaviour of the meerkat is its ability to stand on its hind legs and peer outwards for danger, its pointy nose darting across the horizon. National Geographic describes this behaviour, “They […] gaze alertly over the southern African plains.” For this reason, the successor to the KAT-7 telescope was named MeerKAT, as the antenna array resembles a pack of meerkats synchronously scanning the horizon. Also, meer in Afrikaans, the most widely spoken lan­ guage in the Karoo region, translates to ‘more’ in English. MeerKAT is, therefore, ‘more’ Karoo Array Telescope, specifically ‘more’ KAT-7. MeerKAT was initially planned as an array of twenty antennae, with funding from the Department of Science and Technology. Still, the depart­ ment decided that its investment was better spent on a world-leading tele­ scope than one merely designed to demonstrate the benefits of the site.299 The jump in scale was substantial. MeerKAT was then envisaged as an 80 antenna array but was later scaled down to 64 antennae by completion. The tech­ nologies tested in the XDM and KAT-7 drew on South Africa’s military engineering expertise, which had seen a decline since the end of apartheid due

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to decreased military spending.300 MeerKAT offered some of these industries and allied professionals a means to engineer innovative solutions by pro­ ducing 64 complete antenna systems from scratch. In contrast, each telescope could have been built in China at a lower price, as is currently the case with the SKA, but the project needed to develop the skills locally. MeerKAT was primarily a South African-run, funded, and fabricated project. Many components, such as the S-Band receivers developed by the Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy, were still built abroad. Nevertheless, in most cases, local employment and industrial development were prioritised.301 By 2014, all the reinforced concrete pads for the dish antennae were complete, first light was observed in 2016, and the final inauguration of the entire telescope occurred in 2018.302 Following South Africa’s successful bid for the SKA, and due to the completion of their own MeerKAT, it became unnecessary for SKA SA – an organisation within the NRF – to continue with the SKA name. Following the NRAO model, SKA SA was renamed the South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. SARAO manages South Africa’s SKA efforts, MeerKAT, HartRAO, and other radio astronomy interests today. They are split into two administrative locations, with an office in Johannesburg and another in Cape Town. Johannesburg manages the strategy and policy functions of the or­ ganisation. At the same time, Cape Town is directly connected to the Karoo site and serves as the headquarters for operations, engineering, and science activities. It also hosts the control centre for the MeerKAT telescope. In Carnarvon, a small colonial building serves as a community base that man­ ages local outreach. The farm Klerefontein, the MeerKAT’s support base, is a short drive from Carnarvon (Figure 3.20). This facility is like ALMA’s OSF, although the control centre is not found here but in Cape Town. The grand pro­ portions of the old white Cape-Dutch farmhouse seem out of kilter with offices now occupying its rooms. The dusty hillside around the farmhouse today hosts many unmarked diesel vehicles, prefabricated structures, and an engineering building. On the hill just behind the farmhouse sits a single radio telescope, the incongruously named C-Band All Sky Survey (C-BASS) receiver. A small cemetery reminds visitors of the generations of farmers who once called this high-tech site home. Klerefontein is where vehicles fill up with diesel, out-of-town staff can stay in shared self-catering accom­ modation, safety gear is stored, site systems are monitored, and where many residents have become qualified electricians through a dedicated training program. It is also home to an agricultural research facility, which may, in time to come, be of tangible benefit to those farmers remaining. When visiting the telescope in early 2020, Klerefontein was a stopover en route to the MeerKAT site (Figure 3.21). When leaving the facility, an alcohol blow-test was required, as was the routine of switching off the vehicle’s

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Figure 3.20 MeerKAT in context. The dotted circle denotes the extent of Figure 3.24.

Bluetooth and disabling all personal electronics. My guide Nomfundo Makhubu, a communications officer from SARAO, was at the wheel. We took a long and slow drive to the core site on a national road built by the NRF. Anyone can drive on this road but is instructed by road signs to switch off all electronics. Finally, after an hour’s drive, we could make out the dis­ tant silhouettes of the 64-dish array in the hot December haze. I was fortunate as few people venture to Carnarvon, let alone the dusty farmlands far west of the town. In addition, gaining access to the MeerKAT site was the most difficult of my study. We continued our drive past a small earthen airstrip

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Figure 3.21 A photograph of the site support facility taken from atop the RFI berm that protects the array from this facility. The Karoo Array Processor Building is located on the right in the foreground (note the exhausts for the diesel generators and processor cooling). The dish assembly shed is in the background, with the pedestal assembly shed to its right. Diesel storage is located in the foreground, and a small staff contingent is accommodated in the residential structure in the middle ground (top). The completed MeerKAT array (bottom-left), and the Klerefontein farmhouse (bottom-right).

where weekly flights bring personnel from Cape Town. We then headed to the Site Complex, which includes the dish assembly infrastructure, smaller outbuildings, diesel storage, and the Karoo Array Processor Building (KAPB). The KAPB contains the signal correlator, processors, data storage, a bank of German diesel rotary generators that serve as a power backup and constantly operate to ensure a perfect flow of ‘clean’ energy, and various other smaller

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outbuildings and workspaces. The central processor building is partially sunken into the ground, with every steel element and bar of reinforcing connected to an earthing mat. Within the concrete structure, rooms are built from steel, creating Faraday cages. These design decisions protect the highly sensitive MeerKAT array, a short distance away from the whirring generators and row upon row of data processors and storage. The soil from the excavations and other landscaping work had been combined into an artificial berm that runs the northeastern edge of the complex. It and the ‘loose mountain’ – or hill – after which Losberg Farm is named act as an RFI barrier to the array. Leaving the complex, we drive up the road to the MeerKAT. The array is concentrated in the centre, and the antennae disperse outwards in a seemingly random pattern, at least when standing amongst them. 48 antennae are in this central 1-kilometre radius.304 This impressive array of bright-white dishes in the hot sunlight will, in the following years, form the core of the SKA mid array. An additional twenty dish antennae will extend MeerKAT into an even more powerful instrument in the next two years.305 Then construction will begin on the 133 SKA dishes of similar design, which will supplement those 84 dishes.306 Dramatic change is a certainty on these farms. The MeerKAT dish antenna is of simple design, a strategic economic benefit which assisted in reducing costs while ensuring highly sensitive functionality. The height of one dish antenna is 19.5 metres, and each weighs 42 tons.307 Unlike ALMA, the MeerKAT array is not reconfigurable. Each antenna is permanently positioned. The dish reflector system is a Gregorian offset solution, similar to that employed at Arecibo, albeit at a much smaller scale (Figure 3.22). The Gregorian offset design allows each antenna to receive radio waves at high sensitivity as there are no struts blocking the dish itself. It also enables advanced levels of RFI rejection.308 Instead of a tradi­ tional secondary mirror mount, such as those used at ALMA, MeerKAT’s main 13.5-metre diameter primary reflector directs signals to a smaller 3.8metre secondary reflector. It is supported on a latticed arm at the base of the primary reflector. In the centre of the arm, a cryogenically cooled receiver system is located, with a receiver for each band mounted onto a rotating indexer. Each indexer can hold four receivers and digitisers each (Figure 3.23). Depending on the required aims of the science project, the indexer will rotate the correct receiver into the ‘sweet spot’ to receive the feed reflected by the Gregorian offset system. This feed is immediately digitised. The L-Band receiver’s digitiser converts voltage signal to digital signal at one DVD per second.309 This signal then travels to the signal correlator located in the KAPB via an underground fibre optic cable network roughly 170-kilometres long, located 1-metre below the surface to limit thermal change on the cables and for RFI protection.310 The 64 separate signals are correlated to ensure alignment in the time, given that each signal travels a

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Figure 3.22 The MeerKAT design uses a Gregorian offset design similar to the ad­ justments made to the Arecibo Observatory telescope in the 1990s. Incoming radio waves are reflected unimpeded off the primary reflector, then bounced off the sub-reflector, which focuses the waves on the receiver indexer mounted on the arm which supports the sub-reflector.

different distance to reach the KAPB. Data then undergoes various forms of processing and storage (Figure 3.24). A portion of the stored data can then be sent to the CSIR’s Centre for High-Performance Computing (CHPC) in Cape Town via a dedicated fibreoptic cable that links the KAPB to the CHPC and SARAO Cape Town office, about 600-kilometres away. In the end, MeerKAT cost $240 million based on exchange rates at completion.311 ALMA director, Sean Doherty, described MeerKAT as a high-tech beacon of sanity, making the kind of impact that the VLA did for radio science 40 years ago.312 A beacon of sanity due to the array’s highly rational and cost-cutting design. Should the current SKA fundraising effort and schedule go to plan, MeerKAT will soon be absorbed in the first phase

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Figure 3.23 The components of a MeerKAT antenna.

of the SKA array (SKA1). This integration will be a complex new direction for the South African array as MeerKAT will remain active throughout the construction and assembly of the SKA dishes. In addition, the SKA dishes will comprise a newer technology than the MeerKAT dishes. Combining the two systems will be challenging, unlike ALMA, where different antennae were built to a similar basic specification. As we began our drive back to Klerefontein, we stopped at a recently assembled SKA1-mid dish antenna prototype, which could easily be mistaken for a MeerKAT dish. The sym­ bolism of the prototype is greater perhaps than its presence. It embodies an on-site realisation of a possible antenna solution for the SKA. Almost three decades in the making, this significant scientific achievement will soon be realised on the back of major international scientific collaboration and a cost (including ten years of operation) currently estimated at $2 billion at current exchange rates.313

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Figure 3.24 The MeerKAT array site in context.

Conclusion Through this chapter, I have charted decades of radio astronomy history to demonstrate the various paths to realisation taken by these remarkable projects. In doing so, I have shown the multiple interests at play in designing and constructing major scientific facilities, such as nationalist prerogatives, competitive agendas from within the scientific community, and international collaboration. This historiographical account of significant moments in the advancement of radio science and the development of each case study strengthens the notion of

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space as science. These complex scientific facilities were realised in space through multiple spatial transformations, political negotiations, and scientific ambition. Their pathways to realisation are different, as are the built out­ comes. In all, however, a territorial transformation of space occurred, rescripting a desert plateau in the case of ALMA into a technological landscape, similar in its technical and territorial formation to the glacis. FAST demon­ strated the ambitious developmental agenda embedded within a ‘scientific’ project, and MeerKAT came to embody radical change in a traditional farming region as radio antennae replaced wind pumps. Arecibo offers a powerful reminder of the physical spatial transformations maintained in the region that enabled scientific production. Without the radical terraforming required to build the reflector, the upkeep of this landscape, the road networks winding through this karst landscape, the negotiated radio frequency zone in which it exists, or the nearby towns in which scientists and engineers lived, the ob­ servatory’s science would have been halted. This relationship between the observatory and its context was brought to light most patently during the aftermath of Hurricane Maria, in which the severing of the telescope from its networked condition and damages to the telescope itself ceased operations. I now turn to the first of three empirical chapters in which I deepen the fortress science concept by examining the broader and more concentrated spatial apparatuses deployed by these scientific projects. I begin with ‘Territories of Emptiness,’ in which I describe the processes through which territory is radically restructured into one of scientific meaning and control, despite the social landscapes that once existed.

Notes 1 A few radio telescopes reliant on basin topography predated Arecibo. These include: the Jodrell 218 ft Parabolic Antenna built at Jodrell Bank in 1947 which had a receiver mounted on a 38-metre mast that could be tilted to change the focal point; the 22-metre Dover-Heights ‘hole in the ground’ built in Sydney, Australia in 1951; the ‘kuil’ (pit) antenna built at Kootwijk in 1951; and the 31-metre dish built in 1954 at Katsiveli in the Crimea. All four relied on receivers located at the top of central masts, and the latter two were built at a tilted angle. See Strom, Richard. 2017. ‘The Five-hundred meter Aperture Spherical Telescope (FAST),’ Presentation: WimSym77 ASTRON. Online: https://www.astron.nl/Wimsym77/Documents/Wimsym77_Strom.pdf 2 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 3 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 4 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 5 For more information on the Fermi Lab, see Hoddeson, Lillian; Kolb, Adrienne, W. and Westfall, Catherine. 2008. Fermilab: Physics, the Frontier & Megascience. Chicago, IL.: University of Chicago Press. 6 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 7 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 8 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 9 Gordon, William, E. 1994. 10 Gordon, William, E. 1994.

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11 Mathews, John. D. 2013. ‘A short history of geophysical radar at Arecibo Observatory,’ History of Geo- and Space Sciences 4, pp. 19–33. 12 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. To See the Unseen: A History of Planetary Radar Astronomy. Washington, DC.: NASA, p. 89. 13 The CRSR was formed by Booker and Thomas Gold, a fellow Cambridge University graduate who taught astronomy at Harvard University. See Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 14 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 15 Berth, Donald. F. 1966. ‘An Eye and Ear to Space: Engineering the Telescope,’ Engineering Cornell Quarterly 1(2), pp. 1–37. 16 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. ‘The National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center’s (NAIC) Arecibo Observatory in Puerto Rico,’ Single-Dish Radio Astronomy: Techniques and Applications ASP Conference Series 278, pp. 1–24. 17 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 18 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 19 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. p. 90. 20 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 21 Mathews, John. D. 2013. 22 Santos, Juan L. S. 2008. ‘National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center Arecibo, Puerto Rico,’ National Registration of Historic Places Registration Form. Washington, DC.: United States Department of the Interior: National Park Service. 23 Santos, Juan L. S. 2008. 24 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 25 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 26 Gordon resigned as director in 1965 following a widely known spat with Thomas Gold, who he described as ‘cunning’ in his 1994 interview with Andrew Butrica. Frank Drake recounted the friction as existing between astronomy and electrical engineering. Between Gold’s push for greater radio astronomy work at Arecibo, and Gordon’s desire to protect ionosphere research (Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996). Gold placed greater pressure on Cornell to decentralise the control of the facility to Gold and the university. He forced Gordon to relinquish control on a technicality. Gordon left with Booker, taking up a deanship at Rice University, where he spent most of the remainder of his career. 27 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 28 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 29 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 30 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 31 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 32 In 1993 Russel Hulse and Joseph Taylor were awarded the Nobel Prize in Physics for their 1974 discovery of a binary pulsar at Arecibo. 33 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 34 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 35 The NSF is an independent agency of the United States government that oversees and supports major research in all non-medical science and en­ gineering fields. 36 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 37 Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. 38 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 39 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 40 Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. 41 As discussed in Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. NASA paid their portion of the S-band upgrade funding to NSF who administered the upgrade within the NSF-Cornell

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contract. NASA and NSF contributed proportional costs to the operation of the S-band instrumentation. Planetary radar astronomy was institutionally struc­ tured into the Arecibo Observatory and is funded by NASA today. Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. Johnson, Steven. 2017. ‘Greetings, E.T. (Please Don’t Murder Us.),’ New York Times, June 28. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2017/06/28/magazine/ greetings-et-please-dont-murder-us.html? Johnson, Steven. 2017. SETI Institute. NA. The Arecibo Message. Online: https://www.seti.org/setiinstitute/project/details/arecibo-message SETI Institute. NA. Johnson, Steven. 2017. Such as Donald Backer, Shrinivas Kulkarni, Carl Heiles, Michael Davis and Miller Gross’s discovery of the first millisecond pulsar in 1982, PSR B1937+21, and Aleksander Wolszczan’s 1989 discovery of pulsar PSR B1257+12. 4769 Castalia, an asteroid classified as a near-Earth object and potentially hazardous, was imaged by Scott Hudson and Steven Ostro. Gordon, William, E. 1994. Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. Hagfors worked as AIO site director from 1971–1973. In 1975, he was made the first director of the EISCAT (European Incoherent Scatter Scientific Association). He returned to the USA in 1982 to take up a professorship at Cornell University and to direct the NAIC until 1992. Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. Butrica, Andrew. J. 1996. Altschuler, Daniel, R. 2002. p. 20. Eskom. NA. ‘What is a megawatt?’ Eskom. Online: http://www.eskom.co.za/ AboutElectricity/FactsFigures/Documents/GI_0097WhatIsMegawatt.pdf Cornell University. 1996. ‘Major Upgrade to Arecibo Observatory Passes Critical Milestone,’ EurekAlert! Online: https://www.eurekalert.org/pub_releases/199606/CUNS-MUTA-010696.php Gordon, William, E. 1994. Arecibo Observatory. NA. ‘Overview: Science & visitor Center,’ Arecibo Observatory. Online: http://www.naic.edu/ao/visitor-center/overview See ViaHero. 2018. The Top 10 Puerto Rico Tourist Attractions. Online: https://www.viahero.com/travel-to-puerto-rico/puerto-rico-tourist-attractions; and Law, Lana. NA. 10 Top-Rated Tourist Attractions in Puerto Rico. Online: https://www.planetware.com/tourist-attractions/puerto-rico-pr.htm Britt, Robert R. 2001. ‘NASA Trims Arecibo Budget, Says Other Organizations Should Support Asteroid Watch,’ Space.com. Online: https://web.archive.org/ web/20081205190409/ht Britt, Robert R. 2001. Britt, Robert R. 2001. National Research Council. 2010. Defending Planet Earth: Near-Earth-Object Surveys and Hazard Mitigation Strategies. Washington, DC.: The National Academies Press. It is important to note that the NSF were, and remain, major stakeholders in the NRAO, NOAO, the NSO, the Gemini Observatory, and the NAIC. Most of these observatories has multiple sites and immensely complex telescopes that are generally newer than the Arecibo Observatory and include such substantial funding commitments as the ALMA to which the NSF contributed $499

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Making Science million over eleven years. See National Science Foundation. 2013. ‘National Science Foundation Celebrates Inauguration of Atacama Large Millimeter/ submillimeter Array (ALMA) in Chile,’ National Science Foundation. Online: https://www.nsf.gov/news/news_summ.jsp?cntn_id=127233 A 2011 report by the NSF Senior Review estimated the cost of closure to be $88 million. See Matthews, Christine M. 2012. ‘The Arecibo Ionospheric Observatory,’ Congressional Research Service. Online: https://fas.org/sgp/crs/misc/R40437.pdf Matthews, Christine M. 2012. Matthews, Christine M. 2012; Watson, Traci. 2015. ‘Arecibo Observatory director quits after funding row,’ Nature 527. Online: https://www.nature. com/news/arecibo-observatory-director-quits-after-funding-row-1.18745; and Chang, Kenneth. 2007. ‘A Hazy Future for a ‘Jewel’ of Space Instruments,’ New York Times. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2007/11/20/science/ space/20scop.html?scp=2 Sánchez, Israel R. 2007. ‘Senador De Puerto Rico Negociará Fondos Para Observatorio,’ Ciencia Puerto Rico. Online: https://www.cienciapr.org/es/ external-news/senador-de-puerto-rico-negociara-fondos-para-observatorio Chang, Kenneth. 2007. Cornell Chronicle. 2007. ‘Congress gets bill to save Arecibo Observatory,’ Cornell Chronicle. Online: https://web.archive.org/web/20071008133308/ http://www.news.cornell.edu/stories/Oct07/Arecibo.bill.lg.html Rivera-Lyles, Jeannette. 2008. ‘Clinton turns attention to observatory in Puerto Rico,’ Orlando Sentinel. Online: https://web.archive.org/web/ 20080930045739/http://www.orlandosentinel.com/news/nationworld/orlarecibo2508apr25%2C0%2C5117790.story Santos, Juan L. S. 2008. Santos, Juan L. S. 2008. p. 4. Bhattacharjee, Yudhijit. 2010. ‘Arecibo to Stay Open Under New NSF Funding Plan,’ Science 328, 5985. Online: https://science.sciencemag.org/content/328/ 5985/1462.2.full?rss=1 Bhattacharjee, Yudhijit. 2010. See Reich, Eugenie S. 2011. ‘Change rattles the world’s biggest dish,’ Nature 473, 431. Online: https://www.nature.com/articles/473431a; and The Cornell Daily Sun. 2011. ‘After Nearly 50 Years, Cornell Loses Management of Arecibo Observatory,’ The Cornell Daily Sun. Online: https://cornellsun.com/ 2011/06/12/after-nearly-50-years-cornell-loses-management-of-areciboobservatory/ Matthews, Christine M. 2012. Reich, Eugenie S. 2011. SRI International. 2011. ‘SRI International Selected by the National Science Foundation to Manage Arecibo Observatory,’ PR NewsWire. Online: https:// www.prnewswire.com/news-releases/sri-international-selected-by-thenational-science-foundation-to-manage-arecibo-observatory-123056208.html Watson, Traci. 2015. Watson, Traci. 2015. See Billings, Lee. 2015. ‘Search for Alien Life Ignites Battle over Giant Telescope,’ Scientific American. Online: https://www.scientificamerican.com/article/searchfor-alien-life-ignites-battle-over-giant-telescope/ National Science Foundation, 2015. ‘Dear Colleague Letter: Concepts for Future Operation of the Arecibo Observatory,’ NSF. Online: https://www.nsf. gov/pubs/2016/nsf16005/nsf16005.jsp

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86 National Science Foundation, 2016. ‘Dear Colleague Letter: Concepts for Future Operation of the Arecibo Observatory,’ NSF. Online: https://www.nsf. gov/pubs/2016/nsf16144/nsf16144.jsp 87 National Science Foundation, 2017. Environmental Impact Statement for Arecibo Observatory, Arecibo, Puerto Rico. Arlington. VA.: National Science Foundation. 88 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). ‘Puerto Rico’s Observatory Is Still Recovering from Hurricane Maria,’ Wired. Online: https://www.wired.com/story/puerto-ricosobservatory-is-still-recovering-from-hurricane-maria/ 89 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 90 When interviewing people working at the Arecibo Observatory, there was often a business card shuffle that occurred as we finished chatting. Long term employees who stored all their business cards in one place had to quickly file through their options to find the right one: “Cornell, no, SRI, no, ah – UCF, here you go!” For engineering staff, the shuffle would take them from Cornell to USRA, and finally Yang Enterprises. 91 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 92 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 93 National Science Foundation. 2020. ‘NSF begins planning for decommissioning of Arecibo Observatory’s 305-meter telescope due to safety concerns,’ NSF. Online: https://www.nsf.gov/news/news_summ.jsp?cntn_id=301674 94 See Witze, Alexandra. 2020. ‘Legendary Arecibo telescope will close forever— scientists are reeling,’ Nature. Online: https://www.nature.com/articles/d41586020-03270-9 95 Human habitation of the Atacama can be traced as far back as 10,000 BCE, see World Heritage Convention. 1998. ‘San Pedro de Atacama,’ United Nations Education, Scientific and Cultural Organization. Online: https://whc.unesco. org/en/tentativelists/1191/ 96 World Heritage Convention. 1998. 97 World Heritage Convention. 1998. 98 Katwala, Amit. 2019. ‘The devastating environmental impact of technological progress,’ Wired. Online: https://www.wired.co.uk/article/lithium-coppermining-atacama-desert 99 Katwala, Amit. 2019. 100 The Paranal Observatory is the largest optical-infrared observatory in the Southern Hemisphere and hosts the Very Large Telescope (VLT), Visible & Infrared Survey Telescope for Astronomy (VISTA), VLT Survey Telescope (VST), Next-Generation Transit Survey (NGTS), and SPECULOOS (Search for habitable Planets EClipsing ULtra-cOOl Stars) Southern Observatory (SSO). See European Southern Observatory. NA (a). ‘Paranal Observatory,’ European Southern Observatory (ESO). Online: https://www.eso.org/public/teles-instr/ paranal-observatory/ 101 La Silla was ESO’s first observatory in Chile, opened in 1966. It hosts over ten functioning optical and infrared telescopes including the ESO 3.6-metre tele­ scope and the New Technology Telescope (NTT). See European Southern Observatory. NA (b). ‘La Silla Observatory,’ European Southern Observatory (ESO). Online: https://www.eso.org/public/teles-instr/lasilla/ 102 Currently under construction at Cerro Armazones, the Extremely Large Telescope will be the world’s largest optical and near-infrared telescope. The telescope is planned to be operational from 2025. See European Southern Observatory. NA (c). ‘ESO’s Extremely Large Telescope,’ European Southern Observatory (ESO). Online: https://www.eso.org/public/teles-instr/elt/

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103 Las Campanas Observatory is owned by the Carnegie Institute and has been operated since 1969. See Las Campanas Observatory. NA. ‘Las Campanas Observatory [LCO],’ LCO. Online: http://www.lco.cl/. Many substantial observatories are also located south of the Atacama in the Coquimbo Region such as Cerro-Tololo Inter-American Observatory (CTIO), Gemini Observatory, and the Large Synoptic Survey Telescope (LSST). 104 European Southern Observatory. 2013. ‘ALMA Inauguration Heralds New Era of Discovery,’ ESO. Online: https://www.eso.org/public/news/eso1312/ 105 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a). ‘The ALMA Site,’ NRAO. Online: https://almascience.nrao.edu/about-alma/alma-site 106 ALMA Observatory. NA (a). ‘About ALMA, at first glance,’ ALMA Observatory. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-first-glance/ 107 ALMA Observatory. NA (b). ‘About ALMA, at first glance,’ ALMA Observatory. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-first-glance/privilegedlocation/ 108 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). ‘ALMA Basics,’ NRAO. Online: https://almascience.eso.org/about-alma/alma-basics 109 ALMA Observatory. NA (c). ‘Transporters,’ ALMA Observatory. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-first-glance/how-almaworks/technologies/transporters/ 110 Weinreb, Sander; Barrett, Adam, Meeks, Maggie, and Henry, John. 1963. ‘Radio Observations of OH in the Interstellar Medium,’ Nature 200, pp. 829–831. 111 Payne, John. 1989. ‘Millimeter and Submillimeter Wavelength Radio Astronomy,’ Proceedings of the IEEE 77, pp. 993–1017. 112 Payne, John. 1989. 113 Payne, John. 1989. 114 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2008. ‘2008 Grote Reber Medal Awarded to Sandy Weinreb,’ NRAO. Online: https://www.nrao.edu/news/ newsletters/115/generalGrote.shtml 115 Drake left Green Bank to direct the Arecibo Observatory from 1966–1968. 116 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (c). ‘Millimeter-wave Telescopes,’ NRAO. Online: https://public.nrao.edu/telescopes/millimeter-wave-telescopes/ 117 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (c). 118 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (c). 119 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (c). 120 Leverington, David. 2017. Observatories and Telescopes of Modern Times: Ground-Based Optical and Radio Astronomy Facilities since 1945. Cambridge, UK: University of Cambridge Press. 121 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (c). 122 The first telescope built at the summit of Mauna Kea was a small infrared telescope built by Dutch astronomer Gerard Kuiper in the early 1960s. He abandoned the telescope after losing the NASA bid (which he initiated) to John Jeffries at the University of Hawai’i. See Zirker, Jack B. 2005. An Acre of Glass: A history and forecast of the telescope. Baltimore, MD.: Johns Hopkins University Press. 123 Mauna Kea is considered a sacred site to many native Hawai’ians and the construction of telescopes at its summit has been controversial. In 2015, Hawai’i Governor David Ige requested that 25% of the telescopes operating on Mauna Kea would be shut down in order for the Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) to be built, and for the TMT site to be the last new site developed on the mountain. The CSO, UKIRT, and Hoku Kea will be decommissioned. The Hawai’i Supreme Court halted construction in 2015 and work later resumed in 2018. The TMT is funded be a large US university consortium and

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international partners. See Taylor Reed, Nola. 2015. ‘Third Observatory to Close on Sacred Hawaii Mountain,’ Space.com. Online: https://www.space. com/30962-third-observatory-to-close-mauna-kea.html; and BBC. 2018. ‘Hawaii top court approves controversial Thirty Meter Telescope,’ BBC News. Online: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-us-canada-46046864 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. 1977. A 25-Meter Telescope for Millimeter Wavelengths: Volume II. Green Bank WV.: NRAO. Ishiguro, Masato; Orchiston, Wayne; Akabane, Kenji; Kaifu, Norio; Hayashi, Masa; Nakamura, Tsuko; Stewart, Ronald; and Yokoo, Hiromitsu. 2012. ‘Highlighting the History of Japanese Radio Astronomy. 1: An Introduction,’ Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage 15(3), pp. 213–231; and Deguchi, Shuji. 1995. ‘Japanese Radio Astronomy – Past, Present and Future,’ Bulletin of the Astronomical Society of India 23(2), pp. 227–242. Leverington, David. 2017; and Deguchi, Shuji. 1995. Ishiguro, Masato. 2017. ‘Nobeyama Millimeter Array,’ URSI General Assembly Presentation. Online: https://rahist.nrao.edu/1-Montreal-Ishiguro17AugURSI_ rev1.pdf Japan had been previously successful with interferometry. The solar-radio interferometer at Toyokawa Observatory opened in 1967 with thirty-four 3metre antennae. Seventeen additional antennae were added in 1974. See Ishiguro, Masato. 2017. National Astronomical Observatories of Japan and Mitsubishi Electric Corporation. 2017. ‘Nobeyama 45-m Radio Telescope Developed by the National Astronomical Observatory of Japan and Mitsubishi Electric Recognized as “IEEE Milestone”,’ Mitsubishi Electric. Online: https://www. mitsubishielectric.com/news/2017/0614.pdf For a detailed account, see Leverington, David. 2017. The Dwingeloo Telescope was built and operated by ASTRON, the Netherland’s Institute for Radio Astronomy which was founded in 1950 as the Stichting Radiostraling van Zon en Melkweg (SRZM). See ASTRON. NA. ‘About,’ Astron. Online: https://www.astron.nl/about The Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy (MPIfR) was founded in 1966 by the Max Plank Institute. See Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy. NA. ‘The History of the MPIfR,’ MPIfR. Online: https://www.mpifr-bonn.mpg.de/ history For a detailed account of IRAM, see Encrenaz, Pierre; Gómez-González, Jesús; Lequeux, James and Orchiston, Wayne. 2011. ‘History of French Radio Astronomy. 7: The Genesis of The Institute Of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths (IRAM),’ Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage 14(2), pp. 83–92. Spain later joined IRAM through their National Geographic Institute in 1990. See Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths. NA. ‘The Institute,’ IRAM. Online: https://www.iram-institute.org/EN/content-page-81-8-0-0-0.html Encrenaz, Pierre et al. 2011. Leverington, David. 2017. Leverington, David. 2017. European Southern Observatory. NA (d). ‘Swedish–ESO Submillimeter Telescope (decommissioned),’ ESO. Online: https://www.eso.org/public/telesinstr/lasilla/swedish/ Leverington, David. 2017. European Southern Observatory. NA (d).

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141 Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths. NA. ‘NOrthern Extended Millimeter Array (NOEMA),’ IRAM. Online: https://www.iraminstitute.org/EN/noema-project.php?. In 2003 SEST ceased operations as funding was directed towards ALMA forerunner, the Atacama Pathfinder Experiment (APEX) and ALMA itself. 142 National Science Foundation. 2004. Setting Priorities for Large Research Facility Projects Supported by the National Science Foundation. Washington, DC.: The National Academies Press. 143 National Science Foundation. 2004. 144 National Science Foundation. 2004. 145 The construction of the Very Long Baseline Array’s (VLBA) ten stations, included a site on Mauna Kea. This is the NRAO’s only instrument on Mauna Kea. The VLBA was inaugurated in 1993. See National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (d). ‘Very Long Baseline Array,’ NRAO. Online: https:// public.nrao.edu/telescopes/vlba/ and National Science Foundation. 2004. 146 National Science Foundation. 1991. The Decade of Discovery in Astronomy and Astrophysics. Washington, DC.: The National Academies Press. 147 Leverington, David. 2017. 148 National Science Foundation. 2004. 149 Leverington, David. 2017, and National Science Foundation. 2004. 150 National Science Foundation. 2004. 151 For a comprehensive review of ESO’s early history see Blaauw, Adriaan. 1991. ESO’s Early History: The European Southern Observatory from concept to reality. Garching, Germany: ESO. 152 European Southern Observatory. 2012. ESO Basic Texts 2012. Garching, Germany: ESO. 153 Blaauw, Adriaan. 1991. 154 Blaauw, Adriaan. 1991. 155 For more information on ESO’s shifting relationship with Chile, see Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. Secrets of the Hoary Deep: A Personal History of Modern Astronomy. Baltimore, MD.: Johns Hopkins University Press. 156 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 157 Long, William, R. 1994. ‘Dispute Threatens Observatory Project in Chile: Astronomy: Legal wrangling imperils plan for the world’s most powerful tel­ escope in the Atacama Desert,’ Los Angeles Times. Online: https://www. latimes.com/archives/la-xpm-1994-08-06-mn-24135-story.html 158 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 159 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 160 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 161 European Southern Observatory. 2012. 162 See Barvainis, Richard; Tacconi, Linda; Antonucci, Robert; Alloin, Danielle; and Coleman, Paul. 1994. ‘Extremely strong carbon monoxide emission from the Cloverleaf quasar at a redshift of 2.3,’ Nature 371, pp. 586–588. Redshift denotes an increase in an object’s wavelength that occurs together with a decrease in proton energy and wavelength frequency. 163 Leverington, David. 2017. 164 Leverington, David. 2017. 165 Shaver, Peter and Roy Booth. 1998. ‘The Large Southern Array,’ The Messenger 91. Online: https://www.eso.org/sci/publications/messenger/archive/no.91mar98/messenger-no91-26-28.pdf 166 Shaver, Peter and Roy Booth. 1998. 167 Shaver, Peter and Roy Booth. 1998. 168 Shaver, Peter and Roy Booth. 1998.

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169 Shaver, Peter and Roy Booth. 1998. 170 European Southern Observatory. 1999. Annual Report 1999. Garching, Germany: ESO. 171 Ishiguro, Masato. 1997. ‘LMSA: Japanese Plans for a Large Millimeter and Submillimeter Array,’ International Astronomical Union Symposium 170, pp. 239–246. 172 Ishiguro, Masato. 1997. 173 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 174 European Southern Observatory. 1999. 175 European Southern Observatory. 1999. 176 Leverington, David. 2017. 177 National Science Foundation. 2004. 178 Leverington, David. 2017. 179 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. p. 353. 180 The SKA project will later achieve such levels of inter-continental organisation. 181 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. p. 354. 182 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 183 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 184 Leverington, David. 2017. 185 Ukita, Nobuharu; Saito, Masao; Ezawa, Hajime; Ikenoue, Bungo; Ishizaki, Hideharu; Iwashita, Hiroyuki; Yamaguchi, Nobuyuki; Hayakawa, Takahiro and the ATF-J team. 2004. ‘Design and performance of the ALMA-J prototype antenna,’ Proceedings of SPIE - The International Society for Optical Engineering 5489. Online: https://www.spiedigitallibrary.org/conferenceproceedings-of-spie/5489/1/Design-and-performance-of-the-ALMA-Jprototype-antenna/10.1117/12.551523.short?SSO=1 186 Leverington, David. 2017. 187 Leverington, David. 2017. 188 Leverington, David. 2017. 189 The Morita Array was named after Professor Koh-ichiro Morita, who was instrumental in the design of the compact array. See European Southern Observatory. 2013. ‘ALMA Compact Array Completed and Named After Japanese Astronomer,’ ESO. Online: https://www.eso.org/public/ announcements/ann13040/ 190 European Southern Observatory. 2013. 191 Leverington, David. 2017. 192 Leverington, David. 2017. 193 Associated Universities. 2012. Into Deepest Space: The Birth of the ALMA Observatory. Film: Marc Pingry Productions. Online: https://vimeo.com/ 55367742 194 A pipeline was built to connect the power generation plant to a natural gas pipeline near San Pedro de Atacama. This replaces the previous power solu­ tion, which saw a truck carrying LPG to the OSF from a refinery roughly 1,500-kilometers every day. See Filippi, Giorgio, et al. 2016. ‘A new mix of power for the ESO installations in Chile: greener, more reliable, cheaper,’ SPIE Astronomical Telescopes + Instrumentation Conference Paper. Online: https:// www.eso.org/sci/libraries/SPIE2016/9906-200.pdf 195 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2005. ‘ALMA NRAO News 2005,’ NRAO. Online: https://science.nrao.edu/facilities/alma/almaNews/ almaNews2005; and Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. 2017. ‘The ALMA Partnership,’ ALMA. Online: https://alma-telescope.jp/assets/ uploads/2017/01/alma_partnership.pdf 196 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a).

