Saturn’s Rings Are Disappearing: A Cosmic Twilight for the Timeless Planet

If anything appeared stable in a softening and fluid universe, undoubtedly it was the colossal outer planets of the solar system. There they were, Saturn and Jupiter, majestic and perhaps somewhat ominous, lingering together, impossibly vast and brilliant, during the Great Conjunction, as it was referred to, observable for the first time in decades four winters ago, in the pandemic year of 2020. At that time, one could step outside and gaze at the gaseous planets on the deserted streets at midnight, their existence implying, if not a kind nature, then at least a watchful one—the enduring nature of the cosmos itself—while we fretted and strained below.

However, word has surfaced—it has been recognized by astronomers for some time but has only recently reached our collective, night-sky-gazers awareness—that Saturn’s splendid rings, the singular true decorative feature in the solar system, are disappearing. “Ring rain,” it appears, is eroding them at a pace that is rapid for a cosmic event. Ring rain is precisely what it suggests: charged water particles escaping from Saturn’s rings and falling onto the planet, diminishing the rings at what astronomers describe as a concerning speed. “Saturn Is Losing Its Rings at Worst-Case-Scenario Rate,” an article published by nasa announced, while a science website declared “Goodbye to Saturn’s Rings,” though the goodbye echoes will persist for quite some time, as that “worst case” ends up being around a hundred million years—not exactly what we classify as worst-case situations down here on Earth, where they normally involve four-year cycles, at best.

The reasons and ramifications of ring rain are compelling, albeit still a tad unclear to the layperson, since they involve a complex interaction between the surprisingly delicate ring system—first observed by Galileo himself, in the early seventeenth century—and the planet. For all of the rings’ grandeur and splendor, they are predominantly composed of ice blended with rocks. Occasionally, ring particles acquire an electric charge (due to the sun’s ultraviolet rays, for example). When this occurs, they become more vulnerable to Saturn’s gravitational force and can start crashing into the planet’s atmosphere.

If that notion isn’t alarming enough, consider that in 2025 we will be witness to what it will look like when Saturn’s rings have disappeared. This is because, in the approaching year, Saturn will tilt in such a manner that, from the perspective of Earthlings, creates a striking visual trick and angle that renders the rings invisible. We will be able to look a hundred million years into the future, at least for a spell. (The rings should reappear in sight in the coming years, or, at any rate, let us hope so.)

One of the emerging realities of the cosmos is that some of the same laws of gradual contingency and evolutionary drift, of dizzyingly shifting perspectives oscillating with incremental changes, that govern our trivial lives also influence the grand phenomena out there. What we observe when we gaze upward, much like what we perceive when we look around, is not a perfectly synchronized clockwork proceeding towards eternity. It is a blend of brief illusions, long-lasting evolutions, meaningless overlays—the constellations we cherish, after all, are merely superimposed fortuities, stars at vastly varying distances perceived as one—lucky coincidences and unexpected occurrences. Some solace can be found in the cosmos’s indifference to our narratives; another type of comfort resides in the notion that the cosmos narrates stories quite similar to our own.

It may turn out, for instance, that, as the physicist Lee Smolin has speculated, our universe has developed on a Darwinian basis. Just as humans outperform other organisms in the battle for survival, certain types of universes have outperformed others in the struggle for cosmological endurance. Our universe, in this perspective, is a sort of successful predatory cosmos—it’s one that thrived. After all, if we see a lion feasting on a zebra, we can be confident that there have been prior lions that feasted on significantly more zebras than other lions to result in this one. So it would seem with the universe itself. Its existence serves as evidence of the success of this specific kind of universe in the struggle for survival against other, alternative universes.

And then let’s add to this perplexing catalog the reality that seeking comfort in the night sky appears a tad more implausible right now. As is well known, individuals in the adjacent state of New Jersey, just across the Hudson, have been spotting unsettling formations of alien drones. Or, far more likely, observing not threatening drones but familiar assortments of ordinary drones, passing airplanes, helicopters—and even planets and stars—that some people have devoted too much time scrutinizing Fox News to have noticed previously.

It is unmistakably odd that New Jersey was the site of another American panic occurring under uncertain skies during a deeply polarized period, rife with looming fears of rising fascism and America First ideology. That earlier episode was triggered by Orson Welles’s “War of the Worlds” radio broadcast in 1938, which sent New Jerseyans—along with many others—fleeing into the streets in terror of an extraterrestrial visitation.

The inversion, perhaps emblematic of our times, is that, while the Welles broadcast was an indoor program that thrust people outside in fear, our drone panic involves a phenomenon occurring outdoors that compels people to rush inside to try to comprehend. Or rather, not to understand, as YouTube clips and social media heighten, rather than alleviate, the panic.

Well, the rain doth fall every day, as Shakespeare remarked, evidently even on Saturn. The cosmos provides scant comfort at this instant. In our skies, as in our social experiences, gradual change, akin to ring rain, appears to operate slowly, while acts of terrifying absolutism seem to transpire overnight. Our aspirations for the power of minor transformations may be misplaced, while the force of the sudden appearance—The drones are here! The rings are vanished!—seems overpowering. Yet the slow force of minor change indeed alters Saturn’s rings, and what appears as an astonishing, radical severing may transpire to be merely a trick of perspective and a fleeting happenstance of positioning. The year ahead is bound to be intriguing, not only in the night sky. ♦