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197 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a). 198 Beasley, Tony. 2006. ‘Atacama Large Millimeter/ submillimeter Array – ALMA: Status Overview,’ ESO Presentation. Online: http://www.astro-udec. cl/nagar/material_radio/tonybeasley_almanov06.pdf 199 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (e). ‘Atacama Large Millimeter/ submillimeter Array,’ NRAO. Online: https://public.nrao.edu/telescopes/alma/ 200 Stanghellini, Stefano. 2007. ‘Status of the ALMA Antenna Production,’ The Messenger 130. Online: https://www.eso.org/sci/publications/messenger/ archive/no.130-dec07/messenger-no130-15-22.pdf 201 Stanghellini, Stefano. 2007. 202 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (e). 203 Stanghellini, Stefano. 2007. 204 European Southern Observatory. NA (e). ‘The European ALMA Antennas,’ ESO Presentation. 205 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (e). 206 National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (e). 207 Lopez, Bernhard; Knee, Lewis, B.; Jager, Reiks; Whyborn, Nicholas; McMullin, Joseph; Murowinski, Richard; Peck, Alison; and Corder, Stuartt. 2014. ‘The ALMA assembly, integration, and verification project: a retro­ spective analysis,’ Proceedings of SPIE 9150: Modeling, Systems Engineering, and Project Management for Astronomy VI. 208 Lopez, Bernhard et al. 2014. 209 Shouguan, Wang. 2009. ‘Personal Recollections of W.N. Christiansen and the Early Days of Chinese Radio Astronomy,’ Journal of Astronomical History and Heritage 12(1), pp. 33–38. 210 Shouguan, Wang. 2009. 211 Shouguan, Wang. 2009. 212 Shouguan, Wang. 2009. p. 34. 213 North, Richard. 2013. ‘Into the unknown: the story of Sydney’s first visitor to Mao’s China,’ The University of Sydney News. Online: http://sydney.edu.au/ news/84.html?newscategoryid=15&newsstoryid=12856 214 Shouguan, Wang. 2009. 215 Shanghai Astronomical Observatory. 2014. ‘The 25 m Radio Telescope Observing Station,’ SAO. Online: http://english.shao.cas.cn/fs/201410/t20141008_128932. html 216 XinJiang Astronomical Observatory. 2013. ‘NanShan 25-m Radio Telescope,’ XAO. Online: http://english.xao.ac.cn/pr/25mrt/ 217 Zuo, Ying-Xi; Yang, Ji; Shi, Sheng-Cai; Chen, Shan-Huai; Pei, Li-Ben; Yao, QiJun; Sun, Jin-Jiang; and Lin, Zhen-Hui. 2004. ‘Upgrade Procedure for the Delingha 13.7-m Telescope,’ Chinese Journal of Astronomy & Astrophysics 4, pp. 390–396. 218 Shen, Zhiqiang. 2014. ‘Tian Ma 65-m Radio Telescope,’ The 3rd China-U.S. Workshop on Radio Astronomy Science and Technology Presentation: Emerging Opportunities. Online: https://science.nrao.edu/science/meetings/2014/3rdchina-us-workshop/presentation.pdfs/Shen_Tian%20 Ma%2065-m.pdf 219 Ekers, Ron. 2019. ‘Early development of the SKA concept including the evo­ lution of the science case,’ Meeting on the History of the SKA from the 1980s to 2012. SKA Organisation Presentation. 220 Ekers, Ron. 2019. 221 Ekers, Ron. 2012. ‘The History of the Square Kilometre Array (SKA) Born Global,’ Proceedings of Resolving the Sky - Radio Interferometry: Past, Present and Future. Online: http://inspirehep.net/record/1207428/files/arXiv%3A1212. 3497.pdf

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222 Swarup, Govind. 1991. ‘An international telescope for radio astronomy,’ Current Science 60(2), pp. 106–108. 223 Swarup, Govind. 1991. 224 For more on the Radio Schmidt concept see Dewdney, Peter and Landecker, Thomas. 1991. ‘The Proposed Radio Schmidt Telescope: The Technical Challenges,’ Radio Interferometry: Theory, Techniques and Applications Conference. Online: https://www-cambridge-org/core/services/aopcambridge-core/content/view/B16B5A47AB1A650D45F851B28CC496C0/ S0252921100013750a.pdf/proposed_radio_schmidt_telescope_the_tech­ nical_challenges.pdf 225 Ekers, Ron. 2012. 226 Ekers, Ron. 2012. 227 Noordham, Jan. 2012. ‘The Dawn of SKAI: What really happened,’ Proceedings of Science: Resolving The Sky - Radio Interferometry: Past, Present and Future. Online: https://pos.sissa.it/163/008/pdf 228 Noordham, Jan. 2012. 229 Wilkinson, Peter. 1991. ‘The Hydrogen Array,’ Radio Interferometry: Theory, Techniques and Applications, IAU Collection 131, ASP Conference Series 19. Online: https://www.cambridge.org/core/services/aop-cambridge-core/content/ view/F65EBB1EE273CA3E54151B970BCD7961/S0252921100013774a.pdf/ div-class-title-the-hydrogen-array-div.pdf 230 Ekers, Ron. 2012. 231 Ekers, Ron. 2012. 232 Schilizzi, Richard. 2019. ‘The SKA Story, Parts 1 and 2,’ Meeting on the History of the SKA from the 1980s to 2012. SKA Organisation Presentation. 233 Schilizzi, Richard. 2019. 234 Ekers, Ron. 2012. 235 These included OSKAR, 1kT, SKAI, ITRA, KARST, SLA, VLRT, SKIRT, Argo, NGRO, and NGAT. See Ekers, Ron. 2012. 236 Tarter, Jill. 2019. ‘The First Ideas,’ Meeting on the History of the SKA from the 1980s to 2012. SKA Organisation Presentation. 237 This consortium expanded by 2011 to include members from Caltech, Cornell University, Harvard University, MIT, the NROA, the Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), SETI Institute, UCB, University of Illinois, University of New Mexico, University of Wisconsin, and Western Kentucky University. See Schilizzi, Richard; Ekers, Ron and Hall, Peter. 2016. ‘The SKA Story: Prequel, Episodes 1 and 2,’ Innovation and Discovery in Radio Astronomy Presentation, online: https://www.atnf.csiro.au/research/conferences/2016/ IDRA16/presentations/SchilizziRichard.pdf; and The US Square Kilometer Array Consortium. NA. ‘US SKA Consortium Members,’ USSKA. Online: http://usskac.astro.cornell.edu/members/index.shtml 238 Schilizzi, Richard; Ekers, Ron and Hall, Peter. 2016. 239 The voting structure was assembled as follows: Europe (6 votes) consisted of UK, Germany, Netherlands, Sweden, Italy, Poland, United States (6 votes), Canada (2 votes), Australia (2 votes), China (1 vote), India (1 vote) and two at large members. See Ekers, Ron. 2012. 240 Schilizzi, Richard. 2019. 241 Schilizzi, Richard; Ekers, Ron and Hall, Peter. 2016. 242 US ISSC member Ken Kellermann ascribed the USA’s reluctance to submit a proposal as a result of their lack of resources from both the NRAO and the NSF to assemble the proposal, and perception that many, even astronomers in the USA, did not want the SKA built in the USA, see Kellermann, Ken. 2019.

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Making Science ‘National motivations to join the SKA project; funding models,’ Meeting on the History of the SKA from the 1980s to 2012. SKA Organisation Presentation. Moran, James. 2019. ‘Telescope site short-listing in 2006,’ Meeting on the History of the SKA from the 1980s to 2012. SKA Organisation Presentation. Moran, James. 2019. Moran, James. 2019. Peng, Bo. 2018. ‘Nan Rendong,’ NRAO. Online: https://rahist.nrao.edu/ nanrendong_bio-memoir.shtml Rendong, Nan; and Peng, Bo et al. 2002. ‘Kilometer-square Area Radio Synthesis Telescope KARST,’ National Astronomical Observatories, China. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/uploaded/8481_17_memo_Nan.pdf Strom, Richard. 2017. Strom, Richard. 2017 Peng, Bo. 2018. Strom, Richard. 2017. Peng, Bo. 2018. In 2013, Guizhou’s gross regional product per capita equaled ¥22,922. See National Bureau of Statistics of China. 2014. China Statistical Yearbook 2014. Online: http://www.stats.gov.cn/tjsj/ndsj/2014/indexeh.htm. In 2018, Guizhou’s gross regional product per capita equaled ¥41,244. See National Bureau of Statistics of China. 2019. China Statistical Yearbook 2014. Online: http://www.stats.gov.cn/tjsj/ndsj/2019/indexeh.htm Peng, Bo. 2019. In-person interview by author. Peng, Bo. 2019. An, Tao; Chen, Xiao; Mohan, Prashanth; and Lao, Bao-Qiang. 2017. ‘Radio Frequency Interference Mitigation,’ Chinese Astronomy and Astrophysics 58, pp. 1–26. Agence France-Presse. 2016. Agence France-Presse. 2016. Agence France-Presse. 2016. De Jesus, Cecille. 2016. Peng, Bo. 2019. Li, Di and Pan, Zhichen. 2016. ‘The Five‐hundred‐meter Aperture Spherical Radio Telescope project,’ Radio Science 51, pp. 1060–1064. Li, Di and Pan, Zhichen. 2016. Ming, Zhu. 2019. In-person interview by author. Strom, Marcus. 2016. ‘CSIRO technology to be at the heart of the world’s largest radio telescope in China,’ The Sydney Morning Herald. Online: https:// www.smh.com.au/technology/csiro-technology-to-be-at-the-heart-of-theworlds-largest-radio-telescope-in-china-20160505-gomt90.html Peng, Bo. 2019. Peng, Bo. 2019. Reader’s Digest Association South Africa. 1992. ‘Confederation from the Barrel of a Gun,’ in Illustrated history of South Africa: the real story. Cape Town, South Africa: Reader’s Digest Association South Africa. Nicolson, George. 2017. ‘History of radio astronomy in South Africa and at HartRAO – From Sputnik to the SKA,’ AVN Training Programme. Online: https://avntraining.hartrao.ac.za/images/Schools/2018March/2018_Talks/ AVN2018_GN_History_of_HartRAO.pdf Austin, Brian. 2001. Schonland: Scientist and Scholar. Bristol: Taylor and Francis. Nicolson, George. 2017. Nicolson, George. 2017.

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273 Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a). ‘History of Deep Space Station 51 at Hartbeesthoek,’ HartRAO. Online: http://www.hartrao. ac.za/other/dss51/dss51.html 274 Nicolson, George. 2017. 275 This is despite 85 US companies listed on the New York Stock Exchange in 1960 having operating plants or subsidiaries active in South Africa, benefitting from the labor exploitation implicit in the apartheid policy and ideology. In 1961, the USA buoyed a crashing South African economy by contributing the entire amount of investment required to stabilise the economy following massive disinvestments sparked by the Sharpeville Massacre. By 1964, over 160 US companies had a presence in South Africa and contributed to the golddriven economic boom that defined these ‘high apartheid’ years. See Africa Today. 1964. ‘Partners in Apartheid: U.S. Policy on South Africa,’ Africa Today 11(3), pp. 2–17. 276 Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a). 277 Nicolson, George. 2017. 278 Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). ‘Deep Space Station 51 Antenna Upgrades,’ HartRAO. Online: http://www.hartrao.ac.za/other/ dss51/dss51_upgrades.html 279 Nicolson, George. 2017. 280 National Research Foundation. NA. ‘Dr Bernard Fanaroff,’ NRF. Online: https://www.nrf.ac.za/content/dr-bernard-fanaroff 281 Green, Pippa. 2012. ‘Scientist, unionist – and now star of the SKA show,’ Mail & Guardian. Online: https://mg.co.za/article/2012-07-05-scientist-unionistand-now-star-of-the-ska-show/ 282 Green, Pippa. 2012. 283 Department of Science and Technology. 1996. White Paper on Science and Technology. Online: https://www.dst.gov.za/images/pdfs/Science_Technology_ White_Paper.pdf 284 Wild, Sarah. 2012. Searching African Skies. Johannesburg: Jacana. 285 Wild, Sarah. 2012. 286 Tiplady, Adrian. 2019. In-person interview by author. 287 Wild, Sarah. 2012. 288 Wild, Sarah. 2012. p.75. 289 Tiplady, Adrian. 2019. 290 Wild, Sarah. 2012. 291 South African Government. 2007. ‘Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act 21 of 2007,’ Government Gazette. Online: https://www.gov.za/documents/ astronomy-geographic-advantage-act 292 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (a). ‘Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act,’ SARAO. Online: https://www.sarao.ac.za/about/astronomygeographic-advantage-act/ 293 National Research Foundation. 2019. National Research Foundation Annual Report 2018/19. Pretoria, RSA: NRF 294 South African History Online. 2019. ‘The San,’ SAHO. Online: https://www. sahistory.org.za/article/san 295 Sharpe, Carla. 2020. In-person interview by author. 296 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2018. Integrated Environmental Management Plan (IEMP) for SKA Phase 1 mid-frequency array (SKA1_MID) in South Africa. Cape Town: SARAO. 297 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2018. p. 4. 298 National Geographic. NA. 299 Wild, Sarah. 2012.

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300 Wild, Sarah. 2012. 301 Max Planck Institute for Radio Astronomy. 2014. ‘Opening the African Sky,’ MPIfRA. Online: https://www.mpifr-bonn.mpg.de/announcements/2014/6 302 SKA South Africa. 2014. ‘MeerKAT Telescope Foundations Complete,’ Phys.org. Online: https://phys.org/news/2014-02-meerkat-telescopefoundations.html; and Cotterill, Joseph. 2019. ‘MeerKAT telescope puts South Africa at forefront of astronomy,’ Financial Times. Online: https://www.ft.com/ content/754997c0-18d6-11e9-9e64-d150b3105d21 303 Van der Merwe, Carel. 2019. In-person interview by author. 304 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). ‘MeerKAT radio telescope,’ SARAO. Online: https://www.sarao.ac.za/science/meerkat/about-meerkat/ 305 Wild, Sarah. 2020. ‘Germany is investing R400 million to expand South Africa’s giant MeerKAT telescope,’ Business Insider. Online: https://www. businessinsider.co.za/meerkat-computing-to-go-up-10-times-2020-2 306 Square Kilometre Array. NA (a). ‘Design and Deployment Baselines,’ SKA. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/skadesign/design-and-deployment/ 307 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). 308 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). 309 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). 310 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). 311 Tiplady, Adrian. 2019. 312 Doherty, Sean. 2019. In-person interview by author. 313 Square Kilometer Array. NA (b). ‘The SKA Project,’ SKA. Online: https:// www.skatelescope.org/the-ska-project/

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Territories of Emptiness

Radio telescope sites are designed to facilitate and ease scientific knowledge production. As I’ve shown in the preceding chapter, these places are the product of substantial human effort, significant invest­ ment, dogged determination, national interest, and scientific advance­ ment. These processes are not only concentrated on a single project or site. They concurrently expand and extend across geographic space and time. Through their physical concentration in space, these many scien­ tific, technological, political, economic, and social processes find effec­ tive resolution in the object of the radio telescope and co-construct its iconic image, technological wonderment, and perhaps its radical con­ textual detachment like a fortress on a hilltop. These processes are also highly networked phenomena. They reach across ‘empty’ landscapes and connect the periphery to the centre. They enfold and transform space, reshape historical land use patterns, and forever alter the social heritage of these landscapes.

Filling the Void Science has enlivened our public understanding and interpretation of the universe. Uncovering the features and processes of our celestial neigh­ bourhood has long been the focus of physicists and astronomers. Scientific discoveries have animated the infinite possibilities of the uni­ verse, filling the darkness with strange and fascinating phenomena such as immense galaxies, invisible black holes, explosive nebulae, and enti­ cing exoplanets. In their various guises, radio telescopes have been essential in enabling these discoveries. Despite our human embeddedness in the universe and our Earth being obviously reliant on space for its continued existence, many humans have come to entrench a near-impermeable barrier between their lives on Earth and the universe beyond the atmosphere. It is worth re­ membering Carl Sagan’s famous line, “we are star-stuff.”1 While the uni­ verse as a socio-cultural and religious formation still plays a role in many DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-4

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diverse cultures around the world, the dominance of monotheistic religions; the forward march of science; and the effects of capitalism, industrialisa­ tion, and our fundamental reliance on various technologies have served to sever our human ties to outer space. The result has been the relegation of the universe – our everything – to the domain of highly specialised sciences or amateur astronomy enthusiasts. This celestial realm of deities, monsters, unimaginable worlds, and infinite possibilities is today an abstract space of energies, particles, equations, formulae, masses, and gasses. This reading of space is essential, but we must see the distortions inherent in this dominant lens, which has served to empty space of meaning. Indeed, how empty is space if not full of all we can ever know? ‘Emptiness’ is a spatial notion related to volume and measure. Despite its scientific clarity, the notion of ‘emptiness’ is fundamentally subjective, for outside of artificial vacuums, nothing can indeed be empty. Instead, a condition is subjectively deemed ‘empty’ in contrast to another. The result is that specific interests can operationalise notions of ‘emptiness’ to a par­ ticular end. For example, the sea bed is empty and devoid of life, so it is available to mine; this vast land is empty and open to occupy; the desert is empty, so it is a good site for nuclear testing. ‘Emptiness’ has been a central device in colonial territorial expansion, where colonisers interpreted – or in some cases explicitly deemed – the lands of indigenous populations terra nullius or vacant territory and available for occupation. Outer space is a similar spatial realm open to being enacted upon by powerful political and corporate interests in the twenty-first century. Space is particularly susceptible to the operationalisation of ‘emptiness.’ As an infinite vacuum, it is commonly construed as the ultimate ‘empty’ expanse. The word ‘space’ can represent emptiness, the ‘nothing’ in-between. Recent publicity-generating actions by SpaceX have operationalised the ‘emptiness’ of space as a black backdrop to a bright red Tesla Roadster or the ‘emptiness’ of Mars as a planet ripe for human colonisation.2 As these actions and am­ bitions speak to the profit motives of an expanding corporation, they alert us to the need for capital to fix value in space. Herein lies the multiple possi­ bilities of new markets, spaces, and technologies. The universe has been ‘filled’ for millennia by humans seeking to under­ stand their place in ecological cycles. It is an unbounded receptacle for our thoughts, beliefs, fears, and general curiosity. The |Xam San people, who have lived in the Karoo region for thousands of years, interpreted the stars as an early celestial race of people much like their own but who possessed nonhuman qualities drawn from their world.3 For example, the pointers to the southern cross are two men with the feet of a lion, and the Milky Way is the ashes of a fire thrown into the sky by an early race girl. Two types of con­ stellations existed in the night sky for the Quechua, whose ancestors once roamed the Atacama.4 The first was that of the stars, which they would link together, creating inanimate and geometric forms, and the second was that of the dark cloud portions of the Milky Way, in which ‘empty’ space would

Territories of Emptiness 133 delineate the shape of sentient beings such as a llama, a toad, or a serpent. These would inform and animate their interpretation of cyclical change concerning such phenomena as weather, the seasons, and periods of pesti­ lence and abundance.5 Modern-day astrology, in all its varied socio-cultural forms, and space-based science fiction continue to relate our human existence on Earth with the mysteries of space beyond as many continue to seek meaning and direction from the heavens. However, as national and corporate interests in space continue to ex­ pand, those once lofty ideals wrapped up in space exploration and ‘for mankind’ are becoming aligned with processes of territorialisation. These ‘claims’ to space fall outside of traditional land-based land ownership regimes, as space cannot be ‘owned’ by any nation in alignment with the 1967 UN Outer Space Treaty.6 However, this does not prevent outer space and the orbital space around the Earth from becoming a zone where tussles for dominance and control are exercised. As more nations and corporations fill the skies with satellite technologies, many of which have military ap­ plications, we may soon see a radical change in the seemingly passive cooperation of space interests. In some cases, the night sky itself is territorialised. For example, SpaceX continues to launch what will become 12,000 Starlink satellites into low Earth orbit to facilitate their own global, private internet and global com­ munications system.7 These satellites will be feint features of the night sky for onlookers but become blazing streaks across the images of astronomers and can destroy much of their data. Satellites are an ongoing challenge for astronomers as their numbers have increased, but the motives of one private company (no matter how globally altruistic their representation is) actively seeks to occupy a global resource. Space has become another wilderness in which notions of ‘emptiness’ enable a territorialising imagination. The first to fill and populate the ‘emptiness’ holds the most significant power in determining its future.8 Enacting Emptiness We can trace the overt and symbolic acts of power and control emerging in the orbital space around our Earth down to its surface, where we are more familiar with the notion of ‘territory.’ While ground-based radio telescopes are part of the space science arsenal, their territorial influence is more evident on Earth. The Latin etymology of the word ‘territory’ invokes terra meaning ‘land’ and ‘-ory’ denoting -torium or a ‘place.’9 This conjugation does not make sense in Latin as -torium should follow a verb. In response, a counter etymology places the root of ‘territory’ as emerging from terrere or ‘frighten’ – as in terrorise or terrorism – and in this sense, ‘territory’ would denote a place from which one is frightened away.10 Within this etymology, the most con­ ventional interpretation of the word concerns a demarcated portion of land over which some form of control is enacted. This interpretation may take the

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form of a private owner, a political regime, military rule, an ideological for­ mation, a cultural affiliation, and communities of religious belief, among others. Territory should never be limited to terrestrial land, as it concerns material and spatial phenomena. Indeed, like our complex human landscapes, outer space holds significant cultural, religious, social, and scientific value for humans. It has considerable meaning as a vast space crucial to almost all cultures and beliefs. As such, outer space is not ‘empty.’ Calling it such merely supports those territorialising claims already being made about the ‘empti­ ness’ of space and further strips away the deep socio-cultural connection between human societies and our cosmos. Astronomy, and its various socio-cultural and religious manifestations that existed almost throughout human history, continues to play a central role in animating the night sky and placing human existence within its universal context. It is essential to understand astronomy as the evolving product of a long-durée history that has found advancement through the development of tools and technologies to improve on our human limita­ tions to see and interpret the universe. At the same time, astronomers have also maintained a close relationship with the Earth, seeking suitable sites to improve their study of the universe. For this reason, astronomy shares an inverted spatial history with the rise of industrialisation, urbanisation, and electrification. As the urban occupied peripheral land, the observatory retreated. For example, the Paris Observatory (1667–1683), designed by Claude Perrault, was built on Saint Jacques hill beyond the city’s limits.11 A wall around the observatory, costing three times as much as the land to erect, was built to ensure isolation. From the midnineteenth century, the observatory became embedded in the city’s expanding urban fabric, and its peripheral location was increasingly centralised. Friction between Haussmann’s aggressive plans for Paris, including rows of gas lamps lining avenues up to the observatory itself, and the observational needs of the observatory ignited the first suggestion that the observatory should move to Meudon, outside of Paris.12 While the observatory remained in Paris, its newer branch, built in the late nineteenth century at Meudon, became a far more capable site for advanced optical observations. Numerous observatories worldwide have faced similar dilemmas as urban expansion has rendered observatories less useful sites from which to make observations. Inherent in the scientific requirements of an astronomical observatory are two fundamental paradoxes linked to the need for disloca­ tion from sources of mainly human interference: first, the need to be located close to urban amenities, such as electricity, food, and potable water; and, second, the attraction of positioning a leading scientific institution within the capital city of a nation, symbolically important as a site of scientific advancement and consequently connected to broader notions concerning nationalism and knowledge. This fundamental tension within the observatory is even more pronounced concerning the world’s most advanced radio observatories. A common

Territories of Emptiness 135 astronomical refrain is that the best radio telescope would be one built on the Moon’s dark side due to its distance from any human or atmospheric interference. However, a Moon-based telescope would lack any kind of centrality or adjacency to any systems available to support its functioning; developing such a telescope would be complex.13 Although, as we have determined, the newest and most powerful radio telescopes are built on Earth in places that are not unlike the Moon in their relative isolation. Their ex­ istence hinges on their ability to enact or create forms of ‘centrality’ despite their location at great distances from traditionally defined centres, be they economic, political, or socio-cultural. Thus, a balancing act ensues between isolation, and centrality, with neither able to topple the other for risk of the scientific operation. The effects extend beyond the confines of the telescope and its infrastructure as the broader surrounding context also has to be maintained within the same balance: too much ‘centring’ or urban develop­ ment would hamper scientific operations while increased isolation and the thinning out of populations, services, and products available at nearby towns, for example, would also undermine the viability of the telescope. The notion of ‘emptiness’ thus becomes a powerful conceptual tool for maintaining this balance and ensuring the viability of the telescope for decades to come. Through analysing these case studies, I have determined that emptiness is enacted in three significant ways: Siting, re-scripting, and defending. All three are linear components of the same process. First, siting decrees emptiness as landscapes are made ‘empty’ and available for occupation. Re-scripting oc­ curs as a place is saturated with new scientific meaning, stripping it of other associations. Finally, emptiness defends the scientific installation by enacting an extensive glacis of control. Siting Firstly, at the start of a new radio telescope project, a sweeping review of possible sites is completed, which must conform to a range of scientific prerogatives and enable the new telescope’s ‘key science goals.’ Engineers and scientists take multiple considerations into account, primarily con­ cerning the frequency range ambitions of the telescope and the type of electromagnetic environment required to operate. For ALMA, millimetre and submillimetre-wave observations demanded an environment devoid of humidity, while for Arecibo, in the heart of the Puerto Rican forest, the humidity was not a concern. Both observe different wavelengths and have differing electromagnetic environmental needs as a result. The general RFI conditions at each potential site were essential to determine as any signifi­ cant RFI within the frequency range required by the science prerogatives of the telescope would either be costly to mitigate or render the telescope useless. The proposed telescope design is also a primary factor in the early siting discussions. An extensive array requires an expansive plain of sorts, while a massive filled-aperture dish reflector in the style of Arecibo or FAST

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demands a landscape capable of supporting such a significant suspended surface. With each approach, decisions regarding the right hemisphere for the telescope and whether the instrument is fixed or steerable also come into play. Secondary considerations include the political and economic stability of the wider region, the availability of resources required for constructing and running the facility, infrastructure links to the proposed site, and the cost of building and operating a facility of such complexity. These processes are all undertaken first through desktop analyses. Committees later select a location, if not through a competitive process (such as the SKA), by rig­ orously testing and mapping various sites over time. From the start, the detached approach of radio astronomy engages ‘emptiness’ to locate a suitable site. The world is the radio astronomer’s oyster, and the complexities of the scientific requirements of the telescope narrow the list of potential sites down. This approach runs counter to traditional infrastructure or building development, in which a client – a private investor, a government, or a scientific institution – has a site or owns a property and seeks to develop it. Instead, the radio astronomer engages the world from a position of ‘emptiness,’ where every space, regardless of borders, ownership, or use, is an option. The same universalising perspec­ tive makes the Moon a suitable site for a radio telescope. The result is that, from the start, a disconnect between the advanced radio telescope and any local context is patent. It imposes on a region, landscape, or people. ARPA built the Arecibo Observatory in the central karst region of Puerto Rico due to the natural basins of the landscape, the adjacency of the island to the Tropic of Cancer, and the fact that Puerto Rico fell under US sov­ ereignty. Similarly, the NAOC located FAST in the Dawodang Depression due to the natural sinkholes of this karst region, and its location in southern China meant that it too was close to the Tropic of Cancer and embedded in Chinese soil as an icon of Chinese advancement. ALMA’s location on the Chajnantor Plateau resulted from the high-frequency telescope’s highaltitude requirements and the large array’s need for an extensive flat pla­ teau. Few places in the world meet these requirements. In addition, ESO’s embeddedness in Chile eased ALMA’s location in the country. Finally, SKA SA built MeerKAT in the central Karoo due to the high quality of its electromagnetic environment and RFI-shielding topography. In doing so, it demonstrated to the international radio astronomy community that South Africa was one of the best places in the world to locate new facilities. Across all four sites, the projects gave little consideration to the complex life worlds of each site. Instead, the projects foregrounded their sites’ ‘emptiness’ concerning topographical features, political contexts, infra­ structure availability, and RFI quality. In three case studies, except for Arecibo, the operations centre or institutional headquarters was located in each host country’s capital city. Here they benefit from both the symbolic political presence of being in an important global centre and the multiple advantages an urban centre offers for staff quality of life, technology

Territories of Emptiness 137 development, and ease of access. At the same time, the radio telescope project can benefit from the urban’s centrality while enforcing regional isolation around its site. The case studies continue the pattern observed in the Paris Observatory example. While the observatory preserves its iconic form as a scientific institution in the capital, significant observations are moved away from the centre to the periphery not to be hampered by the interference of urban life.14 In doing so, the project further entrenches emptiness as the telescope site becomes increasingly marginal to even those who work with it, as a distant remote-controlled technology that is main­ tained locally without connection to those vast territories the presence of the telescope so actively dictates. Re-scripting For those villagers living within a five-kilometre radius of the future FAST site, life would have continued in a way not too dissimilar from their an­ cestors who have farmed the area for centuries. Guizhou Province is one of China’s poorest, and its southern counties have only seen limited state investment.15 The region’s status as a semi-autonomous prefecture and its complex topography protected it somewhat from the dramatic countrywide urbanisation strategies. As the various physical features of the Pingtang County landscape caught the eye of radio astronomers as suitable for an Arecibo-style filled-aperture dish, the area’s low population was undoubtedly an added benefit to the project; fewer people correlated to lower instances of RFI. Before construction began on FAST in 2011, the state relocated those living in the Dawodang Depression. Later in 2016, as construction continued, a further 9,110 people within the governmentdeclared five-kilometre Radio Quiet Zone (RQZ) surrounding the telescope were relocated, each reportedly paid the equivalent of $1,800, less than half the then-average income in China.16 Up to 500 hundred families, a quarter of those relocated, took the government to court. One former resident stated his central concern: They’ve chased us all off to some wasteland and ordered us to live there with no way to maintain our old standards of living. For 90 percent of us, basic survival is a problem.17 The forced relocation would not only make way for a stronger RQZ. Still, it would also fold those displaced residents into China’s ongoing efforts to transform its rural population into middle-income city-dwellers and, in doing so, radically change any form of collective meaning this landscape once held.18 At the time, the Pingtang County website explicitly stated that the redeveloped area replacing many of the demolished homes would be for “high-end people from developed cities.”19 While farmers would still be able to keep animals in the hills around FAST, they would encounter the

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ruins of their old homes levelled to prevent their permanent return. In this case, the ambitions of the FAST scientists became entwined in a national ‘modernising’ agenda, complicit in their desire to ‘empty’ the landscape of its centuries-old communities and their associations, routines, and ways of life. The effect of the Astronomy Town and the significant investment in these southern parts of Guizhou Province was noticeable during my visit. Outside the Astronomy Town, a new tolled freeway network cut across the valleys and through the mountains of this karst region. The S62 or Yuan Expressway was completed in December 2019 and today runs across the Pingtang Bridge, the world’s second tallest,20 and the Daxiaojing Bridge, one of the world’s largest arched bridges.21 Both opened in 2019. Driving on the S62, the extent of infrastructure investment in Guizhou is palpable, particularly given the complexity of the freeway build. These new investments radically re-script the surrounding landscape in which FAST becomes an economic catalyst. They also defend the significant investment in the area by tying the region into greater state networks. In the end, the FAST project and the broad regional changes that came with it served to scrub the site and its surrounding areas clear of any associations it once had with the villagers and their centuries-old ways of life. In their place, emptiness was reconstructed, creating a vast tourist town with large plazas, visitor infrastructure, and a significant museum. During my off-season visit, the major science-themed tourist complex that connects the museum to a monument was empty – row upon row of boarded-up shopfronts. At night, a vast light show ran across the high outdoor roof structure of the complex. The complex was dark except for the sparkling roof and a pulsing light source blasting music in the distance. We discovered the only occupied shop, a gaming arcade, made as noticeable as possible. In the central Karoo, the immensity of the semi-arid landscape is palpable. While the Karoo harbours picturesque small towns and nature reserves, people seldom visit the central region around Carnarvon. Travellers between Johannesburg and Cape Town bypass much of the Karoo. For the Karoo, ‘emptiness’ is a long-established characteristic. The area is massive, ecologi­ cally varied, and hard to delineate. As MeerKAT progressed and the SKA’s final designs emerged, the NRF purchased 42 tracts of farming land at an estimated cost of $14 million.22 The total project will require an additional 1,400 ha.23 The NRF will secure this land through servitude/easement agreements with property owners. For MeerKAT, once the NRF owned the farms, they were decommissioned and folded into the Astronomy Reserve. The reserve contains the remaining structures of the original farms and, in many cases, small farm cemeteries that hold the multi-generational remains of farming families (Figure 3.1).24 One can also see much older traces of precolonial settlement in the region, such as stone cattle enclosures or ‘kraals,’ marked gravesites, and rock engravings by the Sān people.25 In South Africa, the National Heritage Resources Act of 1999 protects any structure older than 60 years or a place of major cultural significance. These sites must

Territories of Emptiness 139 undergo a heritage review process before anyone can alter them.26 Under these rules, the NRF will review all buildings and structures to determine those of heritage value or potential future value and those they can demolish. One iconic structure of the area embedded in the collective ‘landscape’ of the Karoo is the steel wind pump which draws water from underground aquifers for the pastoral needs of the farmers. The NRF will remove these structures as they contain an RFI risk to the MeerKAT and SKA projects.27 Through these interventions, the broader reserve is emptied of the seasonal palimpsest etched by decades of routine farming activity and its material symbols, akin to how farming radically altered the human activity and natural environment that existed before it. Gravesites and notable historic buildings will remain, albeit isolated and delinked from their historical contexts. Farmers have found lives elsewhere, but little is known of the farm workers who tended these lands and their prospects (Figure 4.1). While FAST and MeerKAT saw the removal of people culturally tied to their land, this was not the case with the Arecibo Observatory and ALMA. For ALMA, the region had for millennia been home to successive indigenous groups such as the Aymara, Quechua, and Atacameños. Several historical sites attesting to these cultures exist in the region of the Chajnantor Plateau. They include the relics found at Ghatchi and Loma Negra, which share at­ tributes dateable in other ancient peoples to over 33,000 years old.28 Just north of San Pedro de Atacama exists the curved adobe footings of the Tulor village, which was home to a people forced away due to drought over 1,700 years ago.29 While little is known of these early settlers in the Atacama, their presence continued and evolved for hundreds of years. Later, just threekilometres north of what would become San Pedro de Atacama, the Atacameño civilisation built the Pukará de Quitor, a fortified structure, around 1,000 CE to defend themselves from other neighbouring communi­ ties, and later the Inca invaders who occupied the region.30 The Pukará symbolically represents the Spanish colonial conquest of the Atacameño people, who in 1540 were attacked by a Spanish force. Historians pinpoint the breaching of the fortress walls as the moment that triggered the end of Atacameño sovereignty.31 Archaeologist Anna María Barón notes the Atacama was not colonised for its wealth but rather as a broad zone that connects different places – a connection, not a destination.32 Centuries of Spanish rule bore irreparable destruction on the cultures and languages of the Atacama. We are reminded through historical, archaeo­ logical, and environmental reviews of the Chajnantor Plateau that the harsh realities of the Atacama and the altiplano supported cultures tied to sea­ sonality, mobility, and routine change. Historical sites include a 1,000-yearold foundation of a small homestead ruin near the ALMA access road and small Incan stone ruins and stored firewood on the plateau.33 Most iden­ tifiable, however, are small ranching structures that were home to shep­ herds who moved through the area on a seasonal basis with over 300 grazing animals. The ALMA project recorded the oral histories of elderly

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Figure 4.1 A map demonstrating those farm portions required for MeerKAT and the SKA extension. Note the three spiral arms extending outwards from the core area that will be populated with SKA antennae decreasing in density as they splay outwards. The dotted circle denotes the extent of Figure 4.2.

surviving shepherds who were among the last living witnesses to this ancient way of life.34 The old ranching structure, which is today adjacent to the road linking the OSF to the AOS, has been preserved as a small museum of this regional history. In the concluding chapter of her archaeological review of the Chajnantor Plateau, Barón notes an almost total abandon­ ment of the site after the ranchers ceased their way of life and artisanal miners stopped traversing the current ALMA road to access sulphur beds on the plateau.

Territories of Emptiness 141 ALMA’s approach to recognising and recording the region’s diverse histories is a positive step forward. However, ESO was keenly aware of the well-organised local Atacameño communities around San Pedro. They would understandably demand a fair and inclusive process regarding transferring their historical land into the realms of extraterritorial juris­ diction for 50 years.35 In particular, ESO had in the 1990s seen their development of the Paranal Observatory delayed due to court action launched towards the end of the Pinchot dictatorship. A family claimed back their land, which they alleged was illegally decreed as governmentowned in 1977 and later given to ESO. Through the court case, ESO claimed various concessions granted by the Pinochet government, a part of which protected their property rights from any form of requisition or ex­ propriation.36 Despite carefully managing their narrative and remaining on the periphery of the claims, the Cerro Paranal site experienced a monthlong shutdown while under construction. ESO was forced to refute insin­ uations of complicity with the military dictatorship and to renegotiate their agreement with the Chilean government.37 As such, the large scale and cost of the ALMA project, combined with the historically sensitive site, and its outstanding natural beauty, necessitated a better relationship with local communities and landowners, whom the project partners actively engaged from early on in the project. Although the significant number of archaeological sites in the region activates the memory of past cultures and demands broader acknowl­ edgement, the expansiveness of the desert hides much about Chile’s more recent past. For example, Patricio Guzmán’s documentary Nostalgia de la Luz presents a striking contrast between the advanced astronomical search for knowledge of the universe occurring in the desert with the ongoing search by relatives for the remains of thousands of people who ‘dis­ appeared’ during the Pinochet dictatorship. Their remains are speculated to have been buried unmarked in the vastness of the desert.38 For some, the ‘emptiness’ of the landscape embodies immense opportunities for space research. For others, it symbolises a space of and for political repression, a space of great suffering and seemingly futile attempts to find the truth. Both contrasting approaches invoke ‘emptiness’ strategically. For the former, this has resulted in the construction of disparate and gleaming high-tech installations atop the desert. The latter concerns the deserted saltpetre mines, the concentration camp of Chacabuco, and the emptiness expressed by families of Pinochet’s victims as they continue to seek answers. For both, the harsh and dramatic landscape holds divergent meanings and the ‘emptiness’ construct flattens the region’s highly complex truths into highly subjective perspectives. Suppose we consider the significant changes enacted by ALMA on the Chajnantor Plateau. The replicated white forms of the dish antennae, the OSF’s corporate stylings, and Otto and Lore’s plumes as they move across the desert embody a radical change for this place as its identity and

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associations become one of science, technology, and the universe. This vast landscape has seen its long history and various cultural associations rescripted into a dominant identity or meaning. While these original and, indeed, shifting associations remain, they are now secondary to the prom­ inence of the ALMA project. It is through maintaining this prominence and ensuring that other readings and associations are acknowledged but not allowed to dominate that the project can maintain its territorial presence. However, indigenous communities can reclaim the meaning of similar big science sites. For example, communities in Hawai’i have exacted claims over the land of the Mauna Kea telescopes. In foregrounding their cultural and religious ties to the land and inscribing it with their associations and meaning, there is a further re-scripting of the site, which, in turn, under­ mines the viability of the science project. As such, ALMA maintains control of its territory by re-scripting and foregrounding the importance of the project while ensuring indigenous communities are party to the status quo. As Sean Doherty, ALMA Director, notes: Today, we put a lot of effort into ensuring the indigenous peoples of the Atacama, particularly those around the observatories, are included in our activities. We must pay attention to these issues and it needs care at all times.39 At Arecibo, the early processes of re-scripting have become synonymous with the identity not only of the town but also of the island’s forested interior. Arecibo demonstrates the lengthy process through which re-scripted meaning finds multi-generational cultural enmeshment. The observatory was so en­ twined with the identity of Arecibo and Puerto Rico that the island intervened to save the observatory when the NSF started reducing its funding contri­ bution.40 Arecibo demonstrates these scientific facilities’ long-term processes as their impact and influence solidify. The Arecibo Observatory has, in effect, merged into the landscape of this karst region to such a degree that its closure or removal was a significant fear, one now realised. Defending These radio telescopes are in regions that are forever changing, despite being territorialised as a zone of astronomy and space science. In response, one of the most critical aspects of enacting ‘emptiness’ occurs in the long-term defence of the radio telescope investment. The term ‘defence’ invokes militaristic imagery borrowed from that of the fortress. Like the crenellated walls of a fortress, these radio telescopes are also defended. Generally, the security apparatus common to modern-day military installations or even high-tech science facilities are not employed broadly in protecting the radio telescope. Instead, the ‘defence’ of the facility forms a perimeter of emptiness. The radio telescope enacts a more substantial and broader ‘defence’ even than traditional

Territories of Emptiness 143 fortifications. It extends for kilometres and, in some instances, hundreds of kilometres. This edge zone aligns with the metaphorical glacis, which embodies emptiness but conceals the technological and territorial prerogative it com­ prises. In a few cases, notably MeerKAT and FAST, the ‘defence’ can result in removing some buildings and structures. Still, its power rests not in the walls of the fortress but rather in space as a territorial expansion of the fortress, enacted by numerous international agreements and national acts. Of course, the ‘emptiness’ enacted here, like the glacis, is intangible, like the telescope’s electromagnetic exclusion zone. This zone must be as empty as possible, en­ suring aberrant radio frequencies do not hamper observations. In most cases, this ‘defence’ directly dictates either the ongoing success of the radio telescope facility or undermines its very existence. For example, FAST has always feared the impact a modernising China will have on the quality of its RFI protections. This fear contributed to SKA not shortlisting China when it assesses early bids to host the instrument.41 In response, Guizhou Province implemented a tiered system of protections around the FAST site to maintain a quality RFI environment. The central 5-kilometre diameter RFI-free zone is stringently enforced.42 At the same time, however, the Chinese radio astronomy community has been at odds with the province and local counties over their quick push to turn the radio telescope into an urban developmental accelerator and important tourist site for the region.43 Protecting the telescope’s RFI environment from thousands of villagers was deemed essential. Still, the province was aggressively pro­ moting investment in the immediate area, which could undermine the very future operation of the telescope itself. While new parks, promenades, hotels, and restaurants line the main routes to the telescope for visitors, the road that passes the main entrance to the telescope for scientists and staff does not continue to the neighbouring town as it always did. Instead, just outside of view from the gate to FAST, where the mountainside becomes precipitous, a giant concrete wall has been built across it. We encountered this wall when visiting FAST. We assumed we could return to a meeting at the telescope after some time spent visiting the sur­ rounding areas. The detour set us back by close to an hour. Bo Peng, deputy director of FAST, described the wall as a means to prevent cars from driving through the 5-kilometre zone and generating RFI, even though the strip of road is small and on the edge of the zone.44 Despite limited access through an existing arterial and the concentric rings of RFI controls exacted on the region as presented in Making Science, the actual FAST site, as opposed to the tourist observation platform, is difficult to access. The FAST office and the provincial government must approve visits. The landscape comprising the five-kilometre zero-RFI zone is protected, except for the RFI-free farmers who are allowed to farm the land during the day near their ruined houses. At FAST, the ‘defence’ is a permeable formation maintained well enough to prevent villagers from living near the telescope but not well enough to limit the construction of a new town where the villagers once lived.

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Maintaining a territory without human activity is one of the primary objectives of the more extensive national park ratified for the 42 farms comprising the SKA core area. Formally establishing a national park across the former farms enables the over-farmed land to be remediated. As noted by the SKA Mid Site Construction Director, Tracy Cheetham, this remediation and the managed release of wildlife species native to the area were instrumental in realising the SKA project.45 The SKA project will pay South African National Parks (SANParks) to manage the land on their behalf because no visitors will be allowed to enter, and SANParks will not generate the tourism revenue that sustains park operations.46 As a part of the formation of the national park, all internal farming fences will be removed, and a perimeter game-grade fence will be erected to contain reintroduced fauna species.47 This national park is perhaps one of the most robust physical defences from which such a facility could benefit. Any nearby development or human presence is forbidden in perpetuity, if not for the protection of the SKA, then for the protection of the special wilderness area. As a completely international project with three institutional partners, the Chilean government ensures ALMA’s protection through an agreement. ALMA Visitor Coordinator Thais Mandiola describes the status of the ALMA project land as “indigenous territory, given by the state, with the agreement of indigenous communities.”48 The terms afforded to the ALMA project by the Chilean Government were decided in 2002 as an amendment to the original 1963 agreement between ESO and Chile and currently stand for 50 years.49 They mandate the project gives Chilean institutions and as­ tronomers 10% observational time and that 80% of the staff employed at ALMA are Chilean.50 It also ties the project to cooperation commitments with the Antofagasta Region in which the project is located and establishes a fund to support local communities. This annual fund of roughly $100,000 has enabled improved community access to educational, medical, sports, and cultural services and activities.51 In addition, a Chilean company must own the one square kilometre project site.52 Despite ‘local’ land ownership, the ALMA project enjoys the same ex­ traterritorial rights afforded ESO since 1963. These essentially demarcate the territory as outside Chilean jurisdiction, and, akin to an embassy, no Chilean police or military may enter it.53 Unlike the near-permanent pro­ tections afforded the SKA site, the ALMA project is keenly aware that they are operating in a concessionary environment. As Doherty notes: [These are] privileges and immunities of which we have to be incredibly respectful, to have those revoked because of some misdemeanor would be terrible. It behooves us to behave in the way that is expected. I think that no matter who is in control of Chile in future, astro-tourism is so important to Chile that sites like ALMA would continue to be protected.54

Territories of Emptiness 145 In addition, the Chilean government is working on plans to develop the Atacama Astronomy Park directly adjacent to and including the ALMA concession. This park would be a protected space for future astronomy projects. A much broader Protection Zone of 30 kilometres and a Coordination Zone of 120 kilometres have since 2004 extended outwards from the core AOS site in Chilean jurisdiction only. These protect radio bandwidths used by the ALMA project.55 At Arecibo, small-scale and mainly residential development occurred closer to the observatory. While the facility saw some safeguards from the Puerto Rican Protection Zone, which was enforced within a four-mile radius of the observatory, it did not have broader protections, such as a significant astronomy reserve or a dedicated act.56 However, since 1997, the observa­ tory partly came under the protection of the Federal Communications Commission’s (FCC) mandated Radio Astronomy Coordination Zone in Puerto Rico (PRCZ). The PRCZ positioned the Arecibo Observatory as the central agency in granting rights to any fixed radio installation operating within the observatory’s observed frequencies, including amateur stations within ten miles of the observatory across Puerto Rico and the islands of Desecheo, Mona, Vieques, and Culebra.57 Angel Vasquez, Telescope Operations director and manager of the PRCZ process, states that these controls could extend as far as the US Virgin Islands.58 According to Vasquez, a significant obstacle was the Puerto Rico National Guard’s L-Band transmissions that could completely wipe out the faint radio waves ema­ nating from space. As a result, the National Guard changed its transmission frequency when Arecibo commenced L-Band observations. Like FAST, however, the Arecibo’s mountainous terrain offered a powerful RFI shield. Says Vasquez: Puerto Rico is per capita probably the hottest place on Earth radio frequency-wise because of our terrain. For cell towers to work, they require line of sight, so an uneven terrain requires many more towers. Every tall hill has an antenna on it. On my screen, I can see the hills inbetween the transmitting station that’s seeking approval and the receiving station, us. The one currently on the screen is no problem because I have hills in the middle, and these are protecting us. Sometimes there is a direct line of sight, and obviously, that’s a problem. I have to model every request according to the frequency and terrain.59 The observatory could maintain operations and ensure electromagnetic wave protection through coordination. For Arecibo, the defence was con­ stantly negotiated and managed, as opposed to dictated. This later solution is likely due to Arecibo being built on the island when RFI was not a sig­ nificant concern. No initial protections were promulgated; these had to be negotiated over time as RFI became an increasing threat on the island due to urbanisation.

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As I’ve shown, radio telescopes impose an invisible yet highly con­ trolled defence regime that maintains their operation. While an older telescope such as Arecibo had to claw back some control over its fre­ quency range, given the development of Puerto Rico and the Caribbean, newer radio telescopes have imposed stringent rules to ensure their successful functioning. Without these protections, it is unlikely that billion-dollar projects such as the SKA or ALMA would have chosen these sites. As such, a telescope envisaged to function for many decades, as Arecibo did for six decades, requires significant protections estab­ lished from the start of the project. These build upon the site’s perceived and scientifically determined ‘emptiness’ and seek to deepen and extend the emptiness regime for as long as possible. In the case of the MeerKAT/ SKA, these protections are ensured ad infinitum and not only enforce radio frequency protection for the project at hand but secure this sig­ nificant territory for use by other telescopes in future. While some activities can remain in place despite these protections, such as farming, these activities are limited in their ability to expand and modernise, impacting, for example, growth in small towns and villages. While the continued existence of farms, towns, and villages in the Karoo is inevi­ table, it is reasonable to predict an intensification of migration away from these areas as economic opportunity, and social interaction rely increasingly on mobile technologies and cellular connectivity. For FAST and ALMA, their protections are decidedly project-specific. While other, smaller telescopes might find a home on these sites, it is unlikely that the protections granted to these projects would support additional largescale telescope facilities unless scaled up significantly. For both locations, as has been the case with the Atacama for decades, new telescopes will be located in new sites, and protections will be expanded to these locations, again igniting debates over land ownership, relocation, and socioenvironmental impact. In forging these territories of emptiness and entrenching them in var­ ious legal protections, landscapes – both social and environmental – are radically changed. As amplified in the glacis metaphor: while on the surface one may realise the addition of radio telescope infrastructure and its adjacent facilities, it is the invisible, yet intensely enforced, radio fre­ quency controls and their associated apparatus such as the SKA National Park, the FAST relocations, the Arecibo coordination activities, or the ALMA entry checkpoints that redefine these landscapes into territories of science. Here the ‘emptiness’ of outer space is pulled down to meet the surface of the Earth to study the universe better. I now examine the networked condition of the radio telescope, which maintains territorial linkages or ‘tethers’ as I conceptualise them across space, enabling the radio telescope to function as a seemingly displaced yet multi-sited or contextually embedded facility.

Territories of Emptiness 147

Assembling Networks In the famous opening sequence of Stanley Kubrick and Arthur C. Clarke’s 2001: A Space Odyssey, a giant cubic monolithic appears in a landscape populated by early human ancestors, at the moment they find utility in an early tool. The contrast of the otherworldly presence is jolting. The monolith represents an extra-terrestrial presence at crucial turning points in the movie, embodying the unknowable in an abstract form.60 It contrasts a pre-historical moment with an imagined future, suggesting a radical change both in terms of human development and in terms of our technological ability. In addition, the movie equates the open expansiveness of grassland with that of dark and endless outer space. In both cases, the human and the human ancestor devise a means to extend their collective ability and restructure their relationships with their surroundings. This technological extension of human ability into previously inaccessible and unknowable realms occurs poignantly in the radio telescope. Instead of an early tool or space technology, humans have invented a means to study the deepest reaches of the cosmos. Our reach is extended through technology from Earth into outer space. This technology is not an instrument but a material mediator, built on Earth through the extensive spatial processes and med­ iating our human access to and understanding of the universe. While like the abstract form in Kubrick and Clarke’s film, which dra­ matically contrasts the surrounding landscape, the radio telescope is not a provocative folly but a disaggregated technology reliant on multiple human inputs and extensive technological tethers to operate. It shapes and trans­ forms space for humans to study and interpret the universe. In this section, I examine the extended condition of the telescope as a clash between the network and territory. By foregrounding the material form of the network, I show the far-reaching impact the presence of the telescope and its net­ works has on the landscapes it comes to structure. I begin by examining the characteristics of the infrastructure systems in each case study, demon­ strating the inherent reliance of the radio telescope on differently sized yet entwined networks which I refer to as ‘tethers.’ The infrastructures sup­ porting these networks carry territorial impetus as they structure landscapes in ways that may run against existing uses. Tethering Territory is a term that describes a power enacted over space. This power – however, construed – controls space through its own enforceable regime. At the same time, territory relies on knowledge of its inherent spatial com­ plexities. It depends on the technologies of mapping and measuring, which distil or abstract meaning from a landscape. Knowing or studying a geog­ raphy does not only result in maps and images but actively creates territory through its actions. A land surveyor and theodolite on a grassy hillside

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usually means change is on its way, or a scout with a telescope determining the lie of the land may suggest a looming military presence. Creating ter­ ritory is, therefore, immensely reliant on various technologies and knowl­ edge regimes. Territory is not limited to landscape and applies to any knowledgeseeking activity with spatial implications, as the means of obtaining knowledge is territorially inscribed. Consider, for example, the human body and its division into numerous medical specialities, or perhaps, territories, each with its communities of knowledge, technologies, and specialisations. These are not neatly bounded formations; they are systemic and scalar with blurred edges and significant overlaps. Yet, they remain distinct fields of knowledge, each with its focus or territorial concern. To extend this con­ cept, if territories are made through knowledge regimes and their attendant technologies, then spatially located knowledge and its measures or tech­ nologies are agents in the production and delineation of territorial forma­ tions. Resultingly, technologies employed in knowledge production enact spatialised control and power formations. These differ across time and scale as taking a photograph, for example, may result in a momentary claim on the subject, compared to building an arctic weather station which may inscribe direct meaning and control over a site for decades. The territorial interactions of infrastructure can have destructive physical and symbolic effects on land important to the history and culture of indigenous people, such as the native Hawai’ians at Mauna Kea.61 Beyond the potential for the continued expansion of the number of telescopes on Mauna Kea, these infrastructures all carry immense territorial significance, which empties land and space of important symbolic value while inscribing a new techno-scientific logic. These pipes, cables, and telescopes are not without their symbolism and inherent political meaning. As a result, these infrastructures carry territorial effects with them. Through the effects of each telescope’s broader network, a spatial dis­ aggregation occurs where the control and influence maintained by each sig­ nificant project is exacted across space and at various entwined scales. As such, while each telescope wrests a form of embedded territorial power at great intensity in those places where they are present, this territoriality is present in multiple places at once, enforced through physical links or tethers. The result is an unbounded and variegated territory extending from the dark reaches of the universe with varied and shifting intensities to the astronomer behind her computer. This formation is not ‘territory’ in a traditional political sense, but rather territory as a product of conduits of knowledge and the various controls and power that knowledge-seeking process imposes across those spaces it intersperses. These infrastructures, be they fibre optic cables, databanks, or cryogenic coolers, enforce territorial power over space and knowledge that transcends propertied or nation-state interpretations of territory. The term ‘tether’ invokes imagery of a fragile yet essential connection that secures or sustains a condition. It is not necessarily an abstract conduit

Territories of Emptiness 149 of various flows but a material condition connected on both sides extending across space. A tether may also not be singular: a complex meshwork of tethers of different kinds may be necessary to ensure a stable or secure connection. In outer space, one may consider the cable that space-walking astronauts rely on so as not to drift away, or indeed the life-giving umbilical cord that supports the growth and development of a foetus. An infra­ structural tether imports the notion of connectivity within a system. For example, a small island community may rely on the infrastructural tether of an undersea cable to access the internet. In addition to their ability to connect, tethers traverse space and operationalise ‘tele’ or ‘distance.’62 Used as a prefix in multiple words, the Greek root of tele means far or at a distance, as in telephone, television, teleport, and telescope. These examples speak to overcoming or employing spatial distance in their use, most commonly through networks that create the perception of space-time compression, albeit achieved through comprehensive and material infra­ structural systems. The tethered entanglements of the four case study sites are broad and complex. Importantly, no distinct global network connects all radio tele­ scopes or their data. Each telescope exists specifically for its purpose within its own wider network. A radio telescope may belong to a larger project, such as the Event Horizon Telescope (EHT), the Very Long Baseline Array (VLBA), or the EVN.63 Even these much larger ‘arrays’ are usually not formally connected. Often, specific observations occur at each telescope that is part of the broader array. These data are brought together physically and put through a correlation process. The e-VLBI project has seen the linking together via fibre optic cables of numerous telescopes in the EVN to enable real-time synchronous observations.64 Despite the fragmented nature of radio astronomy networks, global communications infra­ structure, generally speaking, serve as important conduits for the data and findings of radio astronomy. However, given the significant amount of data requiring processing and storage produced at newer telescopes such as FAST, MeerKAT, and ALMA, each needs dedicated infrastructure net­ works. These physical cables and allied infrastructure extend hundreds of kilometres across landmasses, usually alongside existing infrastructure such as roads or railway lines. In comparing the infrastructure networks of the different case study radio telescopes, I follow the core process of each; that is, I trace systemic and material connections from the acceptance of a research project to the observation and the receipt of the data. As these delineate a single flow of data input and output, they do not reveal the much broader complexity of each project’s scientific, engineering, managerial, and financial networks, among others. However, outlining a single but fundamental process through the network in each case study enlivens the complexity of the infrastructure systems that support knowledge production and demon­ strates how they act as infrastructural tethers. In so doing, I position the

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extent to which each case study extends its amorphous and unbounded territorial influence. ALMA During my visit, Marie-Lou Gendron-Marsolais, ESO Post-Doctoral Fellow and astronomer-on-duty, explained that ALMA is a sought-after instru­ ment and that many research applications don’t make it through the selection committee.65 ALMA releases an annual call for research pro­ posals, and its selection committee undertakes a rigorous selection process. They are constrained by the amount of time physically available for observations on the telescope. Researchers worldwide can submit pro­ posals, but ALMA prioritises the three project partners and reserves 10% of its observation time for Chilean astronomers. After a month of deliberation, ALMA grades the successful projects in terms of priority as A, B, or C and loads them into the ALMA control systems at the Santiago Central Offices (SCO).66 It is then up to a program to determine when each project is best suited for being enacted, taking into account factors such as the project’s priority, the location of the observed part of the sky, the time, weather conditions, and so forth.67 However, the astronomer-on-duty at the OSF would make the final call on those projects run under their shift in the control room. As such, lead astronomers for any project are not required to visit the telescope. Firstly, there needs to be power before any work can occur at ALMA. Three 3.5 MW liquid petroleum gas and diesel generators power the entire ALMA operation. One runs constantly, and the others offer backup.68 They rely on daily deliveries of either diesel or gas. With power ensured, ALMA runs the selected project. First, the array will be configured correctly for the task at hand, which may involve a few antennae (or the entire array) being physically moved to different bases. The OSF then relays the project instructions to the AOS, and each robotic antennae turns towards the exact location in the sky. The correct frequency band receiver activates each antenna. In doing so, the dish of each receiver will begin to record the signal received. This data travels from each dish antenna through the base pad to the AOS correlator, where the array’s signal is digitally combined. This binary and metadata travel separately along an underground fibre optic cable to the SCO and the OSF. Local data storage facilities at the OSF hold a copy of the data for six months in case the link between the AOS and the SCO is lost.69 All data transfers to a large processor and storage facility in the basement of the ALMA offices in Santiago. This data travels roughly 1,600 kilometres between the OSF and the SCO on three fibre-optic cable links. Firstly, a dedicated link connects the OSF to the city of Calama on the Silica Network, and a Telefonica network connects Calama to Antofagasta. In Antofagasta, the data join the same network used by ESO’s Paranal and

Territories of Emptiness 151 Cerro Armazones Observatories. It then continues south to Santiago along the Chilean academic network, Reuna.70 This data link series connects directly to the SCO processing and storage facilities (Figure 4.2). Each project partner has established and paid for their data link to the SCO, which connects through various global communications infrastructures to dedicated ALMA Regional Centres (ARCs) at the NRAO, NAOJ, and ESO.71 At these ARCs, astronomers submit queries and request assistance with their data once it has been processed and packaged. By arriving at the ARCs, the project completes a loop that starts with submitting a proposal, usually through the ARC itself. These multiple scales of infrastructural tether bind the ALMA site somewhat tentatively to local contexts but more strongly to regional and international facilities, creating an observatory more embedded in global systems than local ones. ALMA thus embodies an extended and disaggregated formation.

Figure 4.2 The fibre optic cable network that connects the ALMA AOS directly to the ALMA headquarters in Santiago.

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MeerKAT At MeerKAT, SARAO divides observation time into 70% for large, longterm projects and 30% for proposal calls, discretionary time for the chief scientist, and the observation of any unplanned events.72 As a South African project, MeerKAT does not have a network of international part­ ners or global centres that prioritise specific regional affiliations. Instead, proposal calls may require South African Principal Investigators and value research partnerships with South African scientists. Once received, pro­ posals are ranked according to their scientific merit by SARAO staff and loaded into the project database for running during the cycle.73 This loading occurs at the SARAO headquarters in Cape Town, located in a mixed-use development known as Black River Park, in close adjacency to the historical location of the South African Astronomical Observatory. This custom-built headquarters holds multiple offices. Many are situated down long windowless corridors or in large open-plan spaces. The control centre for MeerKAT is also located here. The term ‘control centre’ is somewhat of a misnomer as there indeed exists a large bank of screens displaying an array of data, but the astronomer-on-duty keeps an eye on proceedings from their office.74 A fibre optic cable connects the headquarters to Carnarvon and the MeerKAT KAPB facility. The South African National Research and Education Network (SANREN) operates this link (Figure 4.3).75 The remote control of MeerKAT, and later, the SKA dish antennae, also occurs through the SANREN network. The municipal grid provides power to the site. The site’s proximity to the municipal power supply was one of the deciding factors in awarding the SKA to South Africa. Once the receivers have been positioned and the dish antennae oriented, the observation begins. A vast amount of information is received and digitised at each antenna and sent via underground fibre optic cables to the KAPB, where it is processed, correlated, and archived.76 A secondary storage site at the CSIR’s CHPC in Cape Town receives the data via the fibre optic link to the KAPB. This data is then made available to project scientists worldwide for analysis.77 MeerKAT maintains a local infrastructural tether to Carnarvon and a major tether to Cape Town, where the site is controlled. Unlike ALMA, MeerKAT is not as disaggregated and has no dedicated international facilities. As a South Africa-led project, this infrastructure formation mirrors the project’s ambitions with a significant Cape Town base (an attractive staff environment) and a strong developmental role in Carnarvon, where many local staff have roots. FAST As aperture-filled telescopes, FAST and Arecibo neither require the signif­ icant network of underground fibre optic cables that connect the numerous dish antennae that form the arrays at ALMA and MeerKAT nor do they

Territories of Emptiness 153

Figure 4.3 The fibre optic cable network that connects the KAPB to the SARAO offices in Cape Town and Johannesburg. Both the MeerKAT array operation and the data movement occur through this network.

need correlation. Instead, a challenge for both is transferring data from the receiver to processing and storage facilities. FAST officially completed its commissioning phase on 11 January 2020 and has since been able to commence full operation.78 The National Astronomical Observatories of China (NAOC) publishes annual calls for proposals on its website. Currently, the NAOC reserves 10% of observa­ tions for non-Chinese nationals.79 As is presently the case, once submissions are selected, they will be scheduled into the FAST control system and operated on behalf of the astronomer, who is not required to travel to the telescope.80 Several operators manage the telescope at any given time. They work from the control room, a short distance from the telescope site.

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Once the project is active on the system, the operator will rotate the correct receiver into position within the suspended feed cabin. The feed cabin moves to a precise position above the reflector surface, depending on the project. The spherical reflector surface distorts into a parabolic curve opposite the receiver in the feed cabin by the actuators positioned between the ground and the surface. This distortion is not discernible by the human eye. With the accuracy of the curvature and the receiver’s location con­ firmed, the receiver begins to log those extremely faint radio waves ema­ nating from the universe. These travel through a fibre optic link suspended from the structural feed cabin cables. These structural cables also support the power supply from the municipal grid and drape in a ‘curtain’ arrangement.81 This draping allows the movement of the feed cabin while minimising the weight that a single unsupported cable suspended from a tower would exert on the feed cabin. The fibre optic cable then travels down the support tower and underground to the Site Data Centre, where it is stored. A 170-kilometre fibre optic cable managed by China Telecoms connects the Site Data Centre to the primary data processing facility in Guiyang. Here data is processed with assistance from Guizhou Normal University.82 Researchers can travel to this centre to retrieve their data on discs or remotely access the data through the internet. A full download of the data is currently not possible due to the volume of data and the fact that the Guiyang processing facility links to the rest of China, including the NAOC, via standard communications infrastructure with no dedicated high-speed fibre optic links. The infrastructure tethers that comprise FAST are intensely local, and data disperse explicitly into existing national infrastructure grids beyond Guiyang. Much of FAST is located on the inner 5-kilometre exclusion zone, which includes accommodation and all tech­ nical requirements. Despite the Astronomy Town’s existence, my experi­ ence is that direct engagement with the town from FAST itself is limited. Instead, FAST has a greater connection to Beijing through its management structure than the neighbouring Astronomy Town. Arecibo The Arecibo Observatory’s management of the William E. Gordon Telescope was like FAST in its basic design, but its data infrastructure worked entirely differently. Firstly, observations at Arecibo were open to any individual or institution from across the world who submitted a pro­ posal deemed meritorious.83 This excluded Chinese astronomers and institutions due to Congressional restrictions on using NASA funds.84 Once submissions were received, they were ranked from A to D, with A receiving a confirmed scheduling and the possibility of rescheduling should the observation not occur for any reason and B receiving a scheduled slot without the prospect of rescheduling. C proposals occurred if there was extra capacity, and D proposals were deemed unsuccessful.85 If a

Territories of Emptiness 155 submission was successful, the Arecibo Observatory strongly preferred lead astronomers to travel to the observatory to carry out the observation with the telescope operators. While remote viewing was possible, it was only allowed under specific circumstances and required familiarity with the Arecibo systems. As an older telescope, remote viewing entailed writing precise instructions for the telescope operator.86 Although Arecibo was well known for its radio astronomy capacity, one of its most important functions was its planetary radar. It was one of the few planetary radars in the world and the only one with a 305-metre reflector surface. In undertaking radar studies, the telescope relied on un­ ique systems to the other radio telescopes studied. When visiting the observatory, I was fortunate to witness the energy and technical complexity that consumed the observatory when studying a near-earth asteroid. On the first morning of my visit to Arecibo, I wandered the site with little guidance, trying to find an interviewee I had previously arranged to meet. I walked to a nondescript building, which turned out to house the control centre, located down a long corridor to a set of glass doors, through which a large window offered an expansive view of the telescope below (Figure 4.4). Among the numerous monitors, files, laptops, and old, unused equipment were the telescope operators and a few Planetary Radar Science Group

Figure 4.4 The control room at the Arecibo Observatory overlooking the telescope. The monitor at the back centre of the image offers a live camera feed from within the Gregorian dome.

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members. I introduced myself and found a spot to sit. On a monitor close to me was a live camera feed from within the Gregorian dome that was sus­ pended above the dish reflector. The feed showed the mechanical switching of the ‘turret’ that rotated back and forth in regular and quick succession. I had no sense of what I was looking at but was surprised that any part of a radio telescope should move with pace and repetitiveness. A bystander explained that they were observing the asteroid (named 2019 OK), which bypassed Earth at 1/5th the distance to the Moon.87 Arecibo scientists could determine the asteroid’s trajectory and calculate its future movement. Then the control room entered frustrated disarray as one of the radar klystrons stopped working. What I was lucky to witness on the monitor was the rhythmic dance of the receiver turret switching from radar transmission to radio-wave receiver constantly. In doing so, it transmitted radar waves to the asteroid and received the ‘bounced’ waves. This pulsing enabled the asteroid’s various characteristics, such as size, velocity, and rotation, to be determined. I later learnt that the two radar klystrons were powerful radio-wave transmission devices that convert large volumes of direct current electricity into radio waves. The observatory relies on the standard Puerto Rican electricity grid, which operates on a supply of only 750KW. Activating the radar would start with a technician driving a diesel 4×4 SUV to the site maintenance location, where they engaged three of four diesel generators.88 These generated 66,000 volts at 33 amps.89 The controller turned the turret in the Gregorian dome to locate the wave-producing klystron at the centre of the system of reflectors. This action occurred via a fibre optic link that travelled from the control centre to the top of the adjacent hill and across a large cable tray suspended above the maintenance gangway to the feed platform and into the egg-shaped Gregorian dome. This suspended tray also carried the general and dedicated planetary radar power supply and its cooling system. When activated by the radar controller, the 2 MW energy produced by the diesel generators was released and travelled to the two klystrons. This energy could power 1,300 homes.90 1 MW was lost as heat energy and carried away by a 1kl/m water-based cooling system, and the remaining 1 MW was split between the two active klystrons and pulsed into the tertiary mirror.91 The linearly polarised radio waves then bounced onto the secondary reflector, down onto the 305-metre diameter primary reflector surface and into space. The radar would switch off, and the turret would rotate to a receiver. The closeness of the target determined how rapidly this changeover needed to occur. The control room would then engage the receiver, and the small percentage of waves reflected off the target would be received. They would bounce off the primary reflector, onto the secondary reflector, off the tertiary mirror and into the receiver. Here the raw signal travelled back to the control centre via a fibre optic cable – as would occur with traditional astronomical observations – where it was digitised and stored for processing. Then the radar re-engaged, and so the observation continued. Once the packet of data was received,

Territories of Emptiness 157 complex computer operations processed it, and images of the asteroid emerged. The observatory received and stored most data, as it connected to the outside world only through a standard AT&T network.92 The Arecibo Observatory was highly dependent on intensely local tethers to function. These shortened when Cornell lost control of the facility, and all significant functions moved to the observatory. Despite being used by scientists worldwide, most had to be available on-site to do their observa­ tions. Similarly, no vast data networks spilt out of the observatory. Instead, data was transferred through the local communications network or physi­ cally in the form of hard drives. Arecibo was the most locally connected and embedded radio telescope of the case studies. As shown in these case studies, numerous tethered conditions exist across each radio telescope formation. At Arecibo, many of the essential tethers were local. In contrast, at ALMA and MeerKAT, extensive regional tethers connect the central location of the telescope with its extension hundreds of kilometres away. The radio telescope thus extends across territory and landscape into the urban condition where data is processed, or in the case of MeerKAT, direct remote control of the array occurs. At FAST, the strong linkages between the telescope and the seat of national power, Beijing, directly tethers FAST into a centralised political formation from which most of China’s ambitious science and infrastructure projects find central over­ sight (Figure 4.5). Conclusion These radio telescopes are fundamentally reliant on network and power infrastructure to function. As most explicitly represented in ALMA and MeerKAT, the result is a disaggregated observatory with various parts located in different places, tethered together by networked links. These radically redefine traditional and historical notions of the optical observatory-on-a-hill. Instead, these radio telescopes are engaged in a constant telepistemology, or the study of knowledge acquired at a dis­ tance.93 The remote control of observatories evolved through the late twentieth century as cables that connected control rooms to instruments – such as at Arecibo – found more significant lengthening across space and integration into more extensive academic or internet-based networks. One early example is the remote control of an optical telescope at Kitt Peak in the mid-1960s, managed by a mainframe computer in Tucson, some 65 kilometres away.94 These extensive networks mean that scientists could be located at a significant distance from the actual telescope as they engage with the observation process or not at all, merely receiving their data once complete. The networks enable the remote control of the entire telescope and the remote storage of the immense data produced. These tethers have allowed the centring of the scientific operation in the respective host nation’s

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Figure 4.5 Diagrammatic representations demonstrate each case study’s tethered intensity in clockwise order: ALMA, MeerKAT, FAST, and Arecibo Observatory. In each diagram, three concentric black lines demarcate local, regional/national, and international scales of connectivity. The shaded areas represent the primary zone of the labour and resource pool, respectively. The thickness of the spokes in each diagram dem­ onstrates the importance of the tether to each place as labelled for the telescope in question. The length of the spoke represents the general distance it covers relative to the three spatial scales, as explained. For example, MeerKAT draws resources regionally and locally, relies on a predominantly regional labour force, has strong regional tethers to Cape Town, medium local tethers to Carnarvon, and a weak tether to the other continental SKA partners, but a tether, nonetheless.

Territories of Emptiness 159 symbolically powerful capital. At the same time, control centres remotely operate the activated landscape hundreds of kilometres away. Instead of being the domain of astronomers, the physical site of the radio telescope is one run by an army of engineers who ensure the continued smooth oper­ ation of the array, almost as robots. Across interviews at all four case studies, there was a broad general sentiment that the project’s prestige was of pride to those engineers interviewed. Still, the most significant challenge they grappled with was the monotony of their tasks, which often involved the constant refurbishing of parts systematically. This tethered spatial dis­ placement is a fundamental concern of mine as the space of the radio tel­ escope is forged into an extended condition bearing influence on multiple locations and those territories in between. The extension of the telescope site relies on the constant, accurate, and quick transfer of information across the various sites that comprise the telescope for the telescope to run accurately and for data to be stored and processed efficiently. These processes are not just lines on a map or pulsing flows of animated data; they are material. Every fibre optic cable is designed and manufactured to a specific standard, manually buried in trenches or draped across poles ad infinitum. They must be connected, monitored, and maintained and break easily. Similarly, electricity networks extend a great distance from their generation source for use in the telescope, or diesel is trucked in on purpose-built roads and stored on-site for ALMA and radar observations at Arecibo. These tethers are material linkages that enable a single scientific facility’s great spatial dispersal. The result is not a scientific outpost situated in a location isolated from humans and radio interference, but the scientific outpost as embedded in and tethered to a series of places and at multiple scales. The distinction between the radio telescope and the landscape is upended as they merge into a hybrid territorial formation, the glacis. Here, the identity and associations of the telescope infrastructure’s sites transform by the techno-spatial folding of each into the other. The result is of fortress science: a changing and amorphous territorial construct that re-inscribes these ‘emptied’ landscapes as scientific formations. The extensive infrastructural network is thus revealed as a spatial and territorial formation instead of an abstract and flat system of connections. The spatial condition of the fortress and its accompanying human, material, and spatial interactions find extension. I conclude this chapter with an allegory of my drive between Guiyang and the FAST observatory. In 1995, this journey took ten hours, but in 2016, it took three and a half hours.95 The improvement of numerous roads and the construction of freeways, tunnels, and bridges have shortened this distance. Along most of the journey, it is made immensely evident that you are in a location with some connection to astronomy. Symbols are apparent in many places and most crudely visible on the embankments of freeways, where concrete has been cast into celestial formations, extra-terrestrial lifeforms, and the Moon landing scene, amongst others. Upon arriving in

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the recently built Astronomy Town, along such roads as ‘FAST Tourist Road,’ the outer space motif increases and, coming as we did at night, sparkles as a landscape of multi-coloured LED lights, flashing, leaping, and exploding to a high-tech thematic. While the parkland on either side of the road burst with neon light, so did the road itself. Gantries over this nearempty road were erected every few kilometres, particularly in the town. Each gantry would blast a flash of white light at you as you drove under it. I discovered that these were a part of the state security apparatus and that these cameras photograph not only every car, but the bright lights illumi­ nate each interior so that the occupants can be photographed too. In Guizhou, it became clear that the FAST project was one of state-driven urbanisation and state securitisation. Interspersed across the Astronomy Town, between the astronomical murals and twinkling LED stars, were red banners with messages such as ‘Counter Dark Forces’ and ‘Expel Dark Society.’ It was evident that this ‘autonomous’ prefecture has been difficult for the Chinese state to penetrate due to its diverse cultures and moun­ tainous topography. It was aggressively opened, and the radio telescope, with its symbols, infrastructures, and protections, was a central feature of this active territorial transformation. This example presents the significantly associated effects of radio tele­ scopes on the broader regions they occupy. These locations are constructed in terms of their ‘emptiness,’ as sites available for occupation. Emptiness is mobilised to protect the scientific outpost and to inscribe its meaning in the land it occupies. Its vast bespoke network extends outwards with its spatial effects, symbols, and significance, which roots the scientific endeavour into a hybrid technology-territory formation. These processes do not all occur at all four sites in the same way or on the same scale. For example, ALMA has facilitated a global network but with little active transformation of the Atacama region in which it is located. MeerKAT has enacted and enforced a regime of emptiness and developed a robust infrastructural tether across the Karoo to Cape Town. At the same time, despite the name of the Arecibo region being synonymous with the observatory and the observatory being a significant tourist attraction in Puerto Rico, its influence was limited to negotiated radio frequency protections. It is evident, however, in all four case studies that the advanced radio telescope imaginary is fundamentally radical in scale and ambition, and the changes they have brought in these cases have recast space. These territorial transformations have physical and spatial manifesta­ tions but are symbolically very powerful, mainly through their image. As formations not dissimilar to buildings or architectural representations, these advanced and immensely complicated scientific structures are always represented in dramatic and sweeping contrast to the surrounding land­ scape as they ‘fill’ the ‘empty’ landscape with an advanced purpose. In these images, the stories of indigenous people, complex ecologies, and human relocations are erased. So too, are the multiple tethers that enable the

Territories of Emptiness 161 functioning of the radio telescope, often from afar. Instead, the engineered object, in its contrasting and reflective white form, dominates the en­ vironment and, in doing so, enforces emptiness. Like a satellite in orbit contrasting the darkness of space, these instruments of space contrast with the desert or the verdant forest. Analogous to the social isolation of the sterile laboratory, the radio tel­ escope is drawn away from both natural and artificial sources that can interfere with or indeed muddy their findings and become enclosed spatial forms in stark contrast to the environment they both inhabit and oper­ ationalise. They are assemblies of the astounding and the banal tethered by connective infrastructure systems. The isolation of the radio telescope and the connective infrastructural tissue that ensures its ongoing operation together intensify these territories of emptiness. I now adjust my focus and zoom in on the complex spatial conditions that comprise the Hyper Concentration of the radio telescope facility as established in specific sites. These remain entrenched in broader territorial and landscape formations, tethered to other locations, but serve to dem­ onstrate the nature of the built fortress itself as both a functioning scientific facility and as a human, technological, and architectural expression.

Notes 1 Sagan, Carl. 1978. ‘Episode 8: Journeys in Space and Time,’ in Malone, Adrian (directed) Cosmos: A Personal Voyage. Los Angeles, CA.: KCET and PBS. 2 See Trangoš, Guy. 2020. ‘Space for Sale: the Territorialisation of Outer Space,’ in Lokko, Lesley (ed.) Folio 2. pp. 227–239. 3 Hollmann, 2007. ‘“The Sky’s Things”, |xam Bushman ‘Astrological Mythology’ as recorded in the Bleek and Lloyd Manuscripts,’ African Sky 11, pp. 8–12 4 Urton, Gary. 1981.’Animals and Astronomy in the Quechua Universe,’ Proceedings of the American Philosophical Society 125(2), pp. 110–127. 5 Urton, Gary. 1981. 6 United Nations. 1967. Outer Space Treaty. UN. Online: https://www.unoosa. org/oosa/en/ourwork/spacelaw/treaties/introouterspacetreaty.html 7 See Ainge Roy, Eleanor. 2020. ‘Astronomers warn ‘wilderness’ of southern night sky at risk from SpaceX satellites,’ The Guardian. Online: https://www. theguardian.com/world/2020/jun/05/astronomers-warn-wilderness-of-southernnight-sky-at-risk-from-spacex-satellites 8 Ainge Roy, Eleanor. 2020. 9 See Online Etymology Dictionary. NA. ‘Territory,’ Etymonline. Online: https:// www.etymonline.com/word/territory 10 Online Etymology Dictionary. NA. 11 Aubin, David. 2003. ‘The Fading Star of the Paris Observatory in the Nineteenth Century: Astronomers’ Urban Culture of Circulation and Observation,’ Osiris 2(18), pp. 79–100. 12 Aubin, David. 2003. 13 NASA has funded the development of an early proposal for a Moon-based radio telescope known as the Lunar Crater Radio Telescope (LCRT) which would extend across a one-kilometre diameter lunar crater. See NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory. 2020 (a). ‘Lunar Crater Radio Telescope (LCRT) on the Far-Side of

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the Moon,’ NASA. Online: https://www.nasa.gov/directorates/spacetech/niac/ 2020_Phase_I_Phase_II/lunar_crater_radio_telescope/ Aubin, David. 2003. Sun, Wei; Lin, Xiaona; Liang, Yutian; and Li, Lu. 2016. ‘Regional Inequality in Underdeveloped Areas: A Case Study of Guizhou Province in China,’ Sustainability 8(16), pp. 1–18. Lufkin, Brian. 2016. ‘China’s Giant ‘Alien-Hunting’ Telescope Comes with a Human Cost,’ Gizmodo. Online: https://gizmodo.com/chinas-giant-alien-huntingsatellite-comes-with-a-human-1759455349 Agence France-Presse. 2016. Johnson, Ian. 2013. ‘China’s Great Uprooting: Moving 250 Million into Cities,’ New York Times. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2013/06/16/world/asia/ chinas-great-uprooting-moving-250-million-into-cities.html Agence France-Presse. 2016. At 332-metre tall, the Pingtang Bridge is 4-metre shorter than the Millau Viaduct in France. The Daxiaojing arch spans 450 m. See Highest Bridges. 2019. ‘Daxiaojing Bridge,’ Highest Bridges.com. Online: http://www.highestbridges.com/wiki/ index.php?title=Daxiaojing_Bridge National Research Foundation. 2019. National Research Foundation. 2018. National Research Foundation Annual Report 2017/18. Pretoria, RSA: NRF. South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2018. Cheetham, Tracy. 2019. In-person interview by author. South African Government. 1999. ‘National Heritage Resources Act 25 of 1999,’ Government Gazette. Online: http://www.dac.gov.za/sites/default/files/ Legislations%20Files/a25-99.pdf South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2018. Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. Huellas en el Desierto: Patrimonio Cultural en la Zona del Proyecto Alma. Santiago: ALMA. Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. San Pedro de Atacama. ND. Pucará de Quitor. Online: https://sanpedroatacama. com/en/atraccion/pucara-of-quitor/ Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. Barón Parra, Anna María. 2003. Madsen, Claus. 2012. The Jewel on the Mountaintop: The European Southern Observatory through Fifty Years. Weinheim, Germany: Wiley-VCH. Madsen, Claus. 2012. Long, William. 1994. ‘Dispute Threatens Observatory Project in Chile: Astronomy: Legal wrangling imperils plan for the world’s most powerful telescope in the Atacama Desert,’ Los Angeles Times. Online: https://www.latimes.com/archives/ la-xpm-1994-08-06-mn-24135-story.html, and Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. Sachse, Renate. (Producer), and Guzmán, Patricio. (Director). 2010. Nostalgia de la Luz (Motion Picture). Chile: Atacama Productions et al. Doherty, Sean. 2019. Sánchez, Israel R. 2007. Moran, James. 2019. Agence France-Presse. 2016. Peng, Bo. 2019. Peng, Bo. 2019. Cheetham, Tracy. 2019.

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52 53 54 55

56 57 58 59 60 61 62 63

64 65 66

67 68 69 70 71 72 73

Cheetham, Tracy. 2019. Cheetham, Tracy. 2019. Mandiola, Thais. 2019. In-person interview by author. Madsen, Claus. 2012. Mandiola, Thais. 2019. Mandiola, Thais. 2019. and Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. 2016. ‘Movie theater and solar energy, some of the benefit projects made pos­ sible by ALMA funds for its neighbors,’ ALMA. Online: https://www. almaobservatory.org/press-releases/movie-theater-and-solar-energy-some-ofthe-benefit-projects-made-possible-by-alma-funds-for-its-neighbors/ Madsen, Claus. 2012. Mandiola, Thais. 2019. Doherty, Sean. 2019. Bustos, Ricardo, Rubio, Mónica, Otárola, Angel, & Nagar, Neil. 2014. ‘Parque Astronómico de Atacama: An Ideal Site for Millimeter, Submillimeter, and MidInfrared Astronomy,’ in Publications of the Astronomical Society of the Pacific 126(946), pp. 1126–1132. Federal Communications Commission. 1997. ‘Amendment of the Commission’s Rules to Establish a Radio Astronomy Coordination Zone in Puerto Rico,’ FCC. Online: file:///Users/user/Downloads/FCC-97-347A1.pdf Federal Communications Commission. 1997. Vasquez, Angel. 2019. In-person interview by author. Vasquez, Angel. 2019 See Chaisson, Don. 2018. ‘2001: A Space Odyssey: What It Means, and How It Was Made,’ The New Yorker. Online: https://www.newyorker.com/magazine/ 2018/04/23/2001-a-space-odyssey-what-it-means-and-how-it-was-made See Murray, Meghan M. 2019. ‘Why Are Native Hawaiians Protesting Against a Telescope,’ New York Times. Online: https://www.nytimes.com/2019/07/22/ us/hawaii-telescope-protest.html See Online Etymology Dictionary. NA. ‘Tele-,’ Etymonline. Online: https:// www.etymonline.com/word/territory See Event Horizon Telescope. 2020. ‘What is the EHT?’ EHT. Online: https:// eventhorizontelescope.org/about; National Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (d); and The European VLBI Network. NA. ‘About the EVN,’ EVN. Online: https://www.evlbi.org/home The European VLBI Network. NA. Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. In-person interview by author. Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. and Atacama Large Millimeter/sub­ millimeter Array. NA (b). ‘How ALMA Observations are Carried Out,’ ALMA. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-first-glance/howalma-works/how-alma-observations-are-carried-out/ Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. World Pumps. 2017. ‘Desert observatory benefits from multi-fuel system,’ World Pumps. Online: https://pdf.sciencedirectassets.com/271895/1-s2.0S0262176217X70065/1-s2.0-S0262176217302134/main.pdf? Parra, José. 2019. Parra, José; and Saldias, Christian. NA. ‘ALMA Observatory: Status, On-going collaborations and future opportunities,’ ALMA. Presentation. Parra, José. 2019. Ngoasheng, Khutšo. 2020. In-person interview by author. South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. 2018. ‘Call for MeerKAT-64 open time proposals,’ SARAO. Online: http://sarao.ac.za/wp-content/uploads/ 2018/12/MeerKAT-open-time-Call-3-Dec-2018.pdf

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74 Ngoasheng, Khutšo. 2020. 75 National Integrated Cyberinfrastructure System. NA. ‘The South African National Research and Education Network,’ NICIS. Online: https://sanren.ac. za/south-african-nren/ 76 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory. NA (b). ‘MeerKAT Radio telescope,’ SARAO. Online: https://www.sarao.ac.za/science/meerkat/about-meerkat/ 77 Ngoasheng, Khutšo. 2020. 78 Jian, Qi and Erjie, Zhou. 2020. ‘World’s largest radio telescope starts formal operation,’ Xinhua. Online: http://www.xinhuanet.com/english/2020-01/11/c_ 138696973.htm 79 Peng, Bo. 2021.‘FAST’s first international Call for Proposals attracts broad Interest,’ SKA Contact 08. Online: https://issuu.com/ska_telescope/docs/ contact_-_issue_08/s/12801221 80 Wencai, Wu. 2019. In-person interview by author. 81 Rendong, Nan; Li, Di; Jin, Chengjin; Wang, Qiming; Zhu, Lichun; Zhu, Wenbai; Zhang, Haiyan; Yue, Youling; and Qian, Lei. 2011. ‘The Five-Hundred-Meter Aperture Spherical Radio Telescope (FAST) Project,’ International Journal of Modern Physics D 20(6), pp. 989–1024. 82 Peng, Bo. 2019. 83 Arecibo Observatory. 2020. ‘Call for Proposals March 2020,’ Arecibo Observatory. Online: https://www.naic.edu/ao/scientist-user-portal/proposalsubmission-system/call-for-proposals 84 112th U.S. Congress. 2012. Consolidated and Further Continuing Appropriations Act, 2012. Washington, DC.: U.S. Government Printing Office. 85 Arecibo Observatory. 2020. 86 Arecibo Observatory. 2020. 87 See Planetary Radar Science Group. 2019. ‘Arecibo Observatory Radar Tracks Close Flyby of Asteroid 2019 OK,’ Arecibo Observatory. Online: https://www. naic.edu/~pradar/press/2019OK.php 88 Quintero, Luiz. 2019. In-person interview by author. 89 Springman, Alessondra. 2013. ‘How Radar Really Works: The Steps Involved Before getting an Image,’ The Planetary Society. Online: https://www.planetary. org/blogs/guest-blogs/2013/20130624-how-radar-really-works.html 90 As calculated with a standard coal-power station, see Eskom. 2015. 91 Springman, Alessondra. 2013. 92 Quintero, Luiz. 2019. 93 Goldberg, Ken. 2001. ‘Introduction,’ in Goldberg, Ken (ed). The Robot in the Garden: Telerobotics and Telepistomology in the Age of the Internet. Boston, MA.: MIT Press. 94 See Goldberg, Ken. 2001. and Genet, Russell. 2019. ‘Telescopes from Afar,’ The Society for Astronomical Sciences 30th Annual Symposium on Telescope Science. Online: http://adsabs.harvard.edu/full/2011SASS… 30 … 25G 95 Peng, Bo. 2019.

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The radio telescope is not beholden to and end-user consumer or resource prices, like a remote server farm or automated mining operation. Instead its utility is derived directly from the quality of its scientific outputs and their benefit to the astronomy needs of the day. These needs change as discov­ eries are made and new capacities are imagined, deepening previous forays into outer space and, in so doing, rendering other leading facilities less advanced in terms of their technical offering. For example, developing newer and more expensive radio telescopes saw the NSF’s pockets stretched so thin that they dramatically cut funding for the Arecibo Observatory, a highly respected institution.1 The practical result of this shifting and unpredictable world of astronomical research is the continued pressure on astronomers and engineers to advance an instrument, maintain operations with minimum down times, and widely publicise remarkable findings. Despite the remote-controlled nature of much of the instrumentation, the radio telescope is implicitly a human site. It is a concentrated world alive with human activity, either directly on the site itself, in nearby towns, or both. Within this world, the successful functioning of the radio telescope instru­ ment is contingent upon sustained human activity. The result is a facility with multiplt operational scales: for searching the universe, for sustaining regional or global systems, and for supporting human operations. Traditionally, we might refer to these scales as emblematic of the engineered or infrastructural and the built or architectural. Of the universal and the intensely local, one is massive and incomprehensible, seeking out those gods and monsters lan­ guishing in galaxies and nebulae, while the other is concerned with accom­ modating desks, shower cubicles, and deep-fat fryers. I argue that this divide is fabricated and inconsequential in these spaces, where the human and scientific-infrastructural are so entwined and co-reliant that parsing out these pre-ordained domains is a superficial exploit. At its foremost, the concept of ‘hyper concentration’ acknowledges the multiple and complex coming together of various processes in space. The human, technological, infrastructural, and scientific processes interlaced with the landscape at these radio astronomy sites represent a significant concentration in space. Foremost, hyper concentration is both systemic and DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-5

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material at once. It is through broader networks and infrastructural tethers that enact the accrual of those material artefacts and processes that a functioning radio telescope is enabled. These are sociotechnical assemblages in space, where constant human and technological or material actions facilitate scientific operations. We should not view the human and tech­ nological or material as different and operating in separate realms but as part of the same network, mediating one another.2 Donna Haraway has argued such through her evolving approaches to cybernetics and the organic, finding combination into the ‘cyborg’ formation.3 Recent work by Haraway describes the cyborg as no longer hybrid – a term that she earlier used – but instead, imploded entities, dense material semiotic “things” – articulated string figures of ontologically heterogeneous, historically situated, materially rich, virally proliferating relatings of particular sorts, not all the time everywhere, but here, there, and in between, with consequences.4 For Haraway, the cyborg “matters in terrain worlding.”5 Her robust con­ ceptualisation of the imploded state, the networked but also assembled, the multiscalar and multitemporal entanglements of human and non-human at once demand these relationships are material, political, and spatial; not flat networked conditions. Her use of the term ‘imploded’ is operative in the case of the radio telescope, and it is from this term that hyper concentration finds theoretical grounding. The implosion or internal collapse of multiple systems represents a complex mixing. Not a hybridity but a dense aggregation of ‘things.’6 The implosion is a concentration in space, a dense collage. The radio telescopes studied here embody the implosion analogy, but the notion of hyper concentration better describes the spatial condition of the assem­ blage in relation to their contexts. These spaces are hyper concentrated because they exist in stark material, human, and symbolic opposition to their contexts. This lens is essential in interpreting the nature of the radio tele­ scope’s local concentration, as opposed to the more significant and tethered formation it occupies, as discussed in the previous chapter. In this chapter, I foreground the spatial nature of the concentration above the scientific function that often overrides most readings of these sites. I split my analysis into two components: the human and the formal material expression of the concentration. Although we can view both concepts as entwined, I parse out both for clarity. I divide this chapter into two major components: Living Science and New Architectures. I analyse the numerous human components of each case study under Living Science to underscore the complex human connections to these sites and how these spaces exist through human processes. Secondly, I examine the material aspects of the radio telescopes through their built components. I argue that not only is the radio telescope a fundamentally human formation but it is also a designed and constructed space with important architectural qualities. I explore the

Hyper Concentration 167 built through three lenses: Instrument, Object, and Image. In each, I con­ sider the spatial conditions of the built concentration that define the radio telescope. Finally, I conclude by examining how all three conditions work together to perform the primary function of the telescope, which is studying and imaging the universe. I suppose that the radio telescope, like the images it produces, is a subjective realm dictated by the hyper concentration of humans and non-humans, all bearing influence in this space of science. Establishing the radio telescope as a negotiated spatial formation within broader networked flows is essential for both studies of science, but also studies of architecture and space. Firstly, this analysis demonstrates that space is an active force in corralling scientific assemblages, which come to shape scientific space in return. Secondly, the space produced and the buildings made at these radio telescopes carry architectural symbolism and significance. They are not without cultural agency and, as such, structure the scientific site through specific cultural and spatial logic.

Living Science Through interviews undertaken at each case study telescope regarding the lived experience of people working there, I have developed a comparative interpretation of the lives of those who keep the cogs of this scientific research on space turning. These findings reveal the internal operations of the facilities, the broader social networks people maintain, the most en­ joyable and challenging factors of their work, and the complex nature of interpersonal relationships in usually quite heterogeneous spaces regarding nationality and gender. I have identified three comparison avenues: context, connections, and operations. The first considers the broader social composition of each tel­ escope and aspects of management, nationality, and contract structures. The second explores the wider social networks those interviewed workers engaged. Finally, I explore the complexities of working at each facility and the various pressures and organisational dynamics that influence the work performed at these sites. These accounts demonstrate the embedded role of human actors in mediating and shaping the scientific processes of the radio telescopes and the concurrent spatial process that define these human/ material/technological assemblies. By demonstrating the human entangle­ ment in these sites, I foreground their role as lived environments, not simply technological artefacts. Context The optimal functioning of an advanced radio telescope relies on the com­ bination of multiple skill sets. These generally include administration, sci­ ence, engineering, data and computing systems, and health and safety. Given the significant scale of the four case studies, each has considerable labour

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requirements. Labour is often split across various sites to draw advantage from the locational benefits described in the previous chapter. As each case study exists within its own broader context, exploring these differences demonstrates the different labour environments at each site, informing various staff cultures. These then shape the make-up and interpersonal dynamics at these hyper concentrated facilities. Each case study resembles a different human-context engagement demonstrating the shifting nature of the boundary condition. At ALMA, a significant labour pool lives on site. Their presence is maintained through shifts, and little direct interaction occurs with the context outside of ALMA during this time other than calls to loved ones and occasional visits to San Pedro de Atacama. As such, ALMA embodies a less permeable boundary and the spaces within are structured to fulfil the lived experience of staff. FAST is similar, as little outside interaction seems to occur once the team is at the telescope for work. At Arecibo, however, the boundary was a much more permeable formation as staff lived outside the observatory and only came to the observatory for work. The result was an environment etched less with the lived experience of staff and more with their daily work. Finally, MeerKAT offers two conditions for staff residing outside the telescope. The first sees staff living an often permanently dis­ placed existence in the small town of Carnarvon that neighbours MeerKAT, while the second has staff living in Cape Town, a major urban centre. The spaces of MeerKAT are inscribed less by human presence and more by the technical requirements of the array. As the most expensive radio telescope operation, ALMA has a sizeable and diverse staff contingent. Delineating those staff solely dedicated to the ALMA project is not a simple process when considering those employed directly by AUI on behalf of the project partners. These employees form the core labour component of the project. However, due to the size and number of ALMA’s project partners, numerous people work on aspects of the ALMA project in different locations worldwide. These are primarily centred on the project’s regional centres in the USA, Germany, and Japan but also include staff working for ESO in Chile itself. For this analysis, I will focus mainly on those staff working on the project in Chile. As ALMA does not exist as a legal entity, the founding agreement of the project partnership saw all local and administrative staff employed under AUI contracts, the managing body that also oversees the NRAO.7 While the AUI contracts these staff members, the project partners pay their salaries through the split that manages all partner contributions: 37.5% NRAO, 37.5% ESO, and 25% East Asia (NAOJ and Taiwan).8 Some international staff working on ALMA are also seconded by the partner organisation that employs them. For example, Norikazu Mizuno, the head of the ALMA engineering department, is contracted to NAOJ. They pay his salary and provide him with an apartment in Santiago for his days off. He has worked on the ALMA project for 11 years and oversees a department of roughly 150 people. He is thus responsible to superiors at both the NAOJ

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and ALMA. He leads teams that maintain all the telescopes in the array despite their ownership and the numerous infrastructural systems and buildings at the OSF and AOS. Within this complex contracting structure is a management structure supported by the project partners without a legal formation. ALMA Director Sean Doherty is the face of the project and broadly maintains oversight of all operations, with a specific focus on the administration of the project. His deputy, Stuartt Corder, manages the other three core departments: science, computing, and engineering. Each depart­ ment – administration, science, computing, and engineering – have its own head.10 In 2019, over 250 people worked for ALMA in Chile alone, and an estimated 250 people worked for the project internationally.11 ALMA states that there is a 15% to 85% split between those employees working in Chile with international contracts and those with ‘local’ AUI contracts.12 About 75% of employees in Chile perform tasks at the Atacama facility, while 25% work in Santiago offices.13 As outlined in my historical introduction to ALMA, the telescope array and its support facilities outside San Pedro de Atacama appear to be near self-sufficient, albeit dependent on deliveries of diesel, parts, fresh water, food, and labour. Most of these arrive and depart via the airport at Calama, one-and-a-half-hour drive northwest of the OSF (Figure 5.1). While ALMA

Figure 5.1 The built components that make up the hyper concentrated form of ALMA. The OSF is on the left, and the AOS is on the right.

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generates its power and stores its water, it also accommodates its own labour on-site in the residencia or the ALMA Camp. The former offers modern hotel-like accommodation with 120 rooms for direct ALMA em­ ployees. In contrast, all sub-contracted employees, such as those providing catering or cleaning services, are housed in the latter.14 The ALMA Camp was previously used as the main accommodation site for direct ALMA employees and consisted of 32 ‘cabanas’ providing 200 rooms. Staff are accommodated on-site due to a shift system that sees them working eight days on and four days off, with two working days partly reserved for travel between their homes and the telescope facility. The model borrows from a similar approach used in Chilean mining operations.15 Almost every shiftworking employee has a counter shift who continues their job while they are away, and as such, task handovers become important on those inbetween ‘travelling’ days. While the telescope operators are part of the shift system, most other scientific staff come and go as required. Sub-contracted staff work on unique shift systems, varying from seven days on and off to ten days on and off.16 Staff working in the Santiago offices maintain regular workdays and hours. Electrical engineer Nicolas Peña Ralph describes a typical day on shift: I work ten hours in the day. The journey starts at 8 am, then lunch at about 1 pm and then back to work at 2 pm. This is not so fixed. We stop working at 7 pm, and then we are free. We can go to San Pedro at night on the bus from 7:30 pm until 11 pm. You will be back by 11:30 pm. There will be a random alcohol test on entry. The thing is that I don’t go there very often. I used to in my early days, but no longer very much. This is because I stay here on call and I have to be on hand for emergencies.17 As a territory located in a constructed emptiness, ALMA enforces its iso­ lation, heightening its position as a zone of hyper concentration in the Atacama, a technological marvel and labour village all in one (Figure 5.2). To this effect, ALMA retains complete control of the science project whilst relying on its proximity to San Pedro de Atacama and Calama for essential deliveries. ALMA could have located its operations in San Pedro de Atacama with a separate dish assembly and maintenance site, situated as a smaller site en route to the AOS. Staff travelling to the AOS to work for the day would extend their hour-long journey by only half an hour and benefit from being in the town with its numerous amenities. However, for the ALMA partners and ESO in particular, their experience operating far more remote optical observatories in the Atacama resulted in ALMA’s estab­ lishment as a remote site. In doing so, all shift staff remain together and, with minimal distraction available, focus on and integrate with the scien­ tifically essential rhythms of observation and maintenance.

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Figure 5.2 The ALMA AOS site on the Chajnantor Plateau. Note the 192 antennae pads and extensive road network.

At FAST, the Comprehensive Building is the hub for all staff activity. It is here where engineers, scientists, and administration staff live while working on telescope activities. The four-story concrete, steel and timber building is u-shaped in plan, representing perhaps an abstract version of the FAST logo. Unlike buildings at the other case study telescopes, the design of the FAST Comprehensive Building merges with the lushly vegetated landscape instead of standing in opposition to it. Natural materials like timber slats expressed throughout the building mediate privacy and create the sense of being in nature and not necessarily adjacent to a 500-metre diameter radio telescope (Figure 5.3). Interspersed along its internal courtyard are offices, meeting rooms, a Communist Party boardroom, and fifty bedrooms accommodating two people at any time. Adjacent to the Comprehensive Building is a second building containing a canteen for the 100 staff mem­ bers.18 The roughly 45 local staff and those that have travelled in for their six days on, four days off shifts eat their three daily meals at this canteen.19 A bus service connects FAST to the airport at Guiyang, where most shift staff and senior staff members based at the NAOC arrive from Beijing.

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Figure 5.3 The various built components that make up the hyper concentrated form of the core FAST site.

When on shift, staff are on call for 24 hours a day. Nannan Yue, a PhD student based temporarily at FAST, notes, “Because no cell phones are allowed at FAST, all you can do is work.”20 Despite the cell phone ban, the FAST site has various communal facilities for staff, including a gym, soccer field, badminton court, and mah-jong tables.21 Those staff employed at FAST are predominantly Chinese nationals, except a few from elsewhere. Sean Lake, a post-doc from the USA based at the NAOC for two years and visiting FAST for a few weeks, said, “I have encountered few foreign people during my time at the NAOC. There is a lot of national pride in FAST, so it FAST is driven as a Chinese mission.”22 Like ALMA, Chinese scientists established FAST as a generally isolated site. It is difficult to visit without necessary governmental approvals. Once staff and visitors are on the property, have made the roughly 20-minute drive from the main gate to the Comprehensive Building, and have driven through two checkpoints, they tend to remain on site for most of their stay. National power and water grids connect to the FAST site, and a new road network connects Pingtang County to Guiyang. As such, FAST requires only deliveries

Hyper Concentration 173 of supplies, food, and general maintenance materials. The many staff em­ ployed in support services travel to the site from local towns and villages. From my observations and experience, FAST operates in a distinctly hierarchical structure, with most decision-making occurring at the NAOC in Beijing. I met FAST Deputy Director Bo Peng at a conference in 2019, and he invited me to visit FAST. This formal invitation was necessary for visa purposes. We aligned our schedules to meet during one of his prear­ ranged visits to FAST. However, a day before visiting FAST and arriving in China, Peng informed me that he was in Beijing and would remain there to “see how things go.” He would later decide whether to meet me at the FAST site later or not. Nevertheless, I visited the site, feeling somewhat apprehensive. Thankfully, Peng flew to Guiyang and met with me at FAST. Our relationship improved, and by the end of my visit, it had developed to the point where he treated my research assistant and me to a traditional restaurant feast in Guiyang with his close project friends. I remain most grateful for his assistance and hospitality. Through this encounter, I witnessed the control enacted on the FAST site from Beijing, where distance acts as a shield and those working in the nation’s capital exercise control. This experience also gave me insight into the dis­ placed power hierarchies that manage FAST from Beijing. As the FAST project was undergoing the final phases of its commissioning process during my visit in September 2019, many staff were new and FAST was a working environment in evolution.23 The post-commissioning stage will go some way to solidify organisational structures and set a tone for the future institutional culture. In Puerto Rico, the almost 60-year-old Arecibo Observatory had seen numerous technological upgrades and institutional shifts through time, but little had changed for a few employees. Angel Vasquez, director of Telescope Operations, had worked at Arecibo for over 42 years; similarly, John Mathews had been a visiting scientist at the facility for a similar time. Notes Mathews, a professor emeritus at Pennsylvania State University: This [the Arecibo Observatory] has been the longest single constant in my life. I first came here when I was just barely 22, and I have lived here or visited here at least once per year ever since. Things have changed greatly. Unfortunately, I only come here for about ten days at a time. I was here when the Apollo 11 landing occurred, but I was also here when Apollo 17 launched and at that time the SS Statendam sailed here from New York with a bunch of notable scientists and science fiction writers including Isaac Asimov.24 Unlike the other case study facilities, Arecibo had a long-established approach to managing its broad staff component. As my historical intro­ duction to the observatory outlines, institutional and organisational changes

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and funding cuts from the NSF resulted in successive changes, creating uncertainty. As Vasquez describes: The funding situation is critical, and it’s a bad deal. I feel for these young guys who might not be saying this in forty years sitting in a chair like mine. It’s kind of rough. We’re in the first year, but the funding is not set, as NSF funding just decreases. It’s good that they get money from NASA.25 Under its final management structure, the observatory was split between three interests: UCF, Yang Enterprises, and UAGM, in agreement with the NSF. While many staff had worked together for Cornell University, the university’s loss of the NSF facility in 2011 and future cooperative opera­ tions agreements saw the team remaining at the observatory split into three categories. Those involved in the engineering and maintenance of the facility became employed by USRA; those engaged in public outreach and catering fell under UMET (later renamed to Ana G. Méndez University), and science activities and management of the observatory fell under SRI International. A reorganisation occurred again in 2018, and USRA em­ ployees found themselves working for Yang Enterprises, and former SRI International employees, including Francisco Córdova, fell under the em­ ploy of UCF. While all employees worked at the same facility, there was a tangible difference between their contracts and various levels of manage­ ment from different structures. When visiting the observatory, the three labour pools were distinct. Those staff working for UAGM wore t-shirts with the university name on them. They were generally local Puerto Ricans and based almost exclusively in the visitor’s centre, located away from the primary science and engineering buildings at the base of the north tower. Engineering and operations staff were numerous and occupied the control centre, various laboratories, and engineering workshops. The science and managerial or administrative staff were scarcer, occupying two floors in the small office building across from the control room and laboratory complex; one might have also encountered a small team of scientists in the control room. Therefore, unlike the other three case study telescopes, the staff at Arecibo were contractually divided, which could negatively affect morale. As Vasquez notes from his own experience: With the consortium, you have UCF administer the scientific staff, Yang Enterprises does IT, electronics, telescope operations, infrastructure and facilities maintenance. UAGM does public outreach and visitors. This means that they all have different benefits packages, contracts etc. Which totally sucks, in my opinion. The watercooler comments abound: ‘Hey you do you have this day off? I’m getting this much from my retirement plan.’ For example, the UCF people have no retirement plan now, while the people from both UAGM and Yang do.26

Hyper Concentration 175 For Córdova, there were numerous inherent benefits in the partnership. Principal among these was that each institution was highly versed in a par­ ticular area and brought specific skill sets to the observatory, the likes of which a single institution would have struggled to combine in-house. Despite the varied contractual arrangements between staff, Córdova asserts that the directors of both his Yang Enterprises and UAGM staff reported to him: In order to minimize contractual discrepancies, we’ve made it very clear that the directors of both UAGM and Yang Enterprises report to me. So, it’s as if they are a part of my staff. I fill out performance assessments on them. So, we agreed beforehand with both UAGM and Yang, and they agreed that we needed to act as one team. Typically, I think when you ask someone here where you work, they’ll say the Arecibo Observatory. That’s what we want; it must be a team. There are differences, and we try to minimize them.27 Despite the contractually specific labour groupings present, the telescope did present itself, as Córdova describes, as a unified site (Figure 5.4). This

Figure 5.4 The various built components that made up the hyper concentrated form of the Arecibo Observatory.

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agreeable condition is possibly due to the relationships established before the consortium phases, which forged an openness towards discussing con­ tractual obligations. It is also valuable to underscore that notwithstanding its imposing entrance gate and the seemingly impenetrable landscape that en­ circles the site, all the people who worked at Arecibo full-time lived in Puerto Rico, some very close to the observatory itself. Unlike FAST and ALMA, only visiting scientists were accommodated on site, and all other staff members lived in the cities and villages of Puerto Rico. Work at the observatory fol­ lowed a different shift system to the other case studies. Telescope operators, for example, were assigned an 8-hour shift in the 24-hour operating time of the telescope for five days in a row. An operator might have worked from midnight to 8 am for one day, 8 am to 4 pm for the next two days, and from 4 pm to midnight for the following two days, followed by two days off.28 The observatory employed roughly 150 people in mid-2019.29 The Arecibo Observatory retained the characteristics of a hyper concen­ trated formation, despite integration into the surrounding urban fabric en­ croaching on the observatory site since its founding. While FAST and ALMA have a presence beyond their borders (FAST is celebrated along almost the entire route from Guiyang to Pingtang, and ALMA has numerous offices worldwide, for example), Arecibo remained a highly contained site due to the limits of its technology and the decision to locate the administration of the observatory at the observatory itself. It offers few clues other than the lure of its science-fiction-like reputation, revealed breathtakingly as a visitor steps out onto the observation deck. The spectacle of MeerKAT is far more elusive and challenging due to its isolated location. Of the four case studies, MeerKAT is the radio telescope that most evades the notion of hyper concentration from a social per­ spective (Figure 5.5). While there is a high concentration of advanced telescopes, engineering, and computing power in an area known for its aridity and sheep farming, the MeerKAT site is notably devoid of human activity other than on maintenance days. This inactivity is due mainly to the remote operation of the radio telescope from Cape Town and the significant distance between the Klerefontein support facility and the Losberg/Meyersdam site itself. Notably, those employed by the project live close to existing urban nodes, such as Carnarvon, Cape Town, and Johannesburg. The non-human, robotic forms of the telescope array en­ liven a distant landscape with few potential onlookers. That is not to say that the array site is devoid of human activity; there are other astronomy projects currently underway that share the site. On a typical day, a few security staff and a small maintenance crew may join those working on these astronomy projects. However, Klerefontein and the small office in Carnarvon continue to buzz with life and energy as people work to monitor systems, repair and replace parts and embark on training or community consultation activities.

Hyper Concentration 177

Figure 5.5 The various built components that make up the hyper concentrated form of MeerKAT (left) and the Klerefontein Base (right).

Similarly, the SARAO Cape Town and Johannesburg offices are equally full of staff. As the scale and the prestige of the MeerKAT/SKA project have grown, so has the size of SARAO. Notes Carla Sharpe, SARAO Africa programme manager: It took 130 people to build MeerKAT, and it’s taking 400-odd to operate it. We have become bloated and ended up with 200 more people in an operation like this than you need. In fairness, this includes people who do work on SKA, those working in the rest of Africa, human capital development teams, HR, finance, etc.30 Like Arecibo, MeerKAT has no requirement for employees to stay on the site and has only a few self-catering rooms available at Klerefontein for those staff visiting Carnarvon or the site from elsewhere. Those staff per­ manently based in Carnarvon are required to house themselves in the area. Some staff have chosen to rent accommodation, while others took advan­ tage of Carnarvon’s initially low property prices and bought houses. Niels Hoek, an electrical instrumentation technician, came out of retirement to work on MeerKAT: I have been permanently based in Carnarvon for eight years and rent a house with my wife. We’ve had to rent because a false housing market

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Hyper Concentration has been created by the project, and it drove property prices up. Moving to Carnarvon was not easy, and amenities like doctors and groceries are a problem. It’s tough, but one has to adjust. If I could move tomorrow, I would. Although, working for SARAO is a positive experience and not a mistake.31

The influence of MeerKAT and SARAO’s presence in Carnarvon cannot be understated. The project has had transformative effects on the town, both negative and positive. Sharpe notes that the small town of roughly 5,000 people has had a long struggle with foetal alcohol syndrome and, until SARAO came to town, never had a school pupil receive high enough grades to enter a university.32 Fifteen pupils have now achieved this goal with the assistance of teachers brought in by SARAO. Despite this, the project has undoubtedly increased property prices and made property ownership less accessible to local populations. As stakeholder manager Anton Binneman noted in 2019, the minimum SARAO salary is R8,000 per month, while the minimum farm worker salary is R1,600 per month.33 This significant salary increase offers more opportunities for those benefitting locally from the project. However, the increased earning disparity may, in the long term, displace lower-income earners, further entrenching the transformation of Carnarvon into a town highly reliant on MeerKAT and the future SKA. MeerKAT is an exception to the human hyper concentration evident at ALMA and FAST. It compares more closely with Arecibo in how staff live outside the scientific complex in the neighbouring community. The town of Carnarvon and the neighbouring Klerefontein farm have become the lived worlds of the many SARAO staff working there. This arrangement gives us a sense of a radio telescope operation with close reliance on and connection with an existing town. Despite a daily evening bus to San Pedro de Atacama, ALMA has chosen to eschew the town to maintain the site as a contained condition free from the challenges and influences of a local town. In doing so, ALMA asserts its rights as an international zone where a treaty protects staff from the world beyond. The notion of hyper concentration, when considered from a contextual perspective, is inherently concerned with stark differences. The fortress is an identifiable feature of the landscape not only because it stands in contrast to the landscape but because it is a centre of political and military might, a wealthy trading hub, and an iconic complex of grey stone buildings (drawing on northern-European examples). As we have seen, advanced radio astronomy sites are worlds unto themselves and carry differing management and employment cultures and marked differences in their relationship with the local world outside their boundaries. However, despite these differences, in every case study, the radio tele­ scope exists as a radical imposition on a landscape and neighbouring people. It consistently embodies significant change and implants, at the beginning, an entirely foreign staffing contingent. Inside the hyper

Hyper Concentration 179 concentration, the diverse structuring of human and non-human inter­ actions results in different spatial realms across the four case studies. It is evident that contractual structures, management hierarchies, and decisions regarding shifts and staff requirements generally have strong spatial effects on each telescope, like the shifting use of the glacis, either enforcing the isolation of the facility or integrating it into surrounding contexts. Connections As we have seen, radio telescopes are built in locations that best enable their scientific project. These places are selected due almost entirely to scientific factors. Only sometimes will extremely large projects will include sociopolitical and economic factors too. The result is that astronomers and en­ gineers working on a particular project will have to relocate temporarily or permanently to parts of the world to which they have little connection. For those working in shifts at ALMA or FAST, a link to the world beyond is vital to maintain social and professional ties. In these cases, the multiple connections many staff have with other places bolsters the hyper concen­ tration of the facility. This long-distance connection bypasses and contrasts local populations who, in most cases, have much more significant ties to their locale and established links to the region. For shift workers at ALMA, many leave their homes anywhere in the country to work on shift for six days continuously. Marie-Lou GendronMarsolais feels that ALMA is an isolated place: “It is a disconnected environment, and you feel it. You see the same people for a whole week. You greet them and ask how you slept and then work with them for the whole day.”34 Daniel Herrera, correlator and DTS engineer, who regu­ larly speaks to his family on WhatsApp, enjoyed the shift system at the beginning but now finds it difficult to integrate it with his family’s schedule: I was born in Concepción, south of Santiago. I still live there. I liked the shift system at the beginning, but it’s not so easy when you are raising a family. I have a two-year-old daughter, and this makes things difficult. Yes, having six days there is positive. My daughter goes to childcare, so on my days off, I can be with her for some days, but I don’t want to interrupt her routine. Remember, the six days are only for me, not my wife. She works and has her schedule. I try to socialize here, but I have to do a lot of reading and writing for work. I try to be with the group when eating, but I have so much work.35 Generally, my interviews showed mixed feelings towards the shift system but demonstrated that most interviewed staff communicated regularly with

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their friends and family while on shift. Juan Carlos Gatica, an electrical technician also from Concepción, benefits from working at ALMA: I have a wife and two sons in Concepción. It is a long distance to Calama. It’s an hour’s flight to Santiago and then two hours to Calama. The observatory is very important for my family and the families of other workers because of the benefits they provide, like healthcare. This shift is very good. It lets me spend time with my family and time at work.36 For international staff, working at ALMA has been a significant change. Norikazu Mizuno, who operates on his own shift system of roughly ten days on and two days off, can only visit his wife in Japan for about two weeks at a time, three times per year.37 While ALMA director Sean Doherty relocated his family from Canada to take up the directorship from Santiago: I have an adventurous family. They’re up for new challenges. The hardest adjustment was for my 16-year-old daughter to walk away from her teenage life in Canada, and she had to go back a year in school. For my then 13-year-old son, it was somewhat easier. You know this is a modern country. In South America, it is very wealthy. It is stable politically.38 Maintaining a connection with their homes and families elsewhere was equally important for staff at Arecibo. As all employees lived on the island mostly with their families, keeping connected had more to do with spending time together outside work and less to do with WhatsApp video calls. Many employees at Arecibo had ties to the island, which made working at the observatory attractive. For Córdova, moving back to Puerto Rico was an enticing proposition: I ran into this opportunity – that seems like a very unique job – and I put my name in the hat. For us, it was a difficult decision. We had been living in Charleston, South Carolina for quite a long time. My wife had a job at Boeing too, and my son grew up there. But we are from Puerto Rico. I grew up here and went to school here. My wife too. For me coming here was a few things. First, before I took the job, the SRI committee was very clear: This place needed a lot of work, and SRI could not guarantee that it would remain open for the next two years. That said, I felt the attraction. I could really make a difference here. I can help this historic facility that has contributed and can still contribute so much to science. If I could do that, I would have contributed to the world and my country. We are from here, so the prospect of being home was interesting, but coming back after a long time can always be difficult. I visited the observatory as a kid on a school field trip.39

Hyper Concentration 181 For software engineer Jorge Herrera, a daily commute from a distant part of the island was a major daily challenge: I do not live nearby; I live in a town near San Juan called Trujillo Alto. It’s tough because it’s an hour and forty-five-minute drive every day. In the evenings it’s not that bad, maybe I’ll save twenty minutes or so because there are many traffic jams in the morning, it’s kind of hard. I wish I worked eight hours; it’s tough. Obviously, I try to get home as early as possible. I’m married, and I have my wife waiting for me. Sometimes, I could work 9–12 hours. I’ve even been here all night because I put pressure on myself – trying to finish something, you know.40 A long drive was also part of electronics/engineering manager Luiz Quintero’s day: I have been here for ten years, and I live in Dorado, one hour from here. I drive every day. I used to live closer, then I got married, and Dorado was the happy medium between my wife’s work and the observatory. Now she works in Arecibo, so sometimes we drive to work together.41 Being close to the facility was vital for many scientists who worked at Arecibo because it is where they spent most of their day. Many staff at FAST came from elsewhere in China, and many kept in touch with their families and friends through digital technologies. Those interviewed at FAST were less willing to discuss their circumstances, and I had to keep my interview questions related to the specifics of telescope operations. At MeerKAT, however, employees freely discussed their circumstances regarding their relocation decisions or the connections they maintain to places elsewhere. At Klerefontein, Ben Jordaan, the receiver technical lead, works from a laboratory he maintains at 16°C, “Not because I’m hot, but because I don’t like people.” He was born in Carnarvon, spent time in the ‘Kommando’ system of a state-organised local rural militia, joined the navy at Simonstown, and worked in communications and instrumentation as a sub-mariner. Jordaan returned to Carnarvon for the MeerKAT job and has taken up residence on his family farm.42 Similarly, Joleen George, a junior education, training, and development officer who assists students at the electrician training facility at Klerefontein, also hails from Carnarvon and still lives in the town. After being trained by SARAO, she now educates many young electricians, all of whom come from the surrounding towns.43 Anton Binneman and electrical instrument technician Niels Hoek come from Pretoria. For Hoek, the permanent move to Carnarvon was a new challenge after owning and running a gas station for 23 years.44 Binneman travels 940 kilometres from Pretoria to Carnarvon once a month for five to six days at a time.45 Once in Carnarvon, he focuses on various communityrelated activities.46 Beyond the Carnarvon site, in Johannesburg, the head

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of construction planning for MeerKAT and the SKA, Tracy Cheetham, has to maintain constant contact between Cape Town and Manchester, UK, where the SKA head Office is based. She spends a significant portion of her time on either video calls or aeroplanes.47 The movement of people to and from these telescope sites for various periods, such as short visits, long shifts, or permanently, heightens their role as distinct from other land-use functions in their proximity. Similarly, local people working at these radio telescopes must undergo significant training to be employed full-time. The movement of people to the radio telescope, their displacement and maintained a connection to elsewhere, and the barrier to entry held by the specific skillsets demanded by these facilities all reinforce the hyper concentrations that, despite their contextual specific­ ities, enable these places to function as global spaces. Ironically, the radio telescope depends fundamentally on its context to work. Still, constant attempts are enacted to decontextualise its social and working environ­ ment to make it accommodating to different people from different places. This recognisability is particularly true with ALMA and FAST, where standardised facilities ensure global professional familiarity. Elements of this are visible in the MeerKAT operations, particularly at their head office in Cape Town. The city is a significant drawcard for international staff and scientists, and working in Carnarvon would not offer the same ‘global’ amenities as the city. Arecibo provides a sense of a radio telescope that was more integrated into its context, to and from which international scientists regularly travelled, but not to an environment of global same­ ness. Instead, like the homes of Arecibo labour, the accommodation building was located just outside the main observatory site in the middle of the Arecibo forest. Operations Working at a world-renowned radio telescope facility has numerous benefits and challenges for staff. While the opportunities for their own personal and professional development are clear, the distance from fam­ ilies and some specific institutional cultures can be challenging. These operational dynamics can reveal far more about the nature of the insti­ tutional formation and the numerous inherent complexities that manifest in these contexts. This human-centric analysis again foregrounds the radio telescope as a lived condition that has a material effect on the lives of many people working at these hyper concentrated sites. Through their experience, we can peer into the black box that conceals the radio tele­ scope as a lived environment. Much of the analysis is drawn from in­ terviews with staff members at each radio telescope. After enquiring as to their professional roles, I asked specific questions regarding the inter­ viewee’s favourite and worst aspects of working at their respective radio telescope facility.

Hyper Concentration 183 At MeerKAT, the project’s prestige was a significant motivation for many people working at the facility, notes science processing manager Khutšo Ngoasheng, “I am proud of being a part of the biggest science project in the world with huge ripples.”48 Carla Sharpe expresses a similar sentiment: “This matters. I am a space cadette and I am fond of science.”49 For a few, the spinoff community benefits were their favourite parts of their jobs, with Sharpe noting that “the best is being a part of this, creating a legacy and giving back.”50 Joleen George agrees, articulating that “the best part of my job is helping local [electrical technician] students and seeing them reach their goals.”51 For Niels Hoek, the greatest part of working on MeerKAT are the many challenges the project presents, which keeps one interested.52 Ben Jordaan agrees: “The best part of my job is that you are always learning and that you get validation from the equipment – my babies – the receivers.”53 Common concerns at MeerKAT include ongoing challenges with such a bespoke system, the monotony of the staff member’s daily work, the length of time it takes to build a project like the SKA, and an institutional ‘slowness’ that has come to replace the original quick spirit of the MeerKAT project.54 With the SKA on the horizon, there is a sense that SARAO staff are excited and cautious of the significant change ahead. The SKA1 will embody a seismic shift in the capabilities of astronomers, but SARAO staff have already built a leading instrument in the MeerKAT that is currently producing ex­ cellent science.55 For staff at ALMA, a significant influence on their work experience remains the split partnership model in which three institutions, based on three continents, all have a say in the facility’s operations. Fabiola Cruzat, array maintenance group supervisor and native Chilean, notes: It would have been much easier and maybe optimal if, in the beginning, there was an organization. But we have to learn to work together. In the beginning, it was difficult sending an email. You don’t speak to a Japanese person in the same way that you do an American. But everyone has learned. The human aspect was the hardest.56 As engineering head, Norikazo Mizuno interacts with all three partners frequently. The challenge of the partnership persists: I appreciate our local engineers. They know how to fix things purely from their own experience. If something fails, they fix it, and science is happy due to the quick turnaround. The next day I get an email from the partner who owns the specific telescope complaining that the part was replaced without approval from them as the owner. For every small change, we have to get approval. The USA tries to guide us in the right direction, i.e., ‘thank you, but next time …,’ Japan is generally quiet as they don’t want to rock the boat. The European partner is much stricter and reacts more intensely. These are cultural things.57

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Christian Saldias agrees that cultural issues remain a challenge: The big challenge of ALMA was correctly defined by its first director [Massimo Tarenghi]. He said that during 2003/4, the challenge was to get all the partners to work together successfully. This remains the major challenge. This hasn’t been overcome yet. It is successful in that we do big things well, but when we have problems, the cultural issues always come out. I don’t know what would fix it, and it might take a long time. A different organizational structure, ALMA as organization not project, would work better – if it were more independent.58 Current director Sean Doherty agrees that the institutional structure is a challenge to work within: The biggest downside to ALMA is the budgeting and governance model. So, ALMA is not a legal entity, and it does not exist. It is a construct of three regions to run an observatory. For example, I have no formal ability to launch a lawsuit. One of the organizations would have to do it. The Joint ALMA Observatory is just a term.59 Despite these fundamental cultural differences, the participants identified the global nature of the project as positive. As Marie-Lou GendronMarsolais states: “It works because people respect each other a lot. Sometimes I walk into a room, and everyone is speaking English, but it isn’t anyone’s first language. We all learn each other’s cultures.”60 Also, despite his organisational frustrations, Mizuno agrees, “The great part of ALMA is the multi-national collaboration, mutual respect and how people try to understand our diverse cultures.”61 Within the institutional divide, the gender split, particularly at the telescope site, remains uneven. GendronMarsolais suggests that she sometimes feels isolated as one of the few young female staff members working on the project but reiterates, “People have been very nice and welcoming.”62 Cruzat agrees: I’m a mechanical engineer and a woman, and it’s very different. I was always the only woman here. We are now three women in the technical team. In the beginning, it was weird that I was the only one, although I never felt any gender discrimination.63 Among the other challenges listed by interviewed staff were feelings of repetitiveness within their daily job and the need to be constantly selfmotivated as the facility’s uniqueness means there is often no dedicated oversight, that is, you are the best at your job. In addition, the list includes the need to feel professionally realised within repetitive tasks; and the delay between the research practice and research outcome usually only available after many years.64 A positive working experience at ALMA included

Hyper Concentration 185 enabling a complex process to often happen as part of a team and finding satisfaction in the smooth running of the facility. In addition, staff felt a camaraderie, fuelled by a shared interest in astronomy and doing excellent work, and the contractual benefits of working at ALMA.65 For many who worked at Arecibo, the diverse staff and visiting scientists were the observatory’s greatest assets. “The greatest positive of being here is that once you’re inside the gate, there is no class distinction across the board. If you made it in, you were accepted; there is some good reason that you’re in,” notes John Mathews, who recalls visiting Arecibo in the 1970s and casually sitting with future Nobel Prize winners.66 Similarly, notes Francisco Córdova: It has been a fantastic ride. Something is always going on here that is incredibly new, exciting and challenging. We work with some of the world’s brightest minds here, and that’s a great opportunity to interact with them and to provide them with the right tools to do their research.67 For senior telescope operator Israel Cabrera, highlights of his 12 years working at the observatory include the many important people who visit. “They don’t have a big-name tag, so you never know who they are, but I’ve met many astronauts, also, congressmen.”68 Angel Vasquez also lists this as a positive, “You chat to people: ‘Wow, that’s the guy who did that, and he’s like my best friend.’ People say: ‘Wow, you know that guy?’ Working with really important people. It was very gratifying.”69 Edwin Muniz, a telescope operator, describes the scientists as one of the highlights, “The positives involve working directly with the scientists because they have so much knowledge, and you learn from their projects.”70 The exciting scientific outcomes of the facility fuelled a good relationship between the engineers and scientists and the open and problem-solving nature of the radio astronomy community.71 A frequently mentioned concern at Arecibo was budgetary uncertainty. Michael Sulzer, head of space and atmospheric science, told me how “the NSF would rather we didn’t exist. They have too many facilities – they are stretched, and that’s pretty much true.”72 Senior observatory scientist, Anish Roshi Damodaran, agreed: “The challenge is certainly the budget. We have a tapering budget from the NSF, and we need to flatten this. We are trying to work on that.”73 Similarly, Luiz Quintero identified funding as an administrative chal­ lenge: “The not-so-fun part is the administration. A lot of my time is spent on paperwork. I work more with budgets, employee frustrations, and funding uncertainties. These are not very fun.”74 Other concerns included language issues for non-Spanish-speaking visiting scientists, the steep learning curve felt by new operators, and the desire for improved knowl­ edge transfer mechanisms.75

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As noted in the proceeding section, I was explicitly requested not to ask the staff at FAST any questions regarding their personal experience and opinions of the facility. An incident occurred where an international jour­ nalist was granted access and published a surprisingly critical article.76 The NAOC saw the coverage as a betrayal of their trust in the visiting jour­ nalists. In response, all FAST staff were instructed never to answer any questions from visitors regarding their personal views. Despite the limited depth of interviews at FAST, this directive goes a long way in describing the hierarchical institutional framework that governs operations at FAST. This observation concerns the freedom of staff to communicate openly with outsiders and a need to control all information published regarding the successes of the telescope. I will expand on this through two anecdotes from my personal experience. When visiting the new ticketing centre to buy my access pass to the Astronomy Museum in the town (located at the end of the long building with empty storefronts described previously), I encountered a large looping video introduction to the FAST project. From the outset, the hand-drawn video animation shows an angry Arecibo entering a boxing ring with a smuglooking FAST. Of course, FAST wins the match with a knock-out (Figure 5.6). This video is one of the first anyone visiting FAST will see. It underscores the nationalist competitiveness within China to be better than the USA. Next, with my ticket in hand, I visited the new astronomy museum. After wandering through numerous exhibitions that introduced visitors to basic astronomy and included many opportunities for novel photographs, I noticed a long graphic motif that displayed an interpretation of the evolu­ tion of the Earth and human-technological advancement. Towards the end, the motif featured several architectural structures. These included the

Figure 5.6 A cartoon diagram depicting FAST as a winner in a boxing match with the Arecibo telescope (left) and a timeline of global architectural icons represented in the Astronomy Museum (right).

Hyper Concentration 187 Taj Mahal, the Forbidden City, Tower Bridge, the British Houses of Parliament, the Statue of Liberty, numerous skyscrapers including the CCTV Building, the Burj Kalifa, One World Trade Center, the Sydney Opera House, and finally, FAST (Figure 5.6). Across this passage through time, FAST is positioned as the pinnacle of human achievement. The surprising aspect of this motif was perhaps not that the curator arranged FAST as number one after the Sydney Opera House but rather that the motif existed in the first place. Without explaining the exhibition choices, the message being con­ stantly driven home in the museum is that FAST is not only the world’s most advanced scientific facility but a world-beating architectural and engineering achievement. Combined with the interview limitations, my experiences at the tick­ eting centre and the museum represented the strict knowledge regime built around FAST, which is premised on unquestionable technological tri­ umphalism and extends to all staff. Despite the international collabora­ tions and international science visits that FAST seeks, national competitiveness hamstrings its institutional and scientific culture. It en­ forces nationalist concerns regarding technological advancement, scien­ tific prestige, and a ‘world-leading’ narrative in the way of the free, collaborative, and self-critical cultures that often support scientific progress, as demonstrated at the other facilities. The triumphal nature of the human-technological assemblage that comprises FAST is a major contributing factor in positioning FAST as a domestic tourism destina­ tion, as local visitors not only experience a scientific achievement but an icon of national pride. The symbolic nature of the telescope is discussed further in the next section. Still, when combined with the significant ‘implosion’77 of the human and non-human here in rural southern Guizhou, it reinforces the hyper concentrated formation of the facility as a space not only of advanced technologies but intense symbology in contrast to the surrounding social landscapes. The human-operational complexities evident at each radio telescope site represent an embodiment of the institutional and lived contexts of each radio telescope (Figure 5.7). At Arecibo, a sense of institutional change and pride was evident in many interviews. At ALMA, the staff displayed a deep awareness of cultural and institutional differences, whether they saw these as positive or negative. At MeerKAT, many staff were generally aware of the importance of the developmental aspects of the project and what it represents for the country. FAST demonstrates the degree to which the telescope is seen as an important national symbol, with staff reluctant to engage critically. These social considerations all have distinct workplace expressions. At Arecibo, most staff were available to chat; their open doors and workplace banter showed a personal commitment to telescope observations. ALMA is a much more formal institution defined by long corridors and entrenched processes, with staff at ALMA appearing busy and focused. The SARAO offices in all locations are buzzing with activity,

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Figure 5.7 A series of images depicting the working spaces of the four case study telescopes running from top to bottom: The Arecibo Observatory (control room, engineering labs, and the front of the control room), ALMA (the interior of the AOS Technical Building, an engineering station at the OSF, and the OSF control room), FAST (an open office space, the Communist Party boardroom, the control room), and MeerKAT (an open office space, a receiver technician’s workspace, and the control room).

with discussions and decisions seemingly made constantly and on the fly. The result is an energised and slightly chaotic workspace. Finally, At FAST, employees are generally young and fixed to their desks. Despite many being cordial and friendly, all interactions have an ever-present layer of formality. While each case study demonstrates differences in personnel dynamics, these observations must also consider differences in sociocultural ap­ proaches to employment and the workplace, given the distinctly different contexts of each of these telescopes. The adjacency of living and working, science and engineering, and administration and management all produce highly spatialised outcomes. The radio telescope becomes a contingent space structured through humantechnological interactions within diverse social, political, and economic

Hyper Concentration 189 influences. These processes deeply structure the space of the radio telescope and other large science operations. As a result, the fundamental knowledge claims about the universe in these spaces rely on this complex hyper con­ centration to exist. While control regimes attempt to limit any influences on the ‘objective’ scientific process, these, too, are forged within the scientific method, which has been demonstrated to be fundamentally socially pro­ duced. The lived aspects of science thus have a direct influence on the pro­ duction of outer space. As I will now determine in the following section, like the lived experience of the radio telescope, these built concentrations are also complicit in structuring both scientific space and the spatial product of the observatory. Finally, in deducing the human and social structuring of the radio tele­ scope, it is essential not to forget the individual experience of each facility, alive with human emotion, needs, ambitions, fears, and other personal quirks, akin to the changing human use of the ever-evident glacis. Every morning, when John Mathews was a resident at Arecibo, he walked around the perimeter road that encircled the dish. He has encountered a python on this walk before.78 Similarly, Wu Wencai plays soccer on a dedicated field, a stone’s throw away from FAST.79 At ALMA, Nicolas Peña Ralph plays the guitar he permanently stores at the residencia while passing the evening time.80 While in the Karoo, communications officer Nomfundo Makhubu drives to the Carnarvon Spar supermarket after working at the SARAO offices in the town, aware perhaps of the wondering antelopes in this wil­ derness.81

New Architectures Large scientific sites, and certainly radio telescopes, are human and techno­ logical concentrations bound to space through infrastructure tethers. These facilities are not ephemeral instruments or mere diagrams but exist through the accrual of constructed forms. These are technologies in themselves but are also their own material and socio-cultural assemblages. In addition, these built forms are commonly abstract images or symbols of scientific activity deployed for various political, cultural, and scientific reasons. In effect, when considering the objective claims of science generally, it is the image of the radio telescope that constructs objectivity as a distinct, iconic, sanitised form. The image of the architectural form is divorced from the messiness of the actual human and technological concentrations that exist within and actively shape it. Architecture as an academic pursuit and practice is primarily concerned with the complexities of human and material assemblages in space. These assemblages embody the complex societies that enable them, their cultures, beliefs, fears, and aspirations. This socio-cultural expression is held in a reinforced concrete bridge as much as it is contained in the ornate capital of a post-modern casino. As such, a site of scientific study embodies an

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architectural expression, and for radio telescopes, these expressions en­ capsulate and shape our human relationship with the universe. Through this lens, architecture is not the administration building adjacent to the 500metre diameter dish reflector. Instead, it is the entire concentrated expres­ sion of our human space-focused ambition as inscribed within a constructed landscape. Few architects were employed in planning each of the four case studies. They may have had design input on a few buildings, but they have seldom had a foundational role in the larger facility’s design or general planning. Despite the massive spatial transformations enacted at each radio telescope, the architect was always peripheral to science-directed decisions. As such, we may interpret these sites as limited regarding their architectural input, as scientific drivers enforce the making of significant spatial transformations and built form. The architect’s role is marginalised at ALMA to the design of the residencia (2017),82 the visitor’s centre at Arecibo (1997),83 and the KAPB building at MeerKAT (2014).84 The thought of a radio telescope being the product of an architectural practice alone is absurd. However, as hyper concentrated and designed environments, the architectural imagina­ tion certainly has major expertise to offer in working with scientists and engineers in planning and reimagining these complex sites, and in partic­ ular, identifying, interpreting, and investigating their broader social, en­ vironmental, and symbolic. An architectural lens offers clarity in understanding and designing the human and built assemblages that are amassed at these concentrated sites. I examine the hyper concentrated assemblage that comprises the radio tele­ scope through the three analytical devices of instrument, object, and image. In Instrument, I denote an architecture and scientific hybrid condition, where architecture serves a central scientific purpose. Secondly, in Object, I describe the formal elements of the concentration, where reflectors, build­ ings, and infrastructure are combined to create the functional formal ex­ pression of the radio telescope. Finally, in Image, I take the formal expression of the concentration one step further into the realm of the abstract symbol, wherein the numerous components of the concentration are lost to the abstraction of the site into a detached symbol of space sci­ ence. I examine these processes in the concluding section of this chapter, Performance, in which the process of space image production closely re­ sembles the negotiated and subjective concentration that comprises the radio telescope itself. Instrument Galileo Galilei built his version of the telescope in 1609 and pointed it towards the night sky.85 In doing so, Galilei’s findings would spark a

Hyper Concentration 191 fundamental shift in the relationship between humans, Earth, and the cosmos in the western world. Building on the work of ancient Greek as­ tronomers Aristarchus, Nicolaus Copernicus, Tycho Brahe, and Johannes Kepler, Galileo served to dethrone geocentrism as the primary model of the universe.86 Instead, with heliocentrism also came the decentring of ‘man’ and ‘God’ and the rise of mathematical rationality centred on measurable processes.87 As a technical human appendage, the telescope aided the massive scientific, philosophical, religious, and social transformations wit­ nessed since the seventeenth century. The early telescope used the simple action of amplifying the light reflecting off distant objects. Through the subsequent centuries, the lens has evolved into reflecting mirrors and, in radio telescopes, reflecting surfaces. Through the centuries, Gallileo’s telescope has experienced constant ex­ perimentation and metamorphosis, extending the hand-held telescope into a built phenomenon anchored to the ground due to its size and complexity. The device evolves with advances in science, mathematics, and engineering, as more complex calculations are enabled, and this precise technology of detailed measurements and computations is re-engineered. The finely ground curvature of the glass lens in Galileo’s telescope has become the infinitely smooth surface of the array of dish reflectors, the large diameters of FAST’s spherical reflector, or each antenna in the MeerKAT array. This lineage, through which telescopes have seen significant evolution, charts the hand-held instrument’s metamorphosis into a rescaled and humanspatialised condition. Today, as these case studies attest, the telescope is no longer a purely optical device tinkered on by a technician with a set of minute screwdrivers. Instead, it is designed for human access, with the human body climbing into and worming its way through most of ALMA’s antennae or traversing the cable bridge to enter Arecibo’s Gregorian dome. It extends the human gaze into space, structures the production of images of space, occupies significant space, and re-scripts landscapes. Each telescope contains a prototypical essence of what came before it. This progression is fundamental yet seldomly discussed, given that we continually assess technological advancement with a future orientation at the cost of a considered historical and human retracing. Within this lineage, the telescope has maintained its role as a human, space-oriented appendage, albeit today exploded in scale and form. The result of this trajectory through time reiterates the radio telescope site as a technological hyper concentration. This designed, functional object has evolved to be both a human appendage and a human space. Within this hybrid scientific form the designer is absent. There is no claim on the spatial expressions of the facility except that made through the logic of scientific efficiency. Similarly, the varied material forms of the complex evade classification within the highly limited and predominantly western annals of architectural history. The facility is not the product of aesthetic philosophy or an expression of potential futures. Instead, the form is an

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assembly of various built components combined with a primary scientific motive: the operation of the radio telescope and expanding human knowledge of the depths of the universe. Due to this singular motive, we align utility and cost to the design intentions of the facility. These telescopes’ substantial and rationalised components embody significantly streamlined design processes. This streamlining allows components, for example, to be interchangeable, standardised, transported, and assembled despite their different origins. This rationalised production chain contains the symbolism of these projects and is an expression of international partnerships, material and scientific capability, global economic processes, and international transport logistics. Together with other associations, such as the displacements at FAST,88 Arecibo as a pride symbol for many Puerto Ricans,89 or MeerKAT as an opportunity out of generational poverty, each telescope symbolically em­ bodies these metabolisms.90 The ‘objective’ scientific forms of these tele­ scopes thus exemplify multiple meanings beyond the scientific. At the same time, these facilities’ formal and aesthetic languages represent our global context and not only engineered scientific rationality. The expression of the telescope’s structure is also not a design that reveals the oft-concealed structure and systems that make buildings work. These formal expressions are still designed and not without intention or sociocultural influence. Take, for example, the classicist detailing of Claude Perrault’s Paris Observatory (1667–1683) or the recycled and eclectic Royal Observatory (1675) in Greenwich, UK, by Christopher Wren. Both build­ ings were among the earliest expressions of scientific facilities and embodied their scientific purpose within their brick and mortar. They are both aligned to meridians (the Paris and Greenwich meridians) and contain important time-keeping devices. They also have much larger windows than their con­ temporaries through which astronomers can observe the night sky. These are an architecture derived from a problem to be solved rather directly.91 As such, these buildings are hybrid formations between architecture and knowledge production and become scientific technologies in themselves through the precise and choreographed assemblage of parts.92 They represent both classical interpretations of the functionality and aesthetics of science as understood in their early modern context. The engineered forms of the case study radio telescopes are not unlike Perrault and Wren’s observatories as they embody contemporary social, political, economic, and scientific expressions, despite their seemingly ‘objective’ presentation. However, an expression of engineered scientific simplicity is still an expression drawn from long-established norms regarding the construction of objectivity within the apparatuses of science. Peter Galison considers ‘mechanical objectivity’ in his analysis of nineteenth-century pic­ torial objectivity in representations of science. He asks, “How is objectivity employed and mobilized by those sorting out the ‘working object’ of

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science?” His question activates ‘objectivity’ as an end, the requirement underpinning the truth claims of emergent sciences in the nineteenth century. The result is an architecture-technology hybrid, a single concentration that transformed space into a lived and technological purpose, an architecture of science. Despite the objectivity implied by ‘scientific’ architecture, these complexes are products of broad socio-spatial processes within science. As a result, their production is not scientific or objective in their outcome. These are architectural expressions of social, scientific, and technological requirements. Object The need for science to enact objectivity has a long history with origins in the nineteenth-century segregation of science and art that became en­ trenched in the twentieth century.94 Science represented rationality, objec­ tivity, and falsifiability, while art enacted the emotive, subjective, and expressive. Despite this split, there were, at times, overlaps. These, of which my work is an example, offer new potentials in architecture and science. The radio telescope is a designed, material, and human object which em­ bodies a socio-historical complexity and spatial hybridity. It is an abstract, elusive construct: at once, a city, an instrument, a home, a machine, an office. While reduced to an abstract representation of Galileo’s telescope as a technology of science, the sites studied embody complex spatial arrangements and formal expressions at the scale of human experience. Unlike other sci­ entific instrumentation, such as a microscope, they are inhabitable, and their forms are significant, built, and architectural in scale. For example, the elegant drape of the massive double-curved spherical reflector at FAST achieves the scientific goals of the telescope, but within it exists a perfect geometry, an upturned dome rendered in pure whiteness. The inverted sphere invokes the Platonic form of French architect ÉtienneLouis Boullée’s Cenotaph for Newton (1784) in its embodiment of pure geometry and as a reading of beauty as encapsulated in a cosmic or uni­ versal order. However, unlike Boullée’s paper proposal, the dish reflector is an operational device; its exact geometric form is distorted by thousands of actuators. While monumental in scale and unlike a heavy and permanent cenotaph, the materiality of the reflector is transparent and thin. I felt not only a sublime incomprehensibility when viewing the reflector, but I immediately considered the human aspects of the dish, such as its immen­ sity, construction, and accessibility. The large ring girder and the tall towers around the reflector invoke stadia or a large, suspected, and technoconfident structure: The Millennium Dome (1999).95 But FAST is not a structure designed for human interaction. Despite this, the human experi­ ence of FAST belies its outward expression of scientific rationality. Beneath the spherical reflector and shielded from the public gaze, there exists a complex world of actuators, roads, drainage canals, cable systems, and lush

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Figure 5.8 A pathway on the underside of the FAST reflector dish. Note the numerous actuators anchor the surface to the hillside (left) and a Tillandsia epiphyte growing on the reflector mesh of the Arecibo telescope (right).

vegetation that has returned to inhabit the reconstituted depression floor (Figure 5.8). Despite being warned of wasps that lurk under the thousands of suspended aluminium panels, we could not pass up the opportunity to experience the dish’s underside and stand at the centre of the depression. The experience was one of a strange distortion: As the curve of the structure descended close to the lay of the topography in some parts and far away from it in others, the dappled light created an ethereal experience, and the curving of the long road to the bottom leaves you without easy orientation. It is within this interstitial zone between the iconic scientific structure and the topography it conceals that the architectural qualities of this instrument became most palpable. This experience is perhaps due to the scaling phe­ nomenon that occurs when a structure sweeps overhead. Not only do you feel the solid architectural sense of enclosure, but space becomes scaled in relation to the human and nature below. From above, however, the tele­ scope dish remains an abstract, suspended and inhospitable form. Under the reflector, you realise the intense connection the reflector has to the topog­ raphy, the challenges of drainage, and the troublesome actuators. I had a similar experience walking alone around the perimeter of the Arecibo reflector. From this side-on perspective, the reflector resembled a giant fence as its rim lifted above you. Nestled in the reflector surface were many Tillandsia epiphytes (Figure 5.8). Having clung to the mesh structure, the air plants thrived, fuelled by the moist breeze that passed through the reflector surface. In this context-specific interaction, within the ‘messiness’ of these telescopes’ hidden or inexperienced fissures, you experience an architectural quality. These spaces reveal contextual overlaps, complexities, and the unexpected as conditions scaled to human interaction.

Hyper Concentration 195 Herein exists a contradiction. On the one hand, the radio telescope is contextually tethered to a scalar, human-technological condition. At the same time, it also exists as an abstract geometry imposed on a landscape evoking fictional representations of science through its inherent contrast in form, scale, and purpose to the surrounding environment. I call the first the architectural expression of the telescope and the second the image of the radio telescope. Both exist concurrently as spatial phenomena, but the first relates to the telescope’s human complexities, which have been socially externalised by the second in producing abstract representations and sym­ bols of science. These images of science are decontextualised but for largescale regional or national identifiers. I now examine the formation of the scientific image as an abstract representation of the radio telescope. Image The image of the radio telescope is an impression distinct from the site’s lived reality. It actively abstracts and reduces the radio telescope to a neartradable symbolic device in a capitalist branding and marketing context. Instead of carrying direct financial worth – although certainly embodying each facility’s substantial price tag – the image is a signifier of science, nationalism, space, and technological optimism. The image is employed widely as a developmental driver in Pingtang County, as a mark of national pride for South Africa, as a celebration of Chilean internationalism, or as an important tourist site for the town of Arecibo. For the astronomers involved in research at each facility, and the staff working at each, the telescope’s image represents their research and achievements. At its core, the image is a condition of the hyper concentrated facility as it never en­ capsulates the territorial and networked dimensions of the telescope. Instead, it always represents the singular scientific image of the antennae array or fixed spherical reflector. It is a condensed and abstract impression of the hyper concentrated facility. At FAST, as it was at Arecibo, the image is made manifest in the form of a public viewing platform, enabling a live experience of the image while maintaining human detachment. The onlooker’s experience closely re­ sembles the photograph, albeit in three dimensions. Like a representation, the telescope is a visual spectacle experienced from afar without human closeness. The visitors’ centre perched above the reflector at some distance away is the stadium structure enabling the public witnessing of science, a largescale rendition of Robert Boyle’s seventeenth-century public experi­ ments.96 However, the spectator is substantially removed from the tele­ scope operations, bearing witness to only one core element: the dish reflector spectacle. Within the reflector’s image, a seemingly objective ex­ pression of science is contained rather than the scientific experiment itself. Its messy components are either removed from public sight or disguised in the complex assemblage.

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The spectator platforms are specific to the large spherical reflectors, not the antennae arrays. As such, ALMA and MeerKAT are difficult for visitors to experience physically. Also, visitor access is severely limited. However, MeerKAT offers a guided tour every several months, and ALMA welcomes visitor groups. The former is given access to the array in a controlled manner. At the same time, at ALMA, groups seldom travel up to the array and are instead able to visit the OSF and see an antenna should it be located at the OSF for maintenance. MeerKAT and ALMA do not exhibit the spectacle seen at the spherical dish antennae but still elicit public interest as large arrays. However, for all case studies, their complexity is reduced to flat images which travel far beyond the local physical experience of visits. They find great use in the media as they report on the science active at each radio telescope. Maintaining the image of the telescope is an ongoing task for staff at each facility. At Arecibo, this involved cleaning the encroaching forest from the reflector to draw positive responses from funders such as the NSF. As Córdova explains: When I started here, a lot of my initial requests to my maintenance team were to paint the buildings, clean the dish, clean the green wall etc. They’d protest and say that it doesn’t affect the science, but I believe that it affects people’s eyes. When they walk in, they want to see something that’s properly maintained, not old and run down. It gives you a different impression. Surprisingly, when the NSF came down multiple times to do their visits, they would always say that they’ve never seen this facility so well maintained. You have to spend resources on it.97 In maintaining the image of the telescope reflector, even though it is not strictly necessary for the scientific project, the telescope was brought closer to resembling a pristine and a-contextual scientific instrument. A space device, closer to gleaming satellites and SpaceX Crew Dragon passenger pods than the humidity-loving epiphytes of Arecibo. Similarly, FAST’s image of the 500-metre diameter reflector compared to Arecibo’s 305-metre gave the project the moniker of the ‘largest fixed dish telescope in the world.’98 The dish’s very image has driven interest in it and supplied the symbolic political clout that replacing the symbol of the USA’s largest dish reflector has given China. There is no doubt that FAST will be an important and leading telescope. Still, advances in other radio astronomy approaches may have been more important scientifically than a large, fixed dish reflector. However, the image of a scattered array is certainly less impressive than that of the single and massive fixed dish reflector. In participating in the ‘bigness’ competition, the SKA commonly deploys the image of its dish array extending across the African continent.99 It is unlikely that the final SKA, including the MeerKAT antennae at its core, will ever see an expansion to this extent. Still, the image raises the ‘bigness’

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Figure 5.9 The array of SKA telescopes as once envisaged extending from the core area in the central Karoo outwards across eight African partner countries.

stakes as the SKA appears continental (Figure 5.9). The continental array is arranged in an unfolding spiralling-arm pattern, not unlike the golden ratio spiral or, indeed, the spiralling arms of a galaxy. The decreasing density of antennae as the array stretches outwards is a pragmatic solution. The optimal design would be a completely random scattering of antennae at decreasing densities as the array extends outwards. This layout would en­ sure the maximisation of angles and baselines between antennae. But, as the SKA notes, the spiralling arms offer a workable trade-off between a random array and one arranged according to a logic that enables clear infrastructure connections and links between antennae.100 The image of the spiral arms extending outwards from the Karoo and across the continent imputes a rational and geometric spatial orientation that appears far from random. Indeed, as the project nears finalisation, many antennae are adjusted to be built on favourable topography and to avoid environmental or socially important areas. The fissure between the designed, lived, and human radio telescope and the facility’s global, abstract, and scientific image is at the centre of the

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hyper concentrated facility. This fissure is operative as it instils scientific rationality and order into the facility; science as science is perceived to be. It removes the complex human and technological assemblages from the facility. In doing so, the architectural qualities of the facility are separated, enforcing the image of the scientific object instead. As I will now demon­ strate through a review of how images of radio astronomy are developed and disseminated, each facility is engaged in producing images of the uni­ verse. These images embody the same obscurations and abstractions en­ acted by the radio telescope.

Performance As concentrated agglomerations built to study the universe, each radio telescope site, in effect, establishes a terrestrial connection with outer space. The computers, cleaning staff, diesel generators, branded mugs, and cryo­ genically cooled receivers are all concentrated in space to perform one incredibly intricate task: receiving the imperceptibly faint radio waves that traverse space and time across our universe. Analogous to the spatial concentration of materials and systems that comprise each radio telescope on Earth, space research at these facilities most commonly offers a hyper concentrated view of the universe.101 Interpreting these radio telescopes as formations of concentrated human and material assemblages is directly tied to their purpose in producing images of outer space. The observatory has long been the bastion of astronomical knowledge, wherein experienced researchers employing advanced technologies reach into the universe and capture glimpses of the infinite, imperceptible world beyond. For the public, the observatory’s function is clearly understood. However, when images of our universe are released in journal publica­ tions and the media, and the public imagination is heightened by a dis­ covery, little focus is given to the means through which the image is constructed. The image produced of space by radio telescopes is not unlike the image of radio telescopes themselves – an abstract representation. A useful logic thus presents itself, in which the radio telescope is a produced space employed in the production of outer space itself. In the mid-nineteenth century, astronomers were deeply engaged with the question of producing and reproducing images of the universe, as witnessed through their optical telescopes.102 The story of John Herschel is particularly pertinent. As a revered English astronomer and general polymath, his observations of the Orion Nebula carried public interest. Herschel was concerned with producing ‘faithful’ copies of observations through etching, as etches were easily reproducible. Charles Smyth, a colleague of Herschel’s in Cape Town, established standards for crafting etchings to mechanise image production and enable an aesthetic baseline for comparing and inter­ preting the Nebula’s forms.103 As argued by Simon Schaffer, the images produced came to embody dominant physiognomic ways of seeing in

Hyper Concentration 199 Victorian England, which permeated both the colony and the homeland, supporting racist, imperial, and classist perceptions.104 Viewing the Moon ‘upside down’ from Cape Town, Herschel observed that the Moon presents a round, dull, blotchy human face, with broad nose sulky mouth and standing perpendicularly has just the effect of some preternatural being – Demon – or god of some barbarous nation looking down on his African territory […] the European face is quite lost, by the reversal of its position.105 Herschel publicly described his image of the Orion Nebula as offering “a resemblance to the head and yawning jaws of some monstrous animal, with a sort of proboscis running out from the snout.”106 Decades later, William Parsons, Earl of Rosse, distributed his own images of the Nebula as seen through his six-foot mirror erected on his Irish estate. These were of better resolution, clarity, and precision when compared to Herschel’s but were the product of less-than-ideal circumstances, including a lens that needed constant cleaning to enable a brief view of the Nebula. The monstrous face was absent, but Rosse’s reputation and the reputation of his telescope ensured public acceptance and support. Schaffer argues that despite the images’ accuracy, the images drew their authority and credibility from the public culture in which they were employed. He concludes: Though it was in fact John Herschel, not Lord Rosse, who was responsible for the fearsome physiognomy de Quincy had first inter­ preted, this was nevertheless a palpable hit. The power of the Leviathan [as Rosse’s telescope was known] to produce images could not guarantee its power to reproduce those pictures’ interpretations.107 This nineteenth-century example of the production and interpretation of astronomical images offers an early picture of attempts to construct sci­ entific objectivity. Of course, as demonstrated here, any scientific worth or ‘objectivity’ afforded the pictures is derived from within public culture. The affirmation of the product was related to the credibility and respect gar­ nered by the astronomer and telescope. Lord Rosse was famous for his work, and his six-foot diameter telescope, the largest in the world, had garnered public interest and significance. As Schaffer notes, John Jellet’s question in an 1867 eulogy for Rosse presented the ‘right’ question: “Who is there that has not heard of Lord Rosse’s telescope?”108 When imaged 127 years later between 1994 and 1995 by the Hubble Space Telescope, the Orion Nebula required 45 separate images to capture its entirety.109 The telescope recorded a highly accurate and detailed rep­ resentation of the well-documented Nebula for the first time, which the James Webb telescope would significantly enhance in 2022. The gaseous layering of subtle colours and the electric white bursts of stars form what

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the Hubble program described as having features comparable to the Grand Canyon, with “a dramatic surface topography – of glowing gasses instead of rock – with peaks, valleys, and walls.”110 Once again, the Orion Nebula was being interpreted through the lens of public culture. In this case, however, the gaseous formation becomes a monumental US landscape, symbolising the US west’s natural sublime and vast ruggedness. Similar interpretations abound regarding the famous Eagle Nebula (1995), which NASA named ‘The Pillars of Creation,’ as Elizabeth Kessler notes. It wasn’t long before viewers called into a CNN talk show detailing their interpretation of a western image of Jesus in the gaseous clouds above the ‘pillars.’111 The production of NASA’s Hubble images has seen evolution through the 1990s, as plotted by Kessler. As a charged-couple device (CCD) camera, Hubble employs the same technology as digital cameras today, where an array of electronic cells records light intensity variations. Unlike traditional cameras, CCDs capture light information digitally as a value. The resultant benefit of CCD technology is that one produces an image and a dataset, both capable of digital alteration or enhancement.112 Hubble images are black and white at the source and often contain artefacts that must be scrubbed out of the picture for clarity. However, the sublime colour images of the universe produced by Hubble are the product of aesthetic decisionmaking on the part of scientists, in which colours are applied to various light wavelengths to create an image familiar or indeed fathomable to human vision. Should a human see a comparable view of the Orion or Eagle Nebula first-hand, it would appear completely different. Certainly, the frame of view manufactured by flat images of the universe is a second construction enacted on these representations by our human gaze. Placing a specific portion of the universe, delineating it as a singular object – a nebula or galaxy, for example –frames it as a complete expression, applying colour and orientation standards to create a produced image brought into numerous and long-established western modes of seeing. For example, there remains a standard for orienting images of space so that the ‘top’ of the image faces north. This process does not mean that these images are without scientific value, as colour can assist in discerning features. However, as Kessler sug­ gests, the production of Hubble images is closely tied to sustaining the instrument as a successful scientific tool, particularly in the mid-1990s, de­ livered impressive images to validate the significant research spend dedicated to the project.113 Returning to terrestrial radio telescopes, the image production process is unlike that of Hubble, as sensors receive waves, and their signal is digitised and processed. However, the waves recorded by radio telescopes are not visible to the human eye. They are not optical telescopes and do not seek to register light waves as they reflect off various formations in space. Instead, radio telescopes are engaged in producing images of the completely imperceptible. A pertinent example is the EHT which famously generated the first image of a black hole located at the centre of the galaxy Messier 87,

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Figure 5.10 The black hole located at the centre of the Messier 87 galaxy.

released on 10 April 2019 (Figure 5.10). For the observation, the longbaseline interferometer combined eight radio telescopes, including ALMA, located on four different continents and Hawai’i, together with the assistance of several NASA spacecraft.114 The combined telescope has a resolution 4,000 times greater than that of Hubble.115 The ground-breaking graphic reveals a dark black centre that glows a vibrant red and orange energy ring. The centre or ‘shadow’ is black as it captures light and energy. In producing the image, the MIT Haystack Observatory and the Max Planck Institute for Radio Astronomy took data from all participating observatories, correlating it in two separate batches.116 The colours used on the resulting and widely published image resulted from aesthetic choices by scientists. As Sean Doherty notes: The decisions regarding the colour representation of an image is up to personal choice as there is no standard. All those things are false colour images. Radio observations are all false colours. In optical, it’s different, but in radio, it’s false colour. We can do whatever our imagination wants. Psychologically it’s very important to choose those colours carefully because of our perceptions of what space looks like. The black hole could have been represented as a rainbow, but this might have been harder to believe. In truth, it’s simply not visible; the shape is what is so important. The colour is not an important detail. The nature of the slope and the shape is what’s important. If you did it as contours – the way you should do it – is just not that exciting. It has to be credible.117

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The image needs to be exciting to provoke public interest. Red and yellow are assumed to offer greater credibility and exhilaration to the scientific project than a rainbow or blue and green. The former is commonly allied to glee, unicorns, rainbows, pride parades, and children’s parties, which does not suggest serious science. Similarly, blue tones would mean a formation more passive or frozen than the ‘monstrous’ black hole as described by Heino Falcke of Radboud University in the Netherlands, who proposed the project.118 Green tones may infer organic life, while red tones enliven the black hole as a fiery, dangerous, and geomorphological phenomenon similar to lava flows or renderings of the Earth’s molten core.119 Notably, the image is rendered in black, denoting the context of space and invoking a contextual accuracy from which a lay observer may assume accurate rep­ resentation. In effect, the black hole image carries elements of the same subjective content as Herschel’s Orion Nebula. However, science today disassociates with notions of giant space creatures but continues anthro­ pomorphising space phenomena as ‘monsters’ and colours them to suit. After enquiring further regarding the colour choices of other radio astronomy images, Thais Mandiola, ALMA visitor coordinator, states that should the electromagnetic spectrum observed in radio astronomy be somehow visible to the human eye, they would equate to an additional twenty new col­ ours. She concedes, “OK, we admit it, the application of pseudo-colour is mainly to make the images look more exciting, although it does improve the contrast of fine details a bit.”120 The radio telescope operates, therefore, as a physical and spatial con­ struct, an architecture. This assemblage not only seeks out knowledge of the universe through the eye of the astronomer and the hand of the engineer but is complicit in constructing that image per its self-ordained value system. As the primary public output of several world-leading institutions and observatories, the fortress of scientific rationality and objectivity weakens as ‘excitement’ is offered up as a reason for colour choice. Users of the image may feel tricked by its pseudo-realism. However, Latour asks us to pay attention to iconophilia, as opposed to idolatry, the “movement, the passage, the transition from one form of image to another,” not just a visual freeze frame of scientific practice.121 While my interest in the final image produced by astronomers focuses on the final output, it is because this image captures features of the transitions enacted in its development. I interpret this not as a freeze-frame or a final product but rather a continuum that is carried beyond the scientific and into the public, retaining, as Latour has previously described, qualities of the immutable mobile. Here, a constant remains despite the transformations enacted on a fact, knowledge, or image.122 The freeze-frame enacts “a proper form of invisibility.”123 The image of the black hole is an artificial image in which the hundred or so intermediary steps that enable the existence of the image to disappear into one shape that will remain throughout future rerepresentations. The instrument that sets the production of the image in

Hyper Concentration 203 motion is captured in the same process. As the image travels, transforms, and finds new mediations, so does the radio telescope. The iconic photograph of each of the case studies discussed here travels far beyond its site or location as an image.124 This abstraction or simplification of the radio telescope and visual representations of its scientific outputs are distilled into generally comprehensible forms and gain traction with broad publics. Extending Latour’s analogy further and with explicit reference to the radio astronomy site, if the iconophilic harbours the hundreds of mediations that an image, place, or idea has embodied, humans have never seen the Orion Nebula, let alone the surface of Mars. Instead, we have witnessed images frozen in their constant becoming, mediated through multiple actants, technologies, inter­ pretations, additions, and subtractions. Herein lies the entanglement between the radio telescope’s socio-spatial production and outer space’s socio-spatial production. The image of the radio telescope thus emerges in abstract form, as does the image of the phenomenon studied. Both are constructed intentionally and transformed through the needs of institutional funders, political bodies, and partner organisations to perform advancement and scientific progress. This influ­ ence is achieved in the public realm as the images are aggressively simplified and abstracted. Like the radio telescope – the vast white dish in the hills, the research output, and the burning ring of fire – finds public mobility. At some point, the space of the radio telescope and the research output of the telescope see credibility as a scientific formation, without the ephemera of the Arecibo scientists’ outdoor dance classes, for example, or the com­ plexity of contoured black hole representations. These images become sci­ entific signifiers of advancement and excellence as they forge into socially mandated formations. Despite its accuracy, an over-grown Arecibo pro­ ducing rainbow-hued images of a near-earth asteroid would not embody the credibility standards demanded of scientific outputs. This abstraction represents the fortress as an isolated symbol, not as the immensely hybrid, connected, human, and spatial condition this image obscures. In conclusion, the radio telescope comprises three co-producing spati­ alities. The first is that of the territory, or the extensive terrestrial for­ mations that are acted upon dialectically: synchronously operationalised and yet, at the same time, inactivated. Secondly, human and technological concentrations entangle in close physical proximity. This concentration is the lived architectural machinery of the radio telescope that, when combined, enacts the performance of science enabled through the infra­ structure tethers that support it. Finally, we have outer space itself, spe­ cifically the interplay between the public spectator, the scientific performer, and the image of the scientific finding. These final two spati­ alities are co-conditions of hyper concentration as they both exist as complex processes and assemblages reliant on one another to exist in significant focus and concentration but are simultaneously distilled and abstracted into transmutable formations.

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The result of these spatial, technological, human, and iconophilic pro­ cesses is not a static scientific output, even though a ground-breaking sci­ entific effect is desired. Instead, these processes remain active and enact transformations at multiple levels. As a concentrated spatial phenomenon, the development of the radio telescope radically transforms a site and re­ orients its meaning into one of space science. As a networked and territorial phenomenon, the telescope enacts influence and control over the wider region it has reshaped. At the same time, this spatial reconfiguration is implicit in the making of universal space, re-charting the universe, ex­ tending our human knowledge of outer space and, in doing so, enlivening new spatial territories. In turn, the spatial meaning on Earth is animated and reshaped. Through these processes, the telescope and its scientific outputs embody transmutable artefacts, constantly transforming into ab­ stractions and symbols. These processes are inherently spatial and result in the transformation of space writ large. For example, in the context of the radio telescope, science is not a neutral actor and participates in a competitive race for funding, political favour, and public support. In doing so, it embodies similar forces within capitalism and enacts spatial change and processes of territorialisation. Concurrently, however, there emerges a spatial episte­ mology in which the forms and assemblages of the radio telescope are sociocultural products in themselves. Identifying the radio telescope’s spatiality and the human/technological concentration connects architecture’s inten­ tional, theoretical, and material lineages to scientific form, folding it into a subjective, even artistic process. We undermine the fortress around knowledge production by seeing the intentional, designed, and spatial inside the scientific. Its numerous fissures become alive with enmeshed forms of experimenting, seeing, crafting, building, and critiquing. In the next chapter, I build on these footings to analyse the elusive or productive moments in which the abstract formation of the scientific instrument cracks open, revealing the complexities and cultures within.

Notes 1 Bennett, Jay. 2016. ‘The Largest Radio Telescope in the World Could Be Shuttered,’ Popular Mechanics. Online: https://www.popularmechanics.com/ space/telescopes/a21202/arecibo-telescope-funding-nsf/ 2 See Latour, Bruno. 1994. and Verbeek, Peter Paul. 2011. 3 Haraway, Donna. 1995. 4 Haraway, Donna. 2012. ‘Awash in Urine: DES and Premarin® in Multispecies Response-ability,’ WSQ: Women’s Studies Quarterly 40 (1 and 2). p. 4. 5 Haraway, Donna. 2012. p.4. 6 Latour used hybrid widely to account for the ‘collective’ human and nonhuman, see Latour, Bruno. 1993. 7 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 8 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 9 Mizuno, Norikazu. 2019. In-person interview by author.

Hyper Concentration 205 10 Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. NA (c). ‘ALMA Management,’ ALMA. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-at-firstglance/the-people/alma-management/ 11 Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. NA (d). ‘Factsheet,’ ALMA. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/factsheet/ 12 Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. NA (e). ‘The Workers at ALMA,’ ALMA. Online: https://www.almaobservatory.org/en/about-alma-atfirst-glance/the-people/the-workers-at-alma/ 13 Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array. NA (e). 14 Baerwald, Andres. 2019. In-person interview by author. 15 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 16 Baerwald, Andres. 2019. 17 Peña Ralph, Nicolas. 2019. In-person interview by author. 18 Wencai, Wu. 2019. 19 Peng, Bo. 2019. 20 Yue, Nannan. 2019. In-person interview by author. 21 Yue, Nannan. 2019. 22 Lake, Sean. 2019. In-person interview by author. 23 Peng, Bo. 2019. 24 Mathews, John. 2019. In-person interview by author. 25 Vasquez, Angel. 2019. 26 Vasquez, Angel. 2019. 27 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. In-person interview by author. 28 Vasquez, Angel. 2019. 29 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. 30 Sharpe, Carla. 2020. 31 Hoek, Niels. 2020. In-person interview by author. 32 Sharpe, Carla. 2020. 33 Binneman, Anton. 2019. In-person interview by author. 34 Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. 35 Herrera, Daniel. 2019. In-person interview by author. 36 Gatica, Juan Carlos. 2019. In-person interview by author. 37 Mizuno, Norikazu. 2019. 38 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 39 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. 40 Herrera, Jorge. 2019. In-person interview by author. 41 Quintero, Luiz. 2019. 42 Jordaan, Ben. 2020. In-person interview by author. 43 George, Joleen. 2020. In-person interview by author. 44 Hoek, Niels. 2020. 45 Binneman, Anton. 2020. 46 Including the curious request I saw him ponder, as to whether it was ethical for SARAO to assist the children of Carnarvon in filling up a swimming pool with water for them to swim in, when residents of neighboring Williston currently had no access to piped potable water. 47 Cheetham, Tracy. 2019. 48 Ngoasheng, Khutšo. 2020. 49 Sharpe, Carla. 2020. 50 Sharpe, Carla. 2020. 51 George, Joleen. 2020. 52 Hoek, Niels. 2020. 53 Jordaan, Ben. 2020. 54 In-person interviews by author.

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55 The construction of the SKA will limit MeerKAT operations, and in the end the MeerKAT will be integrated into the SKA. It will still be visible as a slightly different array within the large SKA, and could be operated on its own, but will essentially become consumed by the larger international project. 56 Cruzat, Fabiola. 2019. In-person interview by author. 57 Mizuno, Norikazo. 2019. 58 Saldias, Christian. 2019. In-person interview by author. 59 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 60 Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. 61 Mizuno, Norikazo. 2019. 62 Gendron-Marsolais, Marie-Lou. 2019. 63 Cruzat, Fabiola. 2019. 64 In-person interviews by author. 65 In-person interviews by author. 66 Mathews, John. 2019. 67 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. 68 Cabrera, Israel. 2019. In-person interview by author. 69 Vasquez, Angel. 2019. 70 Muniz, Edwin. 2019. In-person interview by author. 71 In-person interviews by author. 72 Sulzer, Michael. 2019. In-person interview by author. 73 Damodaran, Anish Roshi. 2019. In-person interview by author. 74 Quintero, Luiz. 2019. 75 In-person interviews by author. 76 Peng, Bo. 2019. 77 Haraway, Donna. 2012. 78 Mathews, John. 2019. 79 Wencai, Wu. 2019. 80 Peña Ralph, Nicolas. 2019. 81 Makhubu, Nomfundo 2019. In-person interview by author. 82 The residencia was designed by Finnish architects Kouvo & Partanen. 83 By architect Luis Badillo. 84 By architect Riette Basson. The FAST Comprehensive Building was designed by engineering practice China IPPR International Engineering and the OSF by engineering practice, Fitchner. 85 Cox, Lauren. 2017. ‘Who invented the telescope?’ Space.com. Online: https:// www.space.com/21950-who-invented-the-telescope.html 86 Geocentrism denotes the belief that the Earth is the fixed center of the universe, as opposed to heliocentrism which describes the contemporary scientific un­ derstanding of the rotation of the Earth and other planets around the Sun. 87 See Hannam, James. 2009. God’s Philosophers: How the Medieval World Laid the Foundations of Modern Science. London, UK: Icon Books. 88 See Agence France-Presse. 2016. 89 See Nir, Sarah Maslin and Samantha Schmidt. 2016. ‘Puerto Rican Pride Shines in Parade, Despite the Island’s Woes,’ New York Times. Online: https:// www.nytimes.com/2016/06/13/nyregion/puerto-rican-pride-shines-in-paradedespite-the-islands-woes.html 90 See Sharpe, Carla. 2020. 91 Louw, Hentie. 2003. ‘The Windows of Perrault’s Observatory in Paris (1667–1683): The Legacy of a proto-modern Architectural Inventor,’ Construction History 19, pp. 19–46. 92 See Picon, Antoine. 1989. Claude Perrault, 1613–1688, ou la curiosité d’un Classique. Paris, France: Picard.

Hyper Concentration 207 93 Galison, Peter. 1998. ‘Judgment Against Objectivity,’ in Jones, Caroline, A. and Galison, Peter (eds.) Picturing Science Producing Art. New York, NY.: Routledge. p. 328. 94 See Jones, Caroline, A. and Galison, Peter. 1998. ‘Introduction,’ in Jones, Caroline, A. and Galison, Peter (eds.) Picturing Science Producing Art. New York, NY.: Routledge, and Galison, Peter. 1999. The Architecture of Science. Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press. 95 The large exhibition hall designed by the studio of Richard Rogers and built on the Greenwich Peninsula, London is today known as The Dome. 96 See Shapin, Steven and Schaffer, Simon. 1985. The Leviathan and the Air-Pump. Princeton, NJ.: Princeton University Press 97 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. 98 This term is used as a prominent description of FAST. For example, see Gough, Evan. 2020. ‘China’s Absolutely Massive Radio Telescope FAST Is Now Fully Operational,’ Science Alert. Online: https://www.sciencealert.com/china-s-huge500-meter-fast-radio-telescope-is-finally-up-and-running and Outlook India. 2020. ‘World’s Largest Telescope is Now Operational in China,’ Outlook India. Online: https://www.outlookindia.com/outlooktraveller/travelnews/story/ 70030/worlds-largest-telescope-is-now-operational-in-china 99 See SKA Organization. 2010. ‘SKA in Africa,’ SKA Organization. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/multimedia/image/ska-africa/ 100 Cheetham, Tracy. 2019. 101 Astronomical surveys are an exception to the hyper-focused image production implicit in radio astronomy, however, despite the knitting together of a broader image of the universe, surveys too are employed in very specific regions relative to the visible sky. 102 See Schaffer, Simon. 1998. ‘On Astronomical Drawing,’ in Jones, Caroline, A. and Galison, Peter (eds.) Picturing Science Producing Art. New York, NY.: Routledge. 103 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. 104 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. 105 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. p. 446. 106 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. p. 454. 107 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. p. 468. 108 Schaffer, Simon. 1998. p. 468. 109 Kessler, Elizabeth. 2012. Picturing the Cosmos: Hubble Space Telescope Images and the Astronomical Sublime. Minneapolis, MN.: University of Minnesota Press. 110 Kessler, Elizabeth. 2012. p. 43. 111 Kessler, Elizabeth. 2012. 112 Kessler, Elizabeth. 2012. 113 Kessler, Elizabeth. 2012. 114 Lutz, Ota. 2019. ‘How Scientists Captured the First Image of a Black Hole,’ NASA JPL. Online: https://www.jpl.nasa.gov/edu/news/2019/4/19/howscientists-captured-the-first-image-of-a-black-hole/ 115 Lutz, Ota. 2019. 116 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 117 Doherty, Sean. 2019. 118 Ghosh, Pallab. 2019. ‘First Ever Black Hole Image Released,’ BBC World. Online: https://www.bbc.com/news/science-environment-47873592 119 Various studies on social references to colors, particularly in color psychology and marketing support common-held color associations, such as red referring to danger or excitement, black associating with fear and sophistication. One study in particular (Feng, Lesot, and Detyniecki 2010) compiled social image

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Hyper Concentration tags and found that images denoting fear were 2.5 times more likely to contain the presence of black, and those denoting anger were two times more likely to contain the presence of red. See Feng, Haifeng; Lesot, Marie-Jeanne; and Detyniecki, Marcin. 2010. ‘Using Association Rules to Discover ColorEmotion Relationships Based on Social Tagging,’ in Setchi, Rossitza; Jordanov, Ivan; Howlett, Robert J.; and Jain, Lakhmi C. (eds) Knowledge-Based and Intelligent Information and Engineering Systems, vol 6276. Berlin: Springer. and Labrecque, Lauren I. and Milne, George R. 2012. ‘Exciting red and competent blue: the importance of color in marketing,’ Journal of the Academy of Marketing Sciences 40, pp. 711–727. Mandiola, Thais. 2019. Latour, Bruno. 1998. ‘How to be Iconophilic in Art, Science, and Religion?’ in Jones, Caroline, A. and Galison, Peter (eds.) Picturing Science Producing Art. New York, NY.: Routledge. p. 421. Latour, Bruno. 1998. p. 426 and Latour, Bruno. 1990. ‘Drawing Things Together,’ in Michael Lynch and Woolgar, Steve (eds), Representation in Scientific Practice. Cambridge, MA.: MIT Press. Latour, Bruno. 1998. p. 436. Latour, Bruno. 1998. p. 429.

6

Negotiating Contingencies

Multiple satellite technologies have for decades occupied the orbital zone around Earth. Many of these are functionally benign and make life on Earth easier and more efficient for those with access. In numerous cases, private companies rely on satellite technology as a backbone to systems such as cmmunications, geo-location, and weather forecasting. Similarly, broad access to the USA’s GPS satellite network has fundamentally changed how many of us interact with our lived environments. The social impacts of sat­ ellite technology have been immense. Yet, few realise those moments when a signal transmission from a satellite hovering above Earth impacts their lives. As our human dependence on space-based technology has increased over time, low Earth orbit has grown increasingly crowded with satellites and space debris. Property regimes and agreements do not govern space, but the 1967 UN Outer Space Treaty1 offers the greatest clarity on how nation-states should interact in and with outer space. Without clear rules, the orbital zone remains governed predominantly by international cooperation, as guided by the Treaty, but these are vague, particularly regarding resource extraction. International collaboration also takes a pragmatic approach to sharing space. For example, nations may be weary of actions that cause a satellite to break apart, creating orbital debris. These may travel faster than seven times the speed of a bullet and can damage satellites.2 Space debris affects space technology without prejudice and threatens all space interests, so destroying an adversary’s satellite would negatively impact your own. Despite this, Earth’s orbit has become an increasingly militarised zone in which nation-states have begun to test various technologies that can destroy or disable satellites. This new space of warfare could have dramatic consequences on Earth. Disabling the GPS network, for example, would send much of the world into disarray, as would the significant debris field resulting from the destruction of satellites. In 2007, space observers’ fears were realised when China launched a missile into orbit and destroyed one of its ageing satellites.3 The resulting debris field from the explosion is said to have added roughly 3,000 different fragments in orbit.4 With the launch came the realisation that low Earth orbit presents an equal playing field, albeit dominated by the USA, in which numerous nations and corporations have generally participated DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-6

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according to a level of co-respect. The destruction of China’s satellite, an intentional military act, radically transformed Earth’s orbit into a contested space in which military might dictates terrestrial political and economic dominance. This realisation was again brought home in 2014 when a small satellite, assumed to be space debris and monitored as such, started moving out of sync with other similar junk. ‘Object 2014-28E’ could sidle up to another satellite and potentially disable it.5 This event was surprising for monitors who had no idea that Object 2014-28E meant Russia had developed the capacity to operate robotic satellites capable of disabling others. Since the appearance of Object 2014-28E and China’s missile strike on its satellite, all three major space nations, the USA, China, and Russia, have advanced their military technologies. Numerous other Russian satellites like Object 2014-28E have been identified; China has continued ballistic missile tests into orbit and developed close-proximity satellites like Object 2014-28E. Similarly, the USA has developed similar technologies and shot down a satellite of its own, albeit already falling from orbit.6 Other nations have joined in the fray: India has launched its missile test and destroyed a satellite in low orbit, sending several pieces of debris into a similar trajectory as the International Space Station. France is developing laser technology to blind satellites, and North Korea is reportedly advancing satellite jamming technology.7 The effect of these advances extends and mimics Cold War operations.8 As history demonstrates, initial explorative missions often carried out in the name of knowledge and religion serve to reveal and fold unknown places into the rubrics of exploratory power, inscribing the apparatus through which territorial conquest later follows. Earth’s orbit is not planetary terrain, and traditional rules of military engagement do not apply as there exists no sovereignty or territorial delineation within space. As more nations develop space technology in the twenty-first century, there is no doubt that greater regulation and control of space and the Earth’s orbital zone will become essential. However, a return to the Outer Space Treaty9 – albeit updated and improved – seems elusive. Instead, significant effort and expense have gone into developing military technologies designed to impede and destroy. This investment, combined with the formation of the US Space Force in early 2020, continues to support an increasingly militarised outer space.10 As I consider these efforts by nation-states to enact territorial dominance in a spatial state without land, air, or sea, there remains a gnawing concern regarding the attendant impacts on human life and our future relationship with outer space. What happens if the GPS network is destroyed and weather or communications systems are disabled or hacked? What would happen to Earth if our physical connection to outer space was severed by a massive debris field destroying astronomical observations and rendering space mis­ sions impossible for some time? Satellite technologies have formed the backbone of globalisation and enabled our often-placeless lives, as we access distant locations instantly through videoconferencing, for example. Weather prediction technology has warned countless millions of impeding extreme

Negotiating Contingencies 211 phenomena, and we have grown reliant on sourcing spatial information on any location in the world through GPS and its equivalents. The unknown, unplanned, and radically rupturing effects of the unimaginable becoming possible is an illuminating phenomenon. Akin to nations engaging in military gestures in space without planned scenarios, or indeed a complete compre­ hension of the effects of actual warfare in space, the best many have are contingency plans. These planning strategies usually model the likelihood of certain eventualities and develop planned responses for each. Contingency planning also invokes a risk-based value system that considers various tradeoffs within specific potential scenarios. However, as we have seen through the global handling of the COVID-19 pandemic, few contingency plans existed, and the unknown variables of a new pathogen exhausted many public health responses. It was only after many nations had spent an extended period in various lockdowns that the effectiveness of wearing face masks became commonly accepted, for example.11 A contingent occurrence is an important site for analysis as something that may or may not transpire, and the human and institutional response to this event can serve to open, expose, or unravel the complexities contained therein. In doing so, and considering my case studies, the contingent event and its effects again dismantle the fortress of science. Examining fissures, ruptures, and disasters – as enacted on human and technological assemblages – can expose those many interactions often hidden through daily operation, as the unexpected ‘awakening’ of Object 2014-28E in near-Earth orbit served to demonstrate a shifting geopolitical, technological, and military dominance. As our ways of life on Earth have become intricately entwined in and reliant on satellites – contingent, even – a reliance on military solutions, as opposed to diplomatic efforts, proliferate. This then further supports increased investments in military space technology. In doing so, nations become reliant on the military contingencies of the orbital zone for assurance and protection, thus extending a murky and incongruous sovereign reliance beyond terrestrial state delineations into space itself. Here, the ownership of single technologies, their orbits, and the debris from other objects embody a disaggregated orbital sovereignty, on which national sovereignty is becoming increasingly reliant and threatened. Earth’s orbit becomes an extra-terrestrial zone for nation-states where these contingencies are negotiated.12 By introducing the contingencies of space technology, I have demonstrated the varied effects through which space science can produce territory or em­ bolden military responses. Returning to Earth, and the radio telescope case studies, I have shown how active these sites are in the production of space. The radio telescope is a tethered territorial formation and a hyper concen­ tration. These conditions exist simultaneously and co-produce one another. However, despite their abstract scientific image, which constructs the facili­ ties as instruments rather than lived assemblages, they rely on multiple pro­ cesses to function and often cannot perform. Like space satellites, these sites are immensely reliant on a predictable status quo to operate, but sites break

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down, operations cease, staff strike, plans change, and stormy weather hits. In these moments, the drawbridge descends, and these facilities expose their often-unseen inner complexities. In this chapter, I examine four moments when contingent processes oc­ curred at each case study radio telescope. Each emerged for a different reason, at different scales, and with different outcomes. However, all moments exposed critical social, political, organisational, and labour pro­ cesses, which came to light through the contingent. At Arecibo, I detail the challenges wrought by the devastation of Hurricane Maria. After the hur­ ricane, the observatory became a disaster relief station mainly due to its many technological features that enabled it to function in relative isolation. The disaster revealed the essential and embedded role the observatory held for the surrounding community. At MeerKAT, I turn to the international competition that emerged in the SKA site selection process, during which the symbolic national importance of hosting the telescope array came to the fore, revealing the intensity of political competition over international science projects. I then examine a 17-day labour strike at ALMA, the first at a major radio telescope in Chile, and demonstrate how the strike revealed longsimmering tensions between local and international labour and the image of ESO as having exacted significant benefits from the country without much in return. Finally, at FAST, I examine the rural minority communities of southern Guizhou Province as a contingent presence acted upon by a nationalist development strategy centred on science. A significant infra­ structure and urbanisation strategy has been enacted in the region, opening it up to domestic tourism and restructuring the landscape in the name of advanced Chinese science. Together these investigations detail the internal complexities of each of these radio telescopes. The scientific focus of the sites is side-lined as the interactions between humans, technology, the regional context, management structures, and space demonstrate the more expansive and often unseen meanings and influences of these concentrations.

Hurricane On 20 September 2017, Category Four Hurricane Maria landed in Puerto Rico. The island implemented contingency plans, as only two weeks earlier, Hurricane Irma (a Category Five storm) skirted the northeast of the island, bringing devastation to the island’s capital San Juan. When Hurricane Maria made landfall over Puerto Rico, Arecibo Observatory had already implemented a 24-hour lockdown strategy as required for dangerous weather events, during which they locked the Gregorian Dome and other moveable elements in place.13 Staff at Arecibo made various decisions re­ garding where they preferred to wait out the storm. Some travelled home, others to shelters, and many stayed with inland families.14 A few staff members decided to remain at the observatory, stocking food supplies and taking refuge in its guest residence with other visitors.15 Phil Perrilat chose

Negotiating Contingencies 213 to stay in the control room; Director Francisco Córdova travelled to stay with family. What followed was the largest natural disaster ever recorded in Puerto Rico, as the 155-Mph winds of the tenth-most intense Atlantic hurricane in recorded history swept across the island, leaving behind $94.5 billion in damages and thousands of dead.16 As the telescope platform was suspended from the three towers, it was vulnerable to high winds, but its well-conceived structure nevertheless held forth. As Perrilat witnessed once the calm eye of the storm passed over the observatory, the 29-metre-long line feed had snapped and was dangling pre­ cariously from the azimuth arm.17 Staff later heard a crash as the line feed fell downwards, rupturing the reflector surface. Once the wind and the rain sub­ sided, and the full impact of Maria was made visible, there was a great relief that, although damaged, the telescope had generally weathered the storm.18 Plant debris was everywhere. No electricity or operational communications infrastructure worked, and an eight-foot-deep lake had formed in the base of the telescope depression, which remained until December.19 The staff on-site immediately got to work clearing away the debris and re-establishing com­ munications links. Angel Vasquez and Israel Cabrera set about building a military-grade 14-MHz ham radio antenna from components available to them.20 With the observatory’s generators providing backup power for their efforts, they pointed the antenna north towards the mainland USA. However, his north was slightly off. A ham radio enthusiast in Germany who was aware of Hurricane Maria from the news received his message and offered to assist in any way he could and to make any necessary calls.21 Explains Cabrera: The staff loved it, and everyone wanted to do ham. We re-oriented the antenna towards the US, and we were able to pass information on behalf of people trying to contact their relatives as the internet and phone lines were down. People knew what was happening in Puerto Rico, so they were available to help us out.22 After contacting the mainland, the recovery process began in earnest. Córdova attempted to return to the observatory but met with flooded bridges and impassable roads.23 On the second day after the hurricane, Córdova made it to the observatory: I was amazed that we had over fifty staff members here already. They had decided to come here and clean the facility before cleaning up their own homes. That was something I was in awe of. I never expected that. We had debris everywhere. You could barely use the roads. We had equipment here and got to work. I almost drowned my car on the way here, I have no idea how we made it through, but we did.24 An initial priority was to locate all staff members and ensure their safety. This process took five days and, in some cases, saw staff driving to their houses.

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The initial clean-up lasted seven days and got the facility up and running.25 Soon, however, food and water shortages were becoming a concern for the observatory and the surrounding communities, as were the observatory’s dwindling diesel stores. By the 11th day post-Maria, it became increasingly urgent that the observatory receive a diesel delivery. As Córdova reflects: Jaime Gago was one of the engineering leads at the time. He did an amazing job and kind of camped out there at the gas distributor and said I’m staying here until you get me a tank of diesel. It’s challenging because, we both had satellite phones, and we’d find out that the next truck is ours, and we’d send our staff out to clean and prepare the road, and I remember him telling me that the truck wasn’t coming any longer because the largest hospital in Puerto Rico needed the diesel for energy. Of course, we were OK with that. That delayed us an additional day, but once we got it things calmed down a little.26 With generator fuel and communications secured, the observatory became an essential local depot for the relief effort. As Córdova again recounts, “We shifted from a research facility to a support facility.”27 As the observatory had a well, they could distribute potable water to the surrounding commu­ nity. Similarly, their helipad could facilitate dropping Federal Emergency Management Agency (FEMA) supplies, which would then be loaded onto observatory vehicles and distributed to the surrounding towns and villages. “We had over ten different helicopters landing here in a two-week period, constantly dropping supplies,” describes Córdova.28 People walked to the observatory to do their laundry or take a bath. Staff were able to get to the underside of the dish on kayaks to assess the suspended, damaged reflector panels.29 On 29 September, they brought the entire facility back online, and a test observation occurred. It was evident that the shape of the reflector had changed. As a result, it was unable to focus as accurately as before. The telescope’s effectiveness dropped by 50% at high and 20% at low frequencies.30 It is important to remember that Hurricane Maria hit when the NSF announced significant decreases in observatory funding. The new consortium led by UCF had not yet secured its immediate future. Only limited scientific operations could be undertaken until repairs were made. The lost line feed was important in the telescope’s receiver arsenal and necessary for some radar viewings. Arecibo Observatory raised the funding needed to make essential repairs through a February 2020 bipartisan budget act. The act allocated the observatory $14.3 million, and they only received the first tranche in June 2020.31 Despite this, the observatory found another reason to celebrate when the NSF declared their decision not to close the facility and later announced the observatory’s new consortium. For Córdova, Hurricane Maria was the lowest point of his time at Arecibo, while the announcement of the new consortium was one of his highest:

Negotiating Contingencies 215 A day I can remember is when NSF made the decision not to close this facility and they did it right in the middle of Hurricane Maria recovery. For me that was a huge win. […] Winning the proposal with UCF has also been fantastic. Just because it is always challenging to apply for a particular award. You have to compete in an open competition by writing a proposal and saying this is what we will do, and this is how we see the future.32 Despite the restoration of the facility and the funding security from the new consortium, almost exactly three years after Hurricane Maria, on 10 August 2020, an auxiliary cable supporting the 900-ton triangular platform broke loose, inflicting a 30-metre gash across the reflector surface (Figure 6.1). This cable break was then the worst accident to hit the 57-year-old observatory. The cable also damaged the Gregorian dome.33 On 7 November 2020, a main platform support cable broke, perceivably because of the first. It caused less damage to the reflector surface but put the entire structure at significant risk of collapse.34 In reporting on the latest cable break at the observatory, Nadia Drake quotes Edgard Rivera-Valentin from the Lunar Planetary Institute, who describes the local importance of the telescope: “It has ingrained itself in our culture in Puerto Rico, in the fabric of our daily lives.”35 On 19 November 2020, the NSF announced the closure and de­ commissioning of the telescope due to the danger it continued to pose to the observatory facilities and people tasked with fixing or securing it. With this statement, and the total platform collapse on 1 December 2020, the William E. Gordon telescope ceased to exist. The space of the telescope turned from

Figure 6.1 The damage caused to the primary reflector at Arecibo on 10 August 2020, when an auxiliary cable connecting the platform to the southeast tower broke loose.

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one of science production to that of memorialisation as we lost the telescope to the annals of history. In the aftermath of Hurricane Maria, Arecibo Observatory became a critical community support facility. As a site with international linkages, both material and symbolic, the observatory embodied the state apparatus in the distribution of food and water. The observatory only functioned as such because of its specific infrastructural makeup, which meant that it had powerful generators (usually to power the planetary radar), potable water from their well (usually for the sustenance of those living and working on site), access to telecommunications technologies (as per the function of the telescope and other instruments), and a fleet of vehicles used to maintain the telescope and site. In addition, the helipad, which served few opera­ tional benefits for the telescope, was immensely valuable to the relief efforts, particularly in this undulating topography. The hyper concentration of infrastructure, various technologies, and human labour at the observatory was enacted efficiently as an asset for the broader community. This trans­ formation was made possible through the observatory’s geographic position in the middle of Puerto Rico. Despite being highly delineated and specific in its function, the observatory maintained links with surrounding communi­ ties. This occurred primarily through staff who lived outside the facility, and by operating for six decades, generations of native Puerto Ricans had come to live increasingly close to the observatory. In addition, as a symbol of national pride, the Arecibo Observatory was trusted by its neighbours and, in a moment of crisis in an underdeveloped part of Puerto Rico, represented a beacon of assistance. As Maria, the later cable breaks, decommissioning, and collapse showed, Arecibo Observatory has an embedded place within its social and cultural context despite its impenetrable terrain and imposing entrance. This kind of relationship is fostered through time, as passing dec­ ades have demonstrated the excellence of the facility’s outputs,36 its positive educational and tourism impacts on neighbouring communities,37 its place in global scientific and popular culture,38 and its relative public accessibility. In considering the rooted role the facility came to perform, time exists as a central factor in enabling the facility to accrue local meaning and em­ beddedness. Like the aerophytes that clung to the reflector surface, so did local associations, memories, and meaning. It is through time that the gleaming reflectivity of the Platonic spherical form sheds its purely scientific associations and enters the realm of social culture as a reliable constant in the Puerto Rico landscape. This embeddedness is arguably responsible for the telescope losing funding interest, as it lost its gleaming allure as an isolated monument to scientific advancement. Instead, the facility excelled in its specificities and became irreplaceable in the minds of potential fun­ ders. Hurricane Maria revealed that many would rally to support a dam­ aged scientific icon with a strong symbolic presence in astronomy. Similarly, many will turn to the trusted facility for aid and assistance. In the end, Hurricane Maria and the press reporting on the observatory as a relief

Negotiating Contingencies 217 centre played a central role in securing an immediate, if not permanent, future for the observatory. The extensive messages of public support following the telescope’s decommissioning and later collapse underscore the general importance of the facility to generations of Puerto Ricans in particular.39 The contingent action of the hurricane ceased operations at the observ­ atory and, in doing so, revealed two significant conditions contained in the human/technological concentration. Firstly, the observatory’s intense local infrastructural tethering and the social meaning the facility had developed through its decades meant that it quickly evolved into a space trusted by community members from which they could receive aid and help. Secondly, as a facility designed initially for isolation and operation with limited access to resources, it could activate its many technological attributes to assist the broader community. This change foregrounds the relative technical and spatial detachment enacted by the observatory as an international or scientific zone with significant resources distinct from those available in the broader region. Arecibo thus had deeply entrenched a socio-cultural symbolic agency and trust amongst many Puerto Ricans as an iconic space of science.

Competition On 25 May 2012, the SKA Organization announced that Australia and South Africa would share the hosting of the SKA.40 This decision resulted from years of politicking and two rounds of bidding for the project. The process resulted in South Africa and Australia being shortlisted in 2007, with Brazil, Argentina, and China removed from contention. The short­ listing was one of the primary impetuses behind the Australian government funding of ASKAP and the South African government moving ahead with the MeerKAT project. Both countries felt that by demonstrating their ability to build and host advanced radio telescope arrays, they would carry greater favour when assessed by the SSAC. However, in 2012, the SSAC concluded that South Africa should host the entire project.41 The separate SKA Siting Group (SSG) validated this decision, but it was met with disapproval by the Australian bid team.42 This singular moment of substantial disagreement in the long process of bringing the SKA to light was remarkable. It represented a shift in the cordiality and intergovernmental cooperation commonly found in radio telescope projects. Looking back on the disagreement, I have noticed a consistent attempt to define the moment as a minor disagreement that enabled both countries to benefit from their site establishment and pathfinder investments in the long term.43 However, at the time, there was great unhappiness from all parties, demonstrating the competitive nature of the entire bid process. This moment of rupture exposed several characteristics held internal to the MeerKAT and SKA projects: those of competition and socio-economic development. These were made evident through the contingent nature of the confusion and arguments that emerged in the wake of the initial site selection.

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On 10 March 2012, the Sydney Moring Herald leaked the confidential SSAC news that it had, by a narrow margin, selected South Africa and its continental partners (Botswana, Ghana, Kenya, Madagascar, Mauritius, Mozambique, Namibia, and Zambia) as its preferred site.44 The SSAC used a points system in their adjudication.45 Several ‘Science and Technical Factors,’ weighted 75% of the assessment, influenced their decision. They gave the highest weighting (27%) to the protection and long-term main­ tenance of the radio quiet zone. It, too, decided on several ‘Other Selection Factors’ which, when combined, were weighted as 25% of the assessment and included ‘political, socio-economic, and financial,’ ‘customs and ex­ cise,’ ‘legal,’ ‘security,’ ‘employment,’ and ‘working and support en­ vironment.’ South Africa’s bid performed well in the Science and Technological Factors, while Australia’s outperformed South Africa in every ‘Other’ factor.46 The outcome fuelled disappointment and unhappiness from some corners of Australian society. Journalist Stephen Matchett described the win as “a snub to Australian science” and a “vic­ tory for African nationalism.”47 Australia challenged the recommenda­ tions of the SSAC on a lack of rigour, among other concerns.48 As stated by Daniel Flitton: Australia had been concerned European nations saw the project, likened in ambition to the moon landings or the Large Hadron Collider in Switzerland, as a type of development aid to boost poorer African nations, […] with the former science minister Kim Carr arguing in 2010: ‘There are better ways to sustain development, if that’s what your primary purpose is.’49 In response to the discontent the Australian bid members expressed, the SKA Siting Options Working Group (SOWG) was established to examine the feasibility of a joint site solution. After a three-month closed-door deliberation, they decided South Africa should host the mid-frequency dish array and Australia the low-frequency aperture array.50 The decision was made public on 25 May 2012. The following day, South African Minister of Science and Technology Naledi Pandor cut a slice of bright orange cake fashioned in the shape of Africa surrounded by stalwarts of the South African bid. The political ritual often performed to mark events of signifi­ cance was celebrating the awarding of the lion’s share of the SKA project to South Africa. Pandor reflected on the process: We had hoped the unambiguous recommendation of the SSAC would be accepted as the most sound scientific outcome […] I am happy for the country and I am happy for Africa. Of course you want everything, but I think getting three quarters is pretty good. I am ecstatic for our scientists. We have proved Africa can do it!51

Negotiating Contingencies 219 Implicit in the desire for each nation to host the SKA was the prestige of having the telescope array within their territory and finding a primary association with one of the world’s most advanced scientific undertakings. For Australia, the primary driver to host the full SKA was to use the project as a crowning achievement in the country’s sustained scientific develop­ ment.52 However, for South Africa, the full SKA represented a tool within which radio astronomy and its concurrent engineering and software fields could fuel technological advancement, scientific investment, and human capital development. As Pandor noted: This project is giving effect to our dream that Africa must become a global science and technology destination and that cutting-edge science will be done in Africa by African scientists.53 For the MeerKAT project, this initial competitive and developmental spirit has become embedded in the larger project. Unlike the other three radio telescopes examined, the government envisaged MeerKAT from the start as having a foundational role in uplifting poor communities, upskilling mem­ bers of nearby communities, and developing radio astronomy in African partner countries. This moment of competitive friction between Australia and South Africa reveals each country’s dual visions for the scientific project and the role that science can play in two distinct contexts. For South Africa, scientific advancement cannot occur on its own terms and to its own ends, given the ongoing legacies of colonialism and apartheid. Investment at the SKA’s scale must bring tangible benefits to improve access to skills, training, and employment while expanding the country’s economic offering. Within this competitive moment, Australian politicians bemoaned the developmental plan and reason for bringing the SKA to South Africa, arguing that science is not a socio-economic development tool and should instead be left to those countries with the existing expertise to ensure their success. However, this argument has been proven wrong given the success of MeerKAT in devel­ oping local skills, creating employment, and broadening South Africa’s economic expertise to include advancement in telescope and space sciences. The unexpected or contingent leaking of the initial SSAC decision, like the satellite activation discussed in the opening of this chapter, heightened usually measured and diplomatic international dialogue on science into an immensely competitive exchange. This moment of disagreement immedi­ ately exposed the different approaches each nation took in advocating for the SKA while revealing the different outcomes sought. For Australia, the SKA represented a crowning achievement for decades of advanced work in radio astronomy. In contrast, for South Africa, the SKA represented an unparalleled opportunity to ignite an entire scientific sector in the country. For both nations, the unexpected revealed the degree to which the SKA mattered and foregrounded the intense nationalist symbolism embedded in hosting new and advanced scientific projects.

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Strike The most significant challenge ALMA faced has undoubtedly been the shutdown of the entire facility due to the COVID-19 pandemic. On 22 March 2020, ALMA Director Sean Doherty implemented the total shutdown of the telescope and its facilities. Only a year later, in March 2021, did the telescope begin returning to regular operation following an extensive repair and maintenance effort.54 The unprecedented shutdown of a leading scientific facility due to a global healthcare crisis is remarkable. It demonstrates how intensely reliant ALMA remains on its large staff contingent to aid the facility’s operations. The effect of this extended shutdown offers a productive site for future research on the organisational, social, and spatial impact of this rapturous global event on ALMA. Still, due to the evolving nature of the pandemic and the timing of this research, my focus is honed instead on a much earlier moment during the construction of ALMA when striking workers halted operations for seventeen days. While interruptions were nowhere near as substantial as those caused by the pandemic, the ALMA strike not only demonstrated the dissatisfaction of labour but threw open the complex and potentially tenuous nature of the institutional structure that supported ALMA. On 22 August 2013, 194 staff working at ALMA downed their tools. The labour action occurred following a contractual negotiation process which saw ALMA employees request a 15% pay increase, a reduction in shift hours, and benefits in line with the human isolation and harsh environmental con­ ditions faced by many.55 After AUI (the US-based employer of all local staff working at ALMA) refused to budge, the ALMA union called for a strike. The action was unique among the other large and internationally operated telescopes in Chile and prompted solidarity strikes at other ESO-run tele­ scopes, most notably the Paranal Observatory.56 The strike followed a growing labour movement among telescope workers in Chile who found themselves working in these quasi-international spaces without the protections of Chilean labour law and at the behest of those organisations running each facility. In particular, the labour movement in Chile saw significant expansion following the 1990 resignation of the Chilean leader Augusto Pinochet, whose neoliberal dictatorship was characterised by a sustained and considerable erosion of organised labour and labour pro­ tections. Chilean labour found themselves in challenging working environ­ ments. International observatories sought workers with specific and highly professional qualifications. As these workers were hard to come by, partic­ ularly in the early days of ESO’s presence in Chile, the Chilean labour force at most observatories was marginalised to menial work, with international labour occupying skilled positions.57 The large salaries and benefits afforded foreign employees due to their relocation from their homes to a remote observatory on a different continent heightened this disparity. As Madsen

Negotiating Contingencies 221 describes, a fear also existed that increased salaries for Chilean workers would generally disrupt the labour market.58 Adriaan Blaauw, ESO director from 1970 to 1972, contends: Of all the problems the ESO directorate confronted, I always found those concerning its personnel the most difficult. […] (A) problem regarding personnel management concerned the difference between the systems of rules and regulations for the personnel sent out from Europe and for those recruited in Chile, and the different salary scales for each. […] This discrepancy was considered unacceptable by certain young, democrati­ cally minded visiting astronomers who accused me of objectionable discrimination. It gave rise to pretty violent discussions.59 In effect, the discrepancies between local and international labour at the ESO observatories mirrored the increasingly tenuous rights of workers under the dictatorship. However, strong Chilean labour movements could find some foothold in the post-Pinochet world again. In 1991, the Chilean government sought to renegotiate the 1963 ESO agreement to make it more equitable to Chilean labour and astronomers who, until that point, received no dedicated observation time. A protracted political negotiation followed, and in June 1993, a new agreement was promulgated.60 However, it wasn’t until 1996 that a revised agreement was finally signed and approved by the Chilean senate.61 The deal resulted in ESO aligning their local employment contracts closer to Chilean law, enabling collective bargaining and freedom of association. ESO would contribute to local communities and dedicate 10% of observational time to worthy projects led by Chilean astronomers on all current and future ESO telescopes.62 This undercurrent of labour inequality and instability at ESO observa­ tories is one of the primary reasons the strike occurred in August 2013 at ALMA, despite the concessions made in the 1990s. As ESO’s most ambi­ tious project, expectations regarding an improved working environment were justified. The labour unrest, however, was revelatory. As the first significant strike at an ESO-run facility, those near-200 technicians and administrators who downed tools specifically cited the work environment as one of their primary concerns, with the remoteness, dryness, and certainly altitude of ALMA deemed as major contributing factors. The strike revealed three significant points of contention. The first was a decades-long institu­ tionally enforced income and benefits disparity between local and interna­ tional workers. Secondly, ESO and, by extension, ALMA still operated as a small country within Chile, occupying significant territorial rights and not extending the benefits they received back to the country in the form of skills development and other projects. This disconnect has seen some improve­ ment, but as demonstrated with MeerKAT, major science projects can play a more significant and direct role in working with local populations to achieve common goals. Finally, workers demanded additional income and benefits in

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compensation for coping with the harsh environmental conditions and remoteness at the site, the latter being particularly acute given the displace­ ment felt by many local Chileans, many of whom lived a great distance from the site. These labour actions in 2013 embody the embedded frictions felt between an international partnership operating in a foreign context, where two worlds – the local and the European/USA/East Asian – are forced into coexistence and co-reliance. ESO could have worked to prevent such disparities by interpreting its role as a contextually embedded community rather than as an international treatise organisation operating a European scientific outpost. The strike ended on 7 September 2013, and the final ALMA telescope was delivered that month. Striking labour achieved a 4% increase for the lowest paid workers, shorter working hours, and a bonus for staff required to work above 5,000 metres. After interviewing staff during my visit to ALMA, there is a greater sense of contentment among local staff, who, despite working in the same en­ vironmental conditions, note that their contracts and working conditions have improved. When interviewed on the matter of labour satisfaction, Sean Doherty stated, I think working conditions here are excellent, all of us think we deserve more pay but that is a natural process. If you compare us to the mining industry conditions at the OSF are pretty darn good. I don’t hear that very often, but I do like to think that we’ve improved staff conditions. I try to be much more transparent that previous directors to make sure that people understand that this is a nonprofit organisation and not a company, we do not generate income. The unprecedented strike revealed the inability of ESO and their aligned project partners to manage disparities and unrest. The broader actions of ESO demonstrate a triumphalist approach to scientific achievement and excellence which should not be concerned by local labour demands. Returning to the fortress analogy, the occupying force not only folds local populations into its power regimes but relies on their labour to bolster and maintain its occupation. ESO and the other partners are indeed not occupying forces and do not treat their workers as serfs. However, the ob­ servatory’s historical detachment from its local workers’ plight demonstrates a distance between the international partners and the local context. This separation is heightened because ALMA is not a fundamentally exploitative construct such as a mine where profits are related closely to minimising labour costs. The contingent moment exposed not only the intense reliance by ALMA on local staff, but simmering tensions felt between groups of staff. The abstract image of an altruistic scientific facility working towards objec­ tive scientific discoveries is undermined by the needs and complex decadeslong inequality felt by local staff.

Negotiating Contingencies 223

Rural Minorities One of the primary reasons for FAST’s designers selecting the Dawodang Depression in Pingtang County as the best site for the telescope was the quality of its radio frequency interference environment. This was due to the depression’s location some distance from large human populations. Also, the karst landscape surrounding the depression not only formed a natural shield to distant RFI but also allowed for a suitable topography to suspend the 500-metre diameter dish. To this end, the telescope’s construction led to the displacement and relocation of 9,110 people within five kilometres of the telescope site to ensure the maintenance of the radio frequency en­ vironment. The radio quality is managed through successive concentric zones of control emanating from the telescope. Despite the strict scientific goals of what was to become the biggest filled-aperture radio telescope in the world, the local, provincial, and national governments saw the scientific project as a catalyst for tourism-driven economic development. Over 40% of the population of Guizhou Province comprises minority groups,63 increasing to 58% in the Qiannan Buyei and Miao Autonomous Prefecture, where FAST and Pingtang County are located.64 It is difficult to access and has seen little in the way of development comparable to similar places in China. China identified the world’s biggest single-dish telescope as a suit­ able development catalyst. In pursuit of this objective, the Pingtang Astronomy Town was constructed in parallel with the telescope, locating hotels, restaurants, and museum infrastructure near the RFI-free zone as demarcated by FAST and the provincial government (Figure 6.2). The small town was designed with the theme of outer space, where tourist photo opportunities abound. What followed, however, could not have been pre­ dicted by the team designing and building FAST. The town became a domestic tourism success as millions of Chinese residents began to flock seasonally to view the telescope. Small hotels emerged in surrounding vil­ lages, and restaurants catering to diverse regional tastes set up seasonal operations.65 These changes occurred despite and in direct contrast to the scientific requirements of the telescope operations. While security personnel can place strict controls on the electronic devices used by visitors, it is the visitors’ economic impact that spurs large-scale investment and has the effect of weakening the RFI environment more generally. While the parallel development of the province and the influx of tourists could be interpreted as a contingent effect, I argue that these are instead designed components of the increased expansion and influence of the Chinese state in this once impenetrable region. In effect, the actual contingency felt by the FAST project and the enmeshed investment/development regime is the local minority communities, whose presence the state is actively restructuring and limiting. This conjoined scientific and development project has roots back to the 2007 announcement of FAST when Guizhou Province and the national

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Figure 6.2 The layout of the Pingtang Astronomy Town comprising two large hotels flanking a central parkland and plaza. The plaza hosts the Astronomy Museum and connects via a long covered pedestrian walkway lined with buildings to the Space Tower. The mixed-use res­ idential fabric to the southeast is filled with small restaurants run by owners seeking opportunities from all over China, and many live in the apartments above.

government sought a means for the scientific project to assist local com­ munities by building a new city.66 A centre was set up at Guizhou University to explore ways in which cross-cutting social benefits could be extracted from the project, which saw astronomers working together with representatives from numerous governmental tiers. The outcome was a focus on tourism and education.67 By 2013, Peng notes that the province had expanded their plan to include ten new industrial parks. These would have a significant impact on tourism and the telescope. In response, the concept of an ‘astronomy culture park’ replaced that of the industrial park. While the government promotes investment in the town through a loan program, uptake is limited.68 Tourist numbers have increased steadily. However, the astronomy town remains a highly seasonal tourist destination.

Negotiating Contingencies 225 I experienced this during my visit, with no visible sense of the high season influx due to the vast yet vacant hotel I stayed in and the empty roads, res­ taurants, and plazas. The peak season experience of the Astronomy Town would be pretty different. During the first half of 2017, almost four million tourists travelled to FAST, with over 220,000 people visiting during the Dragon Boat Festival on 30 May 2017 alone.69 As one of China’s least developed provinces, significant state infra­ structure spending has substantially affected the province by making it more accessible and easing capital flows. This investment is evidenced by the freeway project in southern Guizhou, as discussed in Territories of Emptiness, which cuts through the centre of southern Guizhou at a high cost, opening a near impenetrable region. In celebrating the completion of the Pingtang Bridge, the official Chinese News Agency described the bridge as “facilitating poverty alleviation in the rocky desertification (sic) areas of Guizhou.”70 Infrastructure here extends the Chinese state’s economic and political machinery into these autonomous prefectures, whether for poverty alleviation or orchestrated urbanisation. With this significant development drive set in context, the scale of investment in the Astronomy Town appears less extreme. While limits on visitors to the FAST viewing deck are today limited to 3,000 per day, and the many hills between the town and the telescope block direct interference, radio waves can be reflected from the atmosphere and surrounding topography to create a non-optimal viewing environment.71 But there exists a disparity in spending related to the telescope. Although $180 million was spent on FAST in total, in 2013, the province planned to invest $800 million in developing towns around the site,72 and the Pingtang bridge alone cost $215 million.73 As a result of this growth, in 2018, Guizhou Province initiated a satellite remote sensing operation that would monitor development around FAST four times per year to control and limit any impacts it may have on the observation environment.74 There is little doubt that the astronomy fraternity in China established FAST as a scientific jewel which is being leveraged for substantial invest­ ment and development by their governmental counterparts. The broader development of southern Guizhou will cause radical change for many of its residents. Unlike the other case studies documented, particularly MeerKAT, which saw large-scale containment of potential development, FAST has actively spurred large-scale development as an icon of advancement. The at-times aligned and competing agendas of the FAST scientists and the Chinese government reveal the significant socio-political and cultural forces at play in the planning and realisation of the telescope and the town. They also demonstrate the degree to which the local minority actor em­ bodies a concern for the expansive Chinese state. Firstly, the Chinese government have actively sought to build a new and leading facility in FAST. They have achieved this over a matter of years. Instead of completely isolating the telescope from human experience, FAST has leveraged its

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iconic status and emerged as a significant domestic and possibly interna­ tional tourism destination. Its colossal form is marketed as a modern sci­ entific wonder to be experienced and celebrated by the public. While the government made strong motions to protect the telescope, it could have implemented these more substantially. Instead, there today exists a mediation between the town and the telescope. Neither wants to impede on either, while both rely on one another. It is arguably no accident that the telescope is a public marvel, acting as a tool of nationalism and an educational bedrock for future scientific progress in China. In enabling mass visits and curating the experience around Chinese achievement and advancement, not only is China building a solid scientific culture amongst its population but ensuring it is saturated with nationalistic pride. Secondly, within the scientific and developmental nationalism enacted by the Chinese government, urbanisation is being used as a means through which the government is bringing local communities into formal state structures.75 The contradictions are stark: while the concrete walling off of a nearby local road serves to actively limit movement and access to the area around the telescope (but also impede movement between neighbouring towns), tunnels are bored, bridges are built, and new institutions estab­ lished to provide this very access (Figure 6.3). This process brings southern

Figure 6.3 Local vernacular architecture along the main road (top-left), the mixed-use residential fabric built as a quadrant of the Pingtang Astronomy Town (top-centre), the wall is blocking a road connecting the Astronomy Town to a neighbouring village (bottom-left), the new S62 freeway as it snakes through a valley, and a photograph of the interior of the China FAST Hotel (right).

Negotiating Contingencies 227 Guizhou under greater planning control through urbanisation, formalisa­ tion, and the ending of many traditional ways. The 43 minority groups living in Qiannan face increased threats to their ways of life. A loss of cultural diversity in Guizhou may be the direct result of increased infra­ structure investment in the province. It enables a continued folding of space into extensive networks of centralised economic and political control. For example: when walking through the China FAST Hotel in which I was staying (designed primarily to house high-ranking governmental officials when visiting the region), my research assistant, a native of China more sensitive to cultural differences, lamented the fact that the cultural sym­ bology and artefacts of the Han Chinese dominated the brand new hotel, including a room where visitors could dress up in traditional Han clothing and photograph themselves. Encapsulated in this brand-new hotel is a monocultural China guided from Beijing, symbolising the continued reach of the nation into those basins, ravines, and hillsides in which minority communities found levels of autonomy. FAST is the core component of this process, which enacts this monochromatisating project through the nationalist pride of radio astronomy. The immensity with which the Chinese state is developing southern Guizhou is remarkable. Not only does the region now support the world’s largest fixed-dish radio telescope, but its development has spurned the construction of two of the world’s biggest bridges. Unlike ALMA and Arecibo, the project’s goals are not related to purely scientific ambitions. Unlike MeerKAT, the developmental prerogative in FAST is not one fo­ cused on human capital development and the establishment of allied industries primarily. Instead, FAST has been activated as a central com­ ponent in the radical reimagining of the entire region, and the imagination is one flowing from Chinese nationalism as enacted through the image of scientific advancement. The image of the massive dish not only obfuscates the people and systems working to operate the observatory but also masks the highly structured and planned project to ‘urbanise’ the region’s rural minority communities. It is worth remembering the original proposal, which saw FAST being a forerunner to the massive KARST project, where 30 dishes between 200 and 300 metres in diameter would spread across the region. Imagine the complete project’s effect on southern Guizhou’s cultural landscapes.

Boundaries In 1992, Trevor Pinch described that a core focus of STS was opening up the ‘black box’ of science.76 In this book, I have recast the black box in spatial terms, preferring my fortress science analogy instead. It stresses a relationality beyond the abstract notion of the black box to one that has a context, a territorial influence, is part of a network of similar ‘fortresses,’ and exists with a social and political prerogative. Most importantly, fortress

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science contains a solid prototypical and cross-cultural spatial relevance. The fortress commands space, constructs space, delineates territorial con­ trol, and restructures landscapes. The analogy usefully extends Pinch’s metaphor into the spatial. Building fortress science shows the inherent fis­ sure between the image of science and its spaces on the one hand and the embedded reality of scientific space on the other. Science is indeed not a fortress, and neither is it a black box. Scientific research, its methods, knowledge regimes, protagonists, and spaces while demonstrating pure objectivity are socially, culturally, politically, economically, and spatially embedded. As I establish through this book, science spaces are complex and hybrid. Through the lens of contingency and the metaphor of the glacis, I argue that the walls of the fortress are not solid battlements but porous boundaries through which many processes and influences flow and intersect. Sociologist Richard Sennett analyses the boundary condition of medieval fortifications by describing the difference between the familiar image of the fortified city and its reality. This distinction is close to my own, although, as I’ve shown, the assemblage of the boundary takes the form of social and technological interactions, infrastructure networks, and broader political and economic influence: The walls around traditional cities would seem an unlikely instance of the border/membrane condition. Until the invention of artillery, people sheltered behind walls when attacked; the gates in walls also served to regulate commerce coming into cities, often being the place in which taxes were collected. Yet the massive medieval walls such as those surviving in Aix-en- Provence or in Rome furnish perhaps misleading visual evidence. On both sides of the Aix-en- Provence wall were to be found sites for unregulated development in the city: houses were built on both sides of these medieval walls, informal markets selling blackmarket or untaxed goods sprung up nestled against them; the zone of the wall was where heretics, foreign exiles, and other misfits tended to gravitate, again far from the controls of the center. In social practice, then, such walls functioned as border/membranes, both porous and resistant.77 While Sennett seeks the boundary as a zone of unregulated hybridity, where chance thrives, and opportunity abounds, the boundary is employed here as a zone of flows, at once material and spatial but also enacted through immaterial social and political actions.78 To extend Sennett’s example, the false ‘impermeable’ nature of the medieval fortress has strong relevance to fortress science. The territorial delineations of the fortress, be they politi­ cally fixed, socially negotiated, extended across space through tethered connections, or held in place by international agreement, are readily frag­ mented by the contingent, exposing internal processes, agendas, linkages, and frictions.

Negotiating Contingencies 229 I further illuminate these case studies’ tethered and territorial formation through contingency. At Arecibo, an important observatory emerged as a central node in an international relief effort, at once intensely global and fundamentally local. Its territorial formation expanded beyond its limits enfolding local distressed populations within its ambit of help and aid, momentarily strengthening its tether to the US mainland. The facility, in effect, saw an inversion. Those functions that supported the radio telescope became the primary functions of the observatory, while the radio telescope had little purpose during the aftermath. At ALMA, the complexity of the strike recentred labour as pivotal to the functioning of the remote facility. While the high-precision robotics of the array resembles a human-devoid automated or remote-controlled per­ formance, this is not the case. Without the dedicated labour of high-altitude engineering teams, ALMA would cease to function. The strike reconfigured the solid international tethers of the ALMA project as local workers brought their demands to the fore. The project opened for broad public scrutiny as striking workers outlined the frictions between global and regional condi­ tions. The strong territorial formation that cloaked the project saw momentary retreat and, in doing so, exposed long embedded fault lines that existed at other international observatories too. At FAST, the radio telescope saw its gradual strengthening as a central symbolic feature of a much greater program of state incursion into the province. Less an event or moment as in the previous two case studies, FAST’s scientific agenda soon became one of state-driven urbanisation and tourism. It is evident that the construction of FAST deepened national tethers as the government rolled out freeways, built hotels, and developed a narrative of Chinese scientific superiority. At FAST, the territorial forma­ tion is perhaps best understood as an incursion akin to a field of iron filings pulled towards a powerful magnet – the telescope. For MeerKAT and the SKA, the intensely competitive bid process like FAST had national implications. Instead of one country holding the terri­ torial claims to the advanced array, the SKA asked two countries to share the telescope. This outcome resulted in an expansive territorial influence for the SKA but less scope for each nation to claim the sole status of hosting the world’s most extensive telescope array. The result is the strengthening of connections between the astronomy communities of South Africa and Australia. The broader African component of the SKA has weakened substantially since the bid announcement, as the cost and feasibility of the array extending upwards into other African countries have become a major limiting factor. It is not clear if the shared hosting of the project is directly responsible for less of a role for other African partners. Still, the increased costs of establishing two sites and antenna arrays on two continents have made an expanded array less tenable. The comparison between Arecibo and FAST is fascinating when con­ sidered within the rights framework afforded to Puerto Rican and Chinese

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citizens. At Arecibo, US citizens have curtailed democratic rights compared to their mainland counterparts. The local embeddedness of the telescope existed despite this, even though foreign US institutions built the facility. This appreciation exists because not only have many decades passed, and the telescope merged into the social landscape of central Puerto Rico, but an urbanisation or development plan did not fuel the initial intention of the telescope. Similarly, local towns and villages emerged as natural homes for telescope workers creating an overlap between local and telescope com­ munities. In China, the state carries much greater control over space and can exact radical spatial change over a landscape. As imposed in Pingtang County, this transformative agenda has served to restructure communities, replacing those with traditional ties to lands with entrepreneurs from elsewhere seeking to benefit from the seasonal tourism influx. Over time, FAST may find greater embedding within the social fabric. However, the area today remains a temporal and symbolic outpost of Beijing. By foregrounding social meaning, I underscore that these radio telescopes embody complex social meaning for diverse populations. Each highlights the various experiences and perspectives that construct each radio tele­ scope. Herein lies the transmutability of space, where the guise of space and the user’s view easily reconstitute the scientific image of each telescope. In doing so, the science produced at each site is a product of these lenses but commonly denies multiple meanings. Can a radio telescope not openly embody multiple guises and demonstrate the complex messiness of scientific production in the process? Asked differ­ ently: what if science embraced the production of space as a constituent part of the scientific process? As I’ve shown in this book, the scientific not only exists in space but actively depends on the shaping and reconstitution of space to function. From the laboratory to the field site, the observatory, and the lecture hall, these defined spaces are both the product and progenitor of scientific methods. In the middle of Carnarvon, a SARAO official considers a community request to fill a swimming pool. In Calama near San Pedro de Atacama, an engineer boards a plane to visit home. In Guizhou, a delivery man glimpses a freeway embankment depicting our solar system; and. At Arecibo, a guide introduces her fourth group of the day to a video demonstration of the observatory’s work. The spatial entanglement of these ‘scientific facilities’ demonstrates that the production of space under science is an epistemic culture.79 The spaces of science are authoritative sites of knowledge pro­ duction. They reveal how knowledge production categorically restructures space to its own ends through concentrated assemblages, uneven global data networks, information infrastructure, and territorial emptying. The contingent expands this by demonstrating the transmutability of scientific space. Space that is possibly not ‘scientific’ at all – but instead embodies the multiple meanings ascribed to it through social interaction with it. The contingent unmasks the boundary, revealing complex spatial processes and

Negotiating Contingencies 231 deeply held foundational formations that concurrently build and undermine fortress science.

Notes 1 The treaty limits the use of space to peaceful purposes only, forbids nuclear weapons in space, and forbids claims of sovereignty over space. It does not ban military activity in space. See United Nations. 1967. Outer Space Treaty. UN. Online: https://www.unoosa.org/oosa/en/ourwork/spacelaw/treaties/ introouterspacetreaty.html 2 National Aeronautics and Space Administration. NA. ‘Space Debris,’ NASA. Online: https://www.nasa.gov/centers/hq/library/find/bibliographies/space_debris 3 Graff, Garrett. 2018. ‘The New Arms Race Threatening to Explode in Space,’ Wired. Online: https://www.wired.com/story/new-arms-race-threatening-toexplode-in-space/ 4 Graff, Garrett. 2018. 5 Jones, Sam. 2014. ‘Object 2014-28E – Space junk or Russian satellite killer?’ Financial Times. Online: https://www-ft-com/content/cdd0bdb6-6c27-11e4990f-00144feabdc0 6 Skibba, Ramin and Undark. 2020. ‘The Ripple Effects of a Space Skirmish,’ The Atlantic. Online: https://www.theatlantic.com/technology/archive/2020/07/ space-warfare-unregulated/614059/ 7 Skibba, Ramin and Undark. 2020. 8 Graff, Garrett. 2018. 9 United Nations. 1967. 10 Scott, Felicity D. 2019. ‘Strategic Fictions,’ in Nesbit, Jeffrey S. and Trangoš, Guy (eds.) New Geographies 11: Extraterrestrial. Cambridge, MA. and New York, NY.: Harvard Graduate School of Design and Actar Publishers. 11 See Molteni, Meghan and Rogers, Adam. 2020. ‘How Masks Went from Don’tWear to Must-Have,’ Wired. Online: https://www.wired.com/story/how-maskswent-from-dont-wear-to-must-have/ 12 See Thornhill, John. 2018. ‘Eyes in the sky: a revolution in satellite technology,’ Financial Times. Online: https://www-ft-com/content/c7e00344-111a-11e8940e-08320fc2a277 13 Córdova, Francisco. 2019. 14 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 15 Rivera-Valentín, Edgar, G. and Schmelz, Joan T. 2018. ‘Arecibo weathers the storm,’ Nature Astronomy 2. pp. 264–266. 16 See United States National Hurricane Center. 2020. ‘Atlantic hurricane best track (HURDAT version 2),’ USNHC. Online: https://www.nhc.noaa.gov/data/hurdat/ hurdat2-1851-2019-052520.txt; United States National Hurricane Center. 2020.’Costliest US Tropical Cyclones,’ USNHC. Online: https://www.ncdc.noaa. gov/billions/dcmi.pdf; and BBC News. 2018. ‘Trump disputes Puerto Rico hur­ ricane death toll,’ BBC News. Online: https://www.bbc.com/news/world-uscanada-45511865 17 Rivera-Valentín, Edgar, G. and Schmelz, Joan T. 2018. 18 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 19 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). 20 Cabrera, Israel. 2019. In-person interview with author. 21 Cabrera, Israel. 2019. 22 Cabrera, Israel. 2019. 23 Córdova, Francisco. 2019.

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Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (a). Córdova, Francisco. 2019. Kotala, Zanaida, G. 2020. ‘Broken Cable Damages Arecibo Observatory,’ UFC Today. Online: https://www.ucf.edu/news/broken-cable-damagesarecibo-observatory/?fbclid=IwAR1-bWth14A67e3Qjo_4UR8sb-pMuDkN9g QvkmlthherghMYNzsIenvWaF8 Drake, Nadia. 2020. ‘Iconic Radio Telescope in Puerto Rico is at risk of col­ lapsing,’ National Geographic. Online: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/ science/2020/11/arecibo-observatory-in-puerto-rico-at-risk-of-collapsing/ Drake, Nadia. 2020. See National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center. NA. ‘Arecibo Observatory Accomplishments,’ NAIC. Online: http://www.naic.edu/about/accomplishments. html See Drake, Nadia. 2016. ‘With Earth’s Largest Telescope Threatened, Its Homeland Rallies,’ National Geographic, Online: https://www.nationalgeographic.com/ science/phenomena/2016/06/10/with-earths-largest-telescope-threatened-itshomeland-rallies/ See Howell, Elizabeth. 2018. ‘Arecibo Observatory: Watching for Asteroids, Waiting for E.T.’ Space.com. Online: https://www.space.com/20984-areciboobservatory.html Witze, Alexandra. 2020. Square Kilometer Array. 2012. ‘Dual Site Agreed for Square Kilometer Array Telescope,’ SKA. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/news/dual-site-agreedsquare-kilometre-array-telescope/ SKA Site Advisory Committee. 2012. ‘Report and Recommendation of the SKA Site Advisory Committee,’ SSAC. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/wpcontent/uploads/2012/06/117_SSAC.Report.pdf SKA Siting Group. 2012. ‘Report on Validation of the SKA Site Selection Process,’ SSG. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/wp-content/uploads/2012/06/118_ SSG.Report.pdf Schilizzi, Richard. 2019. Flitton, Daniel. 2012. ‘Australia bid falters for $2.5b telescope,’ The Sydney Morning Herald. Online: http://www.smh.com.au/technology/sci-tech/ australian-bid-falters-for-25b-telescope-20120309-1upsp.html SKA Site Advisory Committee. 2012. Science and Technical Factors: Ionospheric Turbulence (ANZ 10, RSA 10); RFI Measurements (ANZ 7.2, RSA 12.8); Radio Quiet Zone Protection (ANZ 10.3, RSA 9.7); Long-Term RFI Environment (ANZ 9.3, RSA 10.7); Array Science Performance (ANZ 6, RSA 14); Physical Characteristics of Sites (ANZ 9.7, RSA 10.3); Tropospheric Turbulence (ANZ 6.1, RSA 13.9). Other Selection Factors: Political, Socioeconomic, and Financial (ANZ 14.5, RSA 5.5); Customs and Excise (ANZ 13.3, RSA 6.7); Legal (ANZ 12.9, RSA 7.1); Security (ANZ 14.8, RSA 5.2), Employment (ANZ 12.5, RSA 7.5), Working and Support Environment (ANZ 12.1, RSA 7.9).

Negotiating Contingencies 233 47 Matchett, Stephen. 2012. ‘South Africa takes the lion’s share of SKA,’ The Australian. Online: http://www.theaustralian.com.au/higher-education/southafrica-takes-the-lions-share-of-ska/news-story/ed1dbc8a7c554b64356038bc87a86f63 48 Australia-New Zealand SKA Co-Ordination Committee. 2012. ‘ANZSCC Response to SSAC Report,’ ANZCC. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/wpcontent/uploads/2012/06/120_ANZSCC.response.to_.SSAC_.report-covering. letter.pdf 49 Flitton, Daniel. 2012. 50 SKA Siting Options Working Group. 2012. ‘Report of the SKA Siting Options Working Group,’ SOWG. Online: https://www.skatelescope.org/wp-content/ uploads/2012/06/119_SOWG.Report.pdf 51 Van Den Groenendaal, Hans. 2012. ‘SA gets lion’s share of the SKA, but what’s the future of fracking in the Karoo?’ EE Publishers. Online: http://www.ee.co. za/article/hans-06-sa-gets-lions-share-of-the-ska-but-whats-the-future-offracking-in-the-karoo.html 52 Harvey-Smith, Lisa. 2012. ‘Australia’s bid for the Square Kilometre Array – an insider’s perspective,’ The Conversation. Online: https://theconversation.com/ australias-bid-for-the-square-kilometre-array-an-insiders-perspective-4891 53 Square Kilometer Array Africa. 2013. ‘Our Journey to Bring the SKA to Africa,’ SKA Africa. Online: http://www.skaphase1.csir.co.za/wp-content/uploads/ 2015/11/SKA-South-Africa-Journey-Brochure.pdf 54 Clery, Daniel. 2021. ‘After long shutdown, giant radio telescope array set to resume observations,’ Science. Online: https://www.science.org/content/article/ after-long-shutdown-giant-radio-telescope-array-set-resume-observations 55 Witze, Alexandra. 2013. ‘ALMA strike stirs up Chilean labour unions,’ Nature, 501. Online: https://www-nature-com/news/polopoly_fs/1.13764!/menu/main/ topColumns/topLeftColumn/pdf/501292a.pdf 56 Witze, Alexandra. 2013. 57 Madsen, Claus. 2012. 58 Madsen, Claus. 2012. p. 291. 59 Blaauw, Adriaan. 2004. ‘My Cruise Through the World of Astronomy,’ Annual Review of Astronomy and Astrophysics 42. p. 27. 60 Madsen, Claus. 2012. 61 For more on the negotiations between ESO and the Chilean government see Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 62 Giacconi, Riccardo. 2008. 63 Encyclopedia Britannica. 2020. ‘Guizhou Province,’ Encyclopedia Britannica. Online: https://www-britannica-com/place/Guizhou/People 64 Qiannan Buyei and Miao Autonomous Prefecture. 2020. ‘Into Qiannan: Ethnic Religion,’ Qiannan. Online: http://www.qiannan.gov.cn/zjqn/mzzj/ 65 Chen, Stephen. 2017. ‘How noisy Chinese tourists may be drowning out alien signals at the world’s biggest telescope,’ South China Morning Post. Online: https://www.scmp.com/news/china/society/article/2107893/how-noisy-chinesetourists-may-be-drowning-out-alien-signals 66 Peng, Bo. 2019. 67 Peng, Bo. 2019. 68 Peng, Bo. 2019. 69 Chen, Stephen. 2017. 70 Xinhua. 2019. ‘Mega bridge opens to traffic in southwest China,’ Xhinhua Net. Online: http://www.xinhuanet.com/english/2019-12/30/c_138666968_2.htm

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71 Scoles, Sarah. 2018 (b). ‘China Built the World’s Largest Telescope. Then Came the Tourists,’ Wired. Online: https://www.wired.com/story/china-fast-worldslargest-telescope-tourists/ 72 Yingqi, Cheng and Yang Yun. 2013. ‘Pingtang Telescope to be centerpiece of astronomy plan,’ China Daily. Online: http://www.chinadaily.com.cn/m/guizhou/ 2013-05/25/content_37218525.htm 73 Xinhua. 2019. 74 Xinhua. 2018. ‘China launches remote sensing to monitor operation of FAST telescope,’ Xinhua Net. Online: http://www.xinhuanet.com/english/2018-11/24/ c_137628909.htm 75 China plans to relocate ten million people into urban areas by 2020. In Guizhou, up to two million people face displacement. See Minority Rights Group International. 2017. ‘World Directory of Minorities and Indigenous Peoples – China,’ MRGI. Online: https://www.refworld.org/docid/4954ce5b23.html 76 Pinch, Trevor. 1992. 77 Sennett, Richard. 2017. 78 As established in this book Charles Maier employs the notion of ‘border’ as a means to demarcate territorial formations. The border is a different condition to the boundary, which Stuart Elden and Richard Sennett here engage as a per­ meable edge zone as opposed to a fixed uncrossable line. See Maier, Charles S. 2016; Sennett, Richard. 2017; and Elden, Stuart. 2016. 79 See Knorr-Cetina, Karen. 1999. Epistemic Cultures: How the Sciences Make Knowledge. Cambridge, MA.: Harvard University Press.

Epilogue: To the Moon

Those designing and building advanced radio telescopes in particular sites across the world have long sought the best radio frequency environments available to the scientific objectives of each. Outer space, however, is the best location for radio telescopes as they would occupy the same vacuous context as those radio waves emanating from deep space, without the barrier of Earth’s atmosphere and Earth-based radio frequency interference. Space remains an extraordinarily complex and costly location for radio research, and numerous concepts for radio astronomy research on the Moon exist with little advancement.1 However, in April 2020, NASA announced support through its Innovative Advanced Concepts programme for the LCRT, a project led by Saptarshi Bandyopadhyay.2 The project would see a radio telescope remotely assembled in a crater on the Moon’s far side. NASA notes that this location offers two significant advantages: being outside the Earth’s atmosphere and enabling observations of wavelengths greater than ten metres. Earth’s atmosphere blocks those wavelengths greater than ten metres. Similarly, the Moon will protect the telescope from Earth-based RFI emissions, orbiting satellites, and the Sun. To build the telescope, NASA would launch its components to the Moon in a spacecraft, which nearing the Moon, would split into a telescope lander and a DuAxel lander.3 The former would land in the middle of a three-tofive-kilometre diameter crater with the correct curvature to support the telescope. The latter would deploy four DuAxel robot rovers at the crater rim.4 The telescope lander would contain a wire-mesh reflector surface and the receiver. A DuAxel rover would install the receiver by anchoring its body on the rim and dispatch a component down into the crater centre. It would connect to one of the receiver cables contained in the telescope lander, haul it up, and anchor it at the rim. Four cables would suspend the receiver above the future reflector.5 Next, the DuAxel rovers will conduct the same anchoring process and send an Axel component down into the crater centre. This time they would connect to cables supporting the reflector mesh. By pulling each cable up to the rim and anchoring them there, the entire reflector surface, perhaps resembling a spider-web slung across the crater, will be unravelled. The final total diameter of the DOI: 10.4324/9781003328353-7

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telescope would be one kilometre, making it the biggest filled aperture array telescope in the solar system, enabling observations in a bandwidth hitherto unknown to humankind.6 While the telescope’s construction has been considered in limited detail, the data connection between the telescope, Earth, and the power source has seen even less resolution. Currently, two options for Earth-Moon communications are envisaged. The first is a relay of robot landers that would pass data to and from the telescope from the Moon’s south pole across its far side to the telescope, and the second involves using a Moon-orbiting satellite.7 Concerning the power challenge, the study estimates that 400 KW would be required to run the facility. The primary solution would be an array of solar panels and batteries charged routinely by the Sun. Another option would involve the use of thermal capacitors to store thermal energy.8 The LCRT represents the next major frontier for filled aperture telescopes and would see the USA supplant China in the race for the world’s biggest. Beyond the race for scientific superiority, the LCRT will embody not only one of the first human installations on the Moon but a major territorial act in the name of science on extra-planetary terrain. The surface of the Moon would become, as it was at Arecibo and FAST, an impeccable landscape for scientific installation, where scientific success relies on the maintenance of perfect spatial conditions. As these transformations have demonstrated in the Atacama, the Karoo, and the karst regions of southern China and central Puerto Rico, the LCRT would not be a radio telescope erected on the Moon but rather enact Moon as telescope. In these examples, the scientific project relied on spatial transformations in the form of earthmoving, construction, and infrastructure laying. Still, these radical changes recrafted landscapes into technologically hybrid conditions in which the limestone hill, or the sandy desert plain, became as essential to the scientific operation as the fibre optic cable or the robotic antenna. These landscapes become conjoined scientific spatial formations, concentrations in space, material technologies, and built formations. The hyper concentrated formation extends outwards across space through multiple tethers, territorial structures, landscape transformations, and human movements. In doing so, the scientific ‘outpost’ is further embedded physically and socially into space, resembling more an extension of human/technological assemblages elsewhere, albeit with a profoundly scientific purpose. The LCRT is a lunar transformation, a network of communication links, a control centre on Earth, an exciting image of a newly discovered phenomenon, a place to work, an object of nationalism, an architectural expression, and a scientific statement. In achieving the LCRT, the defences enacted on Earth in the territorial transformation of the case study telescopes are unnecessary. The Moon becomes a glacis, its mass a giant RFI shield to the Earth’s transmissions. Unlike the case study telescopes, the major challenge for the LCRT is the extensive tether required to bind it to Earth and ensure its effective operation, which has seen less rationalisation than the design of the telescope

Epilogue: To the Moon 237 itself. In tethering the surface of the Moon to the surface of the Earth through communications links, the Moon will evolve from being a satellite to an extension of the Earth as a scientific resource ready for further transformations. The territorial effects of this process will embody those already at play on Earth and in space, where nation-states and corporate actors vie for control. In the future, RFI controls would have to be enacted to protect the telescope from new forms of interference. The following decades will demonstrate how plausible the LCRT is and may even see it realised. As all four case studies show, early concepts with traction soon find institutional support and funding, even if the final project remains a long-term goal. The next few decades will also see the completion of the SKA1 in South Africa and Australia. The project will transform vast tracts of semi-arid South African farmland into antennae base stations supported by remote photovoltaic arrays and extensive data infrastructure. FAST will see advanced operations as institutional formations strengthen to support its more innovative capabilities. ALMA will continue to see regular upgrades and will soon be joined in the region by the E-ELT currently under construction at ESO’s Paranal Observatory. In addition, more powerful space science and complex imagery will come to us from NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope. At Arecibo, the disassembly and remediation of the site continue. Its considered transformation from a place of scientific knowledge production to one of education and memory will be essential in recording this ambitious and successful project. As other large scientific installations find realisation on Earth and in our extra-terrestrial backyard, there will remain an inherent tension between the decontextualised scientific goals of the facility and its locality. Like the anchored half of the DuAxel rover, these tethered formations will remain fixed in the opportune, accessible, and symbolic territory. At the same time, the installation – such as an advanced radio telescope – resembles the other half of the DuAxel rover, located in suitable scientific and topographical territory. Both are the same formation and human-technological assemblage, albeit held together through vast yet fragile infrastructures, networks, and territories.

Notes 1 These include the Lunar Low Frequency Array (Bély, Pierre-Yves; Laurance, Robin, J.; Volonté, Sergio; Ambrosini Roberto, R.; van Ardenne, Arnold; Barrow, Colin H.; et al. 1997. Very low frequency array on the lunar far side.); the Radio Observatory for Lunar Sortie Science (Lazio, T. Joseph; MacDowall, Robert; Burns, Jack O.; Jones, Dayton; et al. 2011. ‘The radio observatory on the lunar surface for solar studies,’ Advances in Space Research 48, (12). pp. 1942–1957.); the Dark Ages Lunar Interferometer (Lazio, T. Joseph; Burns, Jack O.; Jones, Dayton; et al. 2009. ‘The dark ages lunar interferometer (DALI) and the radio observatory for lunar sortie science (ROLSS),’ Bulletin of the American Astronomical Society 41. pp. 344, 2009.); and Drake’s Lunar Arecibo-type Telescope (Drake, Frank. 1988. ‘Very large Arecibo-type telescopes,’ Future Astronomical Observatories on the Moon.). See Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi; Lazio,

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5 6 7 8

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Joseph; Stoica, Adrian; Goldsmith, Paul; Blair, Brad; Quadrelli, Marco; de la Croix, Jean Pierre and Rahmani, Amir. 2018. ‘Conceptual ideas for radio telescope on the far side of the moon,’ 2018 IEEE Aerospace Conference. pp. 1–10. NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory. 2020 (a). Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi et al. 2018. The DuAxel rover is a pair of two, two-wheeled vehicles which are connected via a cable tether. The rover can travel across complex and challenging terrain and then split into two connected rovers in order to perform certain tasks. One half would anchor while the other travels outwards armed with various instruments to explore hard to reach areas, such as steep inclines or crevices. The tether would enable the exploring half a level of stability and a safe return to the DuAxel unit. See NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory (b). 2020. ‘This Transforming Rover Can Explore the Toughest Terrain,’ NASA Jet Propulsion Laboratory News. Online: https://www.jpl.nasa.gov/news/news.php?feature=7762 Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi et al. 2018. Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi et al. 2018. Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi et al. 2018. Bandyopadhyay, Saptarshi et al. 2018.

Index

Note: Page numbers in italics indicate a figure; page numbers in bold indicate a table; page numbers followed by “n” indicate notes Actor Network Theory (ANT) 23, 27, 30–31, 42 Advanced Research Projects Agency (ARPA) 54–55, 58–59, 136 AGA see South African Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act of 2007 AIO see Arecibo Ionospheric Observatory Air Force Cambridge Research Laboratories (AFCRL) 54 Akabane, Kenji 75, 123n125 ALMA see Atacama Large Millimeter/ submillimeter Array ALMA Region Center (ARC) 151 Altschuler, Daniel R. 62, 118nn16–18, 118n20, 118nn24–25, 118n34, 118n37, 119n42, 119n51, 119n56 Ana G. Méndez University (UAGM) 67, 174–175 ANT see Actor Network Theory AOS see Array Operations Site ARC see ALMA Region Center Arecibo Ionospheric Observatory (AIO) 54–55, 57–61, 119n52 Arecibo Observatory 4–5, 5, 48–49, 50, 64–67, 89–90, 119n41, 119n60, 119n66, 121n90, 136, 139, 142, 145, 155, 157, 164n83, 164nn85–86, 165, 173, 176, 212, 214, 216 Argentina 68, 93, 217 ARPA see Advanced Research Projects Agency Array Operations Site (AOS) 70, 72–73, 83, 85, 140, 145, 150, 169–170 ASKAP see Australian Square Kilometer Array Pathfinder

Associated Universities Incorporated (AUI) 78, 85, 168–169, 220 ASTRON see Netherlands Institute for Radio Astronomy Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act 21 14n3 Atacama Astronomy Park 145 Atacama Compact Array (ACA) 72, 88 Atacama Large Millimeter/submillimeter Array (ALMA) 4–6, 6, 10, 48, 68–72, 71, 74–77, 79–84, 88, 113–115, 117, 119n66, 124n141, 135, 139–142, 144–146, 150–152, 157, 159–160, 168–170, 172, 176, 178–179–180, 183–185, 187, 189–190, 196, 201–202, 205nn10–13, 212, 220–222, 227, 229, 237 Atacama Pathfinder Experiment (APEX) 77 Aubin, David 41, 45n41, 46nn85–88, 161nn11–12, 162n14 AUI see Associated Universities Incorporated Australia 14n3, 89, 93–94, 104–105, 107, 109, 127n239, 217–219, 229, 237 Australian-China Consortium for Astrophysical Research (ACAMAR) 98 Australian Square Kilometer Array Pathfinder (ASKAP) 94, 109, 217 Balmat, Jacques 41 Barrett, Alan H. 77 Beijing Astronomical Observatory (BAO) 94

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Belgium 78, 87 Bloor, David 22, 44n22 Booker, Henry 52–53 Braun, Robert 92 Brazil 93, 217 Butrica, Andrew J. 62, 118n12, 118n14, 118n19, 118nn27–31, 118n33, 118n36, 118nn38–41, 119nn53–55 C-Band All Sky Survey (C-BASS) 110 Callon, Michel 23, 44n25 Caltech Submillimeter Observatory (SMO) 75 CCTV see Closed Circuit Television Center for High Performance Computing (CHPC) 114, 152 Center for Radiophysics and Space Research (CRSR) 55 charged-couple device (CCD) 200 Chile 4, 14n3, 65, 68, 70, 72, 77–80, 83, 87–88, 121n101, 124n155, 136, 144, 168–169, 212, 220–221 Chilean Atacama 48, 68, 74, 78–80 China 4, 7, 14n3, 48, 88–90, 92–95, 98, 110, 136–137, 143, 154, 173, 181, 186, 196, 206n84, 209–210, 217, 223, 225–227, 234n75, 236 China Telecoms 154 Chinese Spectral Radioheliograph (CSRH) 90 CHPC see Center for High Performance Computing Christianity 22 Closed Circuit Television (CCTV) 187 Commonwealth Scientific and Industrial Research Organization, Australia (CSIRO) 98 Corder, Stuartt 126n207, 169 Córdova, Francisco 66–67, 174–175, 180, 185, 196, 205n27, 205n29, 205n39, 206n67, 207n97, 213–214, 231n13, 231n23, 232nn24–28, 232n32 Cosgrove, Dennis 34–36, 38, 46nn61–63 COVID-19 pandemic 17, 211 Cronon, William 35, 46n65 CRSR see Center for Radiophysics and Space Research CSIR see South African Council for Scientific and Industrial Research Dark Ages Lunar Interferometer (DALI) 237n1 de Saussure, Horace-Bénédict 41

Deep Space Station 51 105 democracy 22 Denmark 87 Dierig, Sven 27–28, 45nn39–40 Doherty, Sean 130n312, 162n39, 163n54, 204nn7–8, 205n15, 205n38, 206n59, 207nn116–117 Drake, Frank 58–60, 74–75, 118n26, 122n115 Drake, Nadia 215, 232nn34–35, 232n37 DSS51 see Deep Space Station 51 Dwingeloo Telescope 76, 123n131 Eagle Nebula 200 Earth 1–3, 6–7, 36, 50, 52–53, 60, 63–64, 68, 105, 131, 133–135, 146–147, 156, 186, 191, 198, 202, 204, 206n86, 209–211, 235–237 Easterling, Keller 32, 45n59 Echinopsis Atacamensis 72 EHF see extremely high frequency radio band EHT see Event Horizon Telescope EIS see Environmental Impact Statement Ekers, Ron 91–93, 126nn219–221, 127nn225–226, 127nn230–231, 127nn234–235, 127nn237–239, 127n241 Elden, Stuart 36–37, 43n10, 46nn68–71, 46nn73–74, 46n78, 46nn79–80, 234n78 emptiness 12, 39, 41, 132–138, 141–143, 146, 160–161 Engels, Fredrich 21, 44n15 Environmental Impact Statement (EIS) 66 ESO see European Southern Observatory Estancia Barrio 72 Europe 5–6, 15, 31, 41–42, 74, 76, 87, 89, 93, 127n239 European Extremely Large Telescope (E-ELT) 70 European Organization for Nuclear Research (CERN) 81 European Southern Observatory (ESO) 69–70, 77–84, 88, 121n101, 141, 144, 151, 168, 170, 212, 221–222, 233n61 European Southern Observatory’s (ESO) Paranal Observatory 69 European Space Agency 81

Index 241 European VLBI Network (EVN) 89, 149, 163nn63–64 Event Horizon Telescope (EHT) 7, 149, 163n63, 200 EVN see European VLBI Network eXperimental Development Model radio telescope (XDM) 105 extremely high frequency radio band (EHF) 74 Federal Communications Commission (FCC) 145, 163nn56–57 Five-hundred-meter Aperture Spherical radio Telescope (FAST) 4–5, 7, 7, 10, 14n11, 48, 52, 88–90, 94–98, 96–97, 100, 100–101, 117, 135–139, 143, 145–146, 149, 152–154, 158, 159–160, 168, 171–173, 176, 178–179, 181–182, 186–189, 186, 188, 192–193, 194, 195–196, 207n98, 212, 223, 225, 227, 229–230, 236–237; components of 101; construction of 97–98 Flitton, Daniel 218, 232n44, 233n49 fortress science 11, 26, 38, 47, 117, 159, 227–228, 231; notion of 16 Fortuño, Luis 64 Foundation for Research and Development (FRD) 105 France 26, 42, 76–78, 87, 93, 210 French National Center for Scientific Research (CNRS) 76–77 Furlong, Kathryn 30–31, 45nn51–53 Galison, Peter 192, 207nn93–94, 208n121 Gallie, W.B. 22, 44n19 Gandy, Matthew 27, 45nn42–43 Gatica, Juan Carlos 180, 205n36 GBT see Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope Geddes, Patrick 34–35, 46n64 geocentrism 191, 206n86 Germany 76, 78, 85, 87, 93, 127n239, 168, 213 Giacconi, Riccardo 81, 124nn155–156, 124nn158–160, 125n173, 125n179, 125nn181–183, 233nn61–62 Gieryn, Thomas 22–23, 44n23, 44n28 global navigation satellite system (GLONASS) 105 global positioning system (GPS) 105, 209–211

Gordon, William E. 7, 14n8, 49, 52–54, 58, 60, 63, 67, 117nn2–4, 117nn6–10, 118n26, 119n50, 119n59, 154, 215 GPS see global positioning system Green, James L. 64 Gregorian dome 49, 61, 62, 67, 94, 156, 191, 212, 215 Gregory, James 60 gross regional product (GRP) 95, 128n253 Gupta, Akhil 33, 45n60 Hall, Peter 93, 127n238, 128n241 Haraway, Donna 27, 166, 204nn3–5, 206n77 Hartebeesthoek Radio Astronomy Observatory (HartRAO) 105, 129n273, 129n276, 129n278 Hatanaka, Takeo 75 Haystack Radio Telescope 58 Henry Herbert, 4th Earl of Carnarvon 104 HI see Hydrogen Line Higgs, Lloyd 92 Hinchliffe, Steven 26, 45n36 Hubble Space Telescope 199 Hydrogen Array (HIA) 91 Hydrogen Line (HI) 91 Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths (IRAM) 76–77, 79, 81, 123nn133–134 International Astronomy Union (IAU) 92–93 International SKA Steering Committee (ISSC) 92–94 International Space Station 210 International Telescope for Radio Astronomy (ITRA) 91, 127n235 International Union of Radio Science (URSI) 91–92 IRAM see Institute of Radioastronomy at Millimeter Wavelengths ISSC see International SKA Steering Committee Italy 87, 93, 127n239 ITRA see International Telescope for Radio Astronomy James Clerk Maxwell Telescope (JCMT) 75 James Webb Space Telescope (JWST) 237

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Japan 5, 7, 74–75, 77, 80–82, 84, 88, 92, 123n128, 168, 180 Japanese National Committee for Astronomy (NCA) 76 JCMT see James Clerk Maxwell Telescope KAPB see Karoo Array Processor Building Karoo Array Processor Building (KAPB) 112–114, 152, 190 Karoo Array Telescope-7 (KAT-7) 105, 108–109 KARST see Kilometer Area Radio Synthesis Telescope KAT-7 see Karoo Array Telescope-7 Kilometer Area Radio Synthesis Telescope (KARST) 94, 127n235 Kirsch, Scott 21, 43n3, 44n16, 45n36, 45n55 landscape 2, 6–7, 11, 15–16, 26, 28–29, 34–38, 49, 53, 55, 72, 94–95, 102, 136–139, 143, 147–148, 165, 171, 176, 178, 212; cultural 63; definition 34; educational 63; emptiness of 141; karst 7, 49, 53, 117, 223; monumental US 200; mountainous volcanic 71; Puerto Rico 216; semiarid 102, 138; social 230; sparkles as 160; technological 83, 117; and territory 33, 38, 40–41, 43, 157; transformation 42, 236; urbanism 35 Large Millimeter and Submillimeter Array (LMSA) 77, 80 Large Millimeter Array (LMA) 80 Large Southern Array (LSA) 77–79 Large Telescope Working Group 92, 94 Latour, Bruno 13n1, 17, 23, 31, 43n4, 44nn26–27, 45n48, 45n54, 202, 204n2, 204n6, 208nn121–124 LCRT see Lunar Crater Radio Telescope Le Gars, Stéphane 41–42, 46nn85–88 LED see Light-Emitting Diode Lefebvre, Henri 18–21, 36–37, 43nn8–10, 44nn11–14, 46n72, 46n81 Leverington, David 79, 118n20, 123n126, 123nn136–137, 123n139, 124n149, 124nn163–164, 125n176, 125n178, 125n184, 125nn186–188, 125nn191–192

Light Detection and Ranging (LIDAR) 52 Light-Emitting Diode (LED) 160 liquid petroleum gas (LPG) 83, 125n194, 150 Livingstone, David 25, 44nn30–32 LMA see Large Millimeter Array LMSA see Large Millimeter and Submillimeter Array Loftus, Alex 21, 44n16 LPG see liquid petroleum gas LSA see Large Southern Array Lunar Crater Radio Telescope (LCRT) 161n13, 235–237 Maier, Charles S. 37, 46nn76–77, 234n78 Marx, Karl 21, 44n15 Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT) 58, 93, 127n237 Massey, Doreen 24, 44n29 Matchett, Stephen 218, 233n47 Mathews, John D. 118n11, 118n21, 173, 185, 189, 205n24, 206n66, 206n78 Mauna Kea 75, 77–78, 80, 122nn122–123, 142, 148 Mauna Kea Observatories (MKO) 75 Max Plank Institute for Radio Astronomy (MPIfR) 76, 110, 123n132, 130n301, 201 Max Plank Society (MPG) 76 MBO see Mont Blanc Observatory MeerKAT 3–5, 8, 8, 10, 14n6, 48–49, 90, 94, 102–105, 108–111, 111–112, 113–115, 114–116, 117, 136, 138–139, 140, 143, 146, 149, 152, 153, 157, 158, 160, 168, 176–178, 177, 181–183, 187, 188, 190–192, 196, 206n55, 212, 217, 219, 221, 225, 227, 229 MELCO see Mitsubishi Electric Corporation Merton, Robert 22 Messier 13 59 Messier 87 200, 201 Metropolitan University in Puerto Rico (UMET) 65, 174 Milky Way 74, 132 Millimeter Array (MMA) 77–80 MIT see Massachusetts Institute of Technology Mitsubishi Electric Corporation (MELCO) 81, 88, 123n129

Index 243 Miyun Meter Wave Aperture Synthesis Telescope 89 Mizuno, Norikazu 168, 180, 183–184, 204n9, 205n37, 206n57, 206n61 MKO see Mauna Kea Observatories MMA see Millimeter Array Mont Blanc Observatory (MBO) 11, 41–42 Moon 1, 58, 63, 135–136, 156, 159, 199, 235–237 multi-fuel gas turbines (MFGT) 83 NAIC see National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center NAOC see National Astronomical Observatories of China NAOJ see National Astronomical Observatory of Japan NASA see National Aeronautics and Space Administration National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) 59, 62, 64–65, 81, 105, 118–119n41, 122n122, 154, 161n13, 200–201, 231n2, 235, 238n2, 238n4 National Astronomical Observatories of China (NAOC) 153 National Astronomical Observatory of Japan (NAOJ) 77, 80 National Astronomy and Ionosphere Center (NAIC) 59–65, 119n52, 119n66 National Geographic 109, 129n298 National Institutes for Natural Sciences of Japan (NINS) 70, 82 National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO) 59, 61, 72, 74–82, 84–85, 92, 110, 119n66, 122n114, 122nn117–119, 122n121, 123n124, 125nn195–196, 126n197, 126n199, 126n202, 126nn205–206, 127n242, 151, 168 National Research Foundation, South Africa (NRF) 105–106, 108–111, 129n280, 129n293, 138–139, 162nn22–23 National Science Foundation, United States of America (NSF) 58–60, 62–67, 70, 75, 78–80, 82, 93, 118n35, 118n41, 119n66, 120n85, 121nn86–87, 121n93, 124nn142–144, 124n148, 124n150, 125n177, 127n242, 142, 174, 185, 196, 214–215

National Union of Metalworkers of South Africa (NUMSA) 106 Naylor, Simon 25–27, 44nn34–35, 45n38 NCA see Japanese National Committee for Astronomy Netherlands 76, 78, 85, 92, 127n239, 202 Netherlands Foundation for Radio Astronomy (NFRA) 79 Netherlands Institute for Radio Astronomy (ASTRON) 79, 123n131 Nicolson, George 105, 107, 128n269, 128nn271–272, 129n274, 129n277, 129n279 NMA see Nobeyama Millimeter Array Nobeyama Millimeter Array (NMA) 76, 80 Nobel Prize 48, 118n32, 185 Noordham, Jan 91, 127nn227–228 NOrthern Extended Millimeter Array (NOEMA) 77 NRAO see National Radio Astronomy Observatory NRF see National Research Foundation NSF see National Science Foundation NSF Advisory Committee for Mathematical and Physical Sciences (MPS/AC) 77 Object 2014-28E 210–211 OECD see Organisation for Economic Co-operation and Development Onsala Space Observatory (OSO) 77, 79 Operations Support Facility (OSF) 72, 83–85, 88, 110, 125n194, 140, 150, 169, 196 Organisation for Economic Cooperation and Development (OECD) 76, 92 Orion Nebula 198–200, 202–203 OSF see Operations Support Facility OSO see Onsala Space Observatory Otárola, Angel 163n55 Particle Physics and Astronomy Research Council (PPARC) 93 Peng, Bo 94, 96, 100, 128nn246–247, 128n250, 128n252, 128nn254–255, 128n261, 128nn266–267, 143, 162nn43–44, 164n79, 164n82, 164n95, 173, 205n19, 205n23, 206n76, 224, 233nn66–68

244

Index

Pinch, Trevor 44n18, 227–228, 234n76 Popper, Karl 22 PRCZ see Puerto Rico Radio Coordination Zone Puerto Rico 4–5, 53–54, 58, 64–67, 136, 142, 145–146, 160, 173, 176, 180, 212–216, 230, 236 Puerto Rico Radio Coordination Zone (PRCZ) 145 Puna de Atacama 68 Qiu Yuhai 94 radio astronomy: Chinese 90, 143; community 48, 92, 106, 185; destination 49; facility 47–48; global optical and 78; history of 11–12, 13n2, 48; infrastructure 68; instrument 8; Japanese 75; projects 55, 90, 108; research 52, 89, 105, 235 Radio Frequency Interference (RFI) 93–94, 96, 98, 101, 107–108, 113, 135–137, 139, 143, 145, 223, 232n46, 235–237 Radio Quiet Zone (RQZ) 96–97, 137 Radio Schmidt telescope 91, 127n224 radio telescope: advanced 2–4, 14n5, 52, 136, 167, 235, 237; facilities 107, 143, 161, 182; functional 12; image of 195, 198; infrastructure 146; installations 40; instrument 165; project 137, 217; space of 159, 189, 203; spatiality of 3; territorial formation of 26–27; thought of 190; traditional 54 Reconstruction and Development Program (RDP) 106 Reich, Wolfgang 92 RFI see Radio Frequency Interference Robert C. Byrd Green Bank Telescope (GBT) 76, 92 Rohrabacher, Dana 64 Romania 87 RQZ see Radio Quiet Zone Russia 88–89, 210 Sagan, Carl 59–60, 161n1 SALT see Southern African Large Telescope San Pedro de Atacama 6, 68–69, 71–72, 80, 83, 125n194, 139, 162n31, 168–170, 178, 230 SANParks see South African National Parks

SANREN see South African National Research and Education Network Santiago Central Offices (SCO) 150–151 SARAO see South African Radio Astronomy Observatory Schaffer, Simon 198–199, 207n96, 207nn102–108 Schilizzi, Richard 93, 127nn232–233, 127n238, 127nn240–241, 232n43 Scientific Advisory Group for Millimetre Astronomy (SAGMA) 76 Scientific American 15, 16, 43n1 SCO see Santiago Central Offices Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence (SETI) 60 SEST see Swedish-ESO Submillimeter Telescope SETI see Search for Extra-Terrestrial Intelligence Shapin, Steven 25, 44n33, 207n96 Shengyin, Wu 92 Shouguan, Wang 88–89, 126nn209–212, 126n214 SKA SA see South African SKA bid team SKA see Square Kilometre Array SKA Site Advisory Committee (SSAC) 93, 217–219, 232n41, 232n45 SKA Siting Group (SSG) 217, 232n42 SKA Siting Options Working Group (SOWG) 218, 233n50 SKA1 see Square Kilometre Array First Phase SKAI see Square Kilometre Array Interferometer SMA see Submillimeter Array Smyth, Charles 198 Soja, Edward 21, 44n17 South Africa 3–5, 8, 8, 14n3, 48, 78, 93–94, 102, 104, 106–109, 129n275, 136, 138, 152, 195, 217–219, 229, 237 South African Astronomy Geographic Advantage Act of 2007 (AGA) 108–109 South African Council for Scientific and Industrial Research (CSIR) 104–105 South African National Parks (SANParks) 144 South African National Research and Education Network (SANREN) 152 South African Radio Astronomy Observatory (SARAO) 8, 107, 110,

Index 245 129n292, 129nn296–297, 130nn307–310, 162n24, 162n27, 163n73, 164n76 South African SKA bid team (SKA SA) 107–110, 136 Southern African Large Telescope (SALT) 106, 108 space: absolute 20; abstract 20, 31, 36–38, 132; agro-pastoral 20; and astronomy 7; concrete 31; contingent 188; decision 37; emptiness of 132, 134, 146; geographic 131; global 31, 182, 230; human 191; identity 37; international 72; knowledge 41–42; mysteries of 133; orbital 133; outer 1, 3, 10, 13, 41, 47, 49, 51–52, 67, 132, 134, 147, 165, 189, 198, 203–204, 209–210, 223, 235; perceived 19–20; production of 28, 33; representations of 19–20, 43n10; of representation 19–21; of science 13, 17–19, 23–25, 42, 117, 167; scientific 21, 26, 28–29, 167, 189, 228, 230; social production of 38; and time 31, 73, 198; tourism 33; transformation of 19, 117, 204; urban 27, 32 SpaceX 132–133 Spain 77, 80, 87, 93, 123n134 Sports Utility Vehicle (SUV) 156 Square Kilometre Array (SKA) 3, 8, 14n4, 48, 90, 92–95, 102–110, 113–115, 125n180, 127n242, 130n306, 130n313, 139, 143–144, 146, 152, 177–178, 182–183, 193, 197, 206n55, 212, 217–219, 229, 232n40 Square Kilometre Array First Phase (SKA1) 115, 183, 237 Square Kilometre Array Interferometer (SKAI) 92, 127n235 SSAC see SKA Site Advisory Committee STS see studies of science, technology, and society studies of science, technology, and society (STS) 4, 11, 13, 18–19, 21–28, 30, 42, 227 Submillimeter Array (SMA) 75 Submillimeter Telescope (SMT) 81 Sulzer, Michael 185, 206n72 Sun 1, 60, 77, 83, 235–236 SUV see Sports Utility Vehicle Swarup, Govind 91–92, 127nn222–223 Swedish-ESO Submillimeter Telescope (SEST) 77, 79, 124n141 Switzerland 87

Swyngedouw, Eric 21, 44n16, 45nn45–46 Taiwan 81–82 TAO see Tokyo Astronomical Observatory technology 2–3, 28, 42–43, 52, 88, 115, 147, 176, 191, 200; defensive 40; and infrastructure 29–33; political 36; satellite 209; space 209–211 Thales Alenia Space, EIE, and MT Mechatronics (AEM-Consortium) 82, 86 Thirty Meter Telescope (TMT) 122n123 Thompson, Dick 92 Tokyo Astronomical Observatory (TAO) 75–76, 80 Turnbull, David 26, 45n37, 46n84 UAGM see Ana G. Méndez University UCB see University of California, Berkeley UCF see University of Central Florida UK 76, 78, 87, 93, 104, 127n239, 182, 192 UMET see Metropolitan University in Puerto Rico United States 74, 118n35, 127n239 Universities Space Research Association (USRA) 65, 121n90, 174 University of California, Berkeley (UCB) 93, 127n237 University of Central Florida (UCF) 67, 174, 214 UN Outer Space Treaty 133, 209–210 USA 5–6, 42, 53, 74–75, 77–78, 80, 82, 92–93, 105, 119n52, 127n242, 129n275, 165, 172, 186, 209–210, 222, 236 USRA see Universities Space Research Association US Space Force 210 Verbeek, Peter Paul 13n1, 30, 45n47, 204n2 VertexRSI 81–82, 84–86, 88 Very Large Array (VLA) 74 Very Large Telescope (VLT) 79, 121n100 Very Long Baseline Interferometer (VLBI) 89, 105 Visible and Infrared Survey Telescope for Astronomy (VISTA) 79, 121n100

246

Index

VLBA see Very Long Baseline Array VLBI see Very Long Baseline Interferometer VLT Survey telescope (VST) 79, 121n100 Waldheim, Charles 35, 46nn66–67

Weinreb, Sander 74, 122n110 Wencai, Wu 164n80, 189, 205n18, 206n79 Wilkinson, Peter 91–92, 127n229 Wolszczan, Aleksander 60, 119n48 World War II 76, 104