White dwarfs — the exposed cores of dead stars — are the last place astronomers expected to find an oxygen atmosphere. Yet that’s exactly what recently turned up, providing researchers a rare peek inside the core of a massive star and raising questions about how such an oddball could have formed.

Most stars die by gently casting the bulk of their gas into space, leaving behind a dense, hot core. Heavy elements such as carbon and oxygen sink to the core’s center while hydrogen and helium float to the surface. But a newly discovered white dwarf, about 1,200 light-years away in the constellation Draco, has no hydrogen or helium at its surface. Its atmosphere is instead dominated by oxygen, researchers report in the April 1 Science.
“We only found one, so it is a rare event,” says study coauthor Kepler de Souza Oliveira Filho, an astronomer at the Federal University of Rio Grande do Sul in Porto Alegre, Brazil. But, he says, “every theory must be able to explain all events, even the rare ones.”

Hydrogen and helium blanket most white dwarfs, hiding what lies beneath. Here, astronomers have “a window into the core of a star that we didn’t have before,” says Patrick Dufour, an astrophysicist at the University of Montreal.

While oxygen dominates this white dwarf’s atmosphere, neon and magnesium come in second and third — a clue that the original star was much bigger than our sun. Big stars can crank up their core temperatures high enough to fuse progressively heavier elements. A star between about six and 10 times as massive as the sun ends up with a core made of mostly oxygen, neon and magnesium — precisely what Filho and colleagues found. But there’s a problem: Such a white dwarf should be a bit heavier than our sun, and this newly discovered misfit appears to have about half as much mass.

A nearby stellar companion could have siphoned gas off the dying star, starving the white dwarf of mass, the researchers suggest. Thermonuclear excavation during the star’s end game could also lead to an underweight white dwarf. If enough hydrogen piled up on the core, it might have triggered a runaway nuclear explosion that shaved off the white dwarf’s outer layers.

While plausible, it’s hard to see how that could remove half of the white dwarf’s mass, Dufour says. “That’s very strange,” he says. “It could work, but I doubt it would leave a low-mass white dwarf.”
In 2007, Dufour and colleagues reported a similar strange sighting: several white dwarfs whose atmospheres were loaded with carbon instead of hydrogen and helium. Those also appeared to be missing some mass, he says, though the problem was found to lie not with the stars but with the mass estimates. The white dwarfs are heavier than initially thought, and Dufour now suspects that each one arose from a collision between two white dwarfs.

It’s too early to draw strong conclusions from a single oxygen-laden white dwarf. “There are lots of open questions before we can say that this changes our view of white dwarf evolution,” Dufour says. “This white dwarf might only be a freak…. Although often in science, it’s the exception that makes you understand a great deal later on.”

SAN DIEGO — The long-standing mystery of the Milky Way’s missing satellite galaxies has a credible culprit, new research suggests. Supernovas, the vigorous explosions of massive stars, might have shoved much of the matter surrounding our galaxy deep into space, preventing a horde of tiny companion galaxies from forming in the first place.

Millions of teeny galaxies should be buzzing around the Milky Way, according to theories about how galaxies evolve, but observations have turned up only a few dozen (SN: 9/19/15, p. 6). And the brightest of those that have been found are lightweights compared with what theorists expect to find. But new computer simulations designed to track the growth of galaxies down to the level of individual stars reveal the critical role that supernovas might play in resolving these conundrums.
Philip Hopkins, an astrophysicist at Caltech, presented the results June 13 during a news briefing at a meeting of the American Astronomical Society.

“Galaxies don’t just form stars and sit there,” Hopkins said. “If you [add] up all the energy that supernovae emitted during a galaxy’s lifetime, it’s greater than the gravitational energy holding the galaxy together. You cannot ignore it.”

Simulations are typically limited by computing power, and efforts to simulate galaxy evolution have to brush over some details. For instance, rather than capture everything that’s going on in a galaxy, simulations slap on the additive effects of supernovas in an ad hoc fashion. These limitations don’t fully capture all the physics of stellar winds and supernova shocks that ripple through a galaxy.

Hopkins’ simulations grow a galaxy organically within a computer, tracing the evolution of a system such as the Milky Way over 13 billion years. Within a massive virtual blob of dark matter — the elusive substance thought to bind galaxies together — gas collects and fragments into stellar nurseries. Stars are born and die in this digital universe. A volley of life-ending explosions from the most massive of these stars lead to a turbulent galactic history, Hopkins finds.

“As these stars form rapidly in the early universe, they also live briefly and explode and die violently, ejecting material far from the galaxy,” he said. “They’re not just getting rid of gas.” They’re stirring up the dark matter as well, preventing a multitude of satellite galaxies from forming, and whittling away at those few that survive. “It’s not until quite late times … that [the galaxy] settles down and forms what we would call a recognizable galaxy today,” Hopkins said.
The idea that stellar tantrums could chip away at the gas and dark matter around a galaxy is not new, says Janice Lee, an astronomer at the Space Telescope Science Institute in Baltimore. But Hopkins’ simulations bring a lot more detail to that story and show that it’s a plausible reason for our galaxy’s satellite shortfall.

Before declaring that the mystery of the missing satellite galaxies is solved, however, astronomers need to run a few more checks against reality, says Lee. There are still assumptions in the calculations about how energy from dying stars interacts with interstellar gas, for example. The precise details of that interaction can affect how many stellar runts versus behemoths form in star clusters.

NASA’s James Webb Space Telescope, scheduled to launch in 2018, could probe star clusters in several relatively nearby galaxies, she says. Those observations could be compared with virtual clusters that appear in the simulations to see how close they match the real universe.

Those little piles of dirt that ant colonies leave on the ground are an indication that ants are busy underground. And they’re moving more soil and sediment than you might think. A new study finds that, over a hectare, colonies of Trachymyrmex septentrionalis fungus-gardening ants in Florida can move some 800 kilograms aboveground and another 200 kilograms below in a year.

The question of how much soil and sand ants can move originated not with entomologists but with geologists and archaeologists. These scientists use a technique called optically stimulated luminescence, or OSL, to date layers of sediment. When minerals such as quartz are exposed to the sun, they suck up and store energy. Scientists can use the amount of energy in buried minerals to determine when they last sat on the surface, taking in the sun.

But ants might muck this up. To find out, a group of geologists and archaeologists reached out to Walter Tschinkel, an entomologist at Florida State University. Figuring out how much sand and soil ants dig up and deposit on the surface — called biomantling — is relatively easy, especially if the color of the soil they’re digging up is different from that found on the ground. But tracking movement underground, or bioturbation, is a bit more complicated.
Tschinkel and his former student Jon Seal, now an ecologist at the University of Texas at Tyler, turned to an area of the Apalachicola National Forest in Florida dubbed “Ant Heaven” for its abundant and diverse collection of ants. Tschinkel has worked there since the 1970s, and for the last six years, he has been monitoring some 450 colonies of harvester ants, which bring up plenty of sandy soil from underground. But he was also curious about the fungus-gardening ants.

Tschinkel and Seal had already shown that the fungus-gardening ant “is extremely abundant, that it moves a very large amount of soil, and that as the summer warms up, it digs a deeper chamber and deposits that soil in higher chambers without exposing it to light,” Tschinkel says. “In other words, it appeared to do a very large amount of soil mixing of the type [that had been] described in harvester ants.”

No one had ever quantified an ant colony’s subterranean digging before. Tschinkel and Seal started by digging 10 holes a meter deep and filling them with layers of native sand mixed with various colors of art sand — pink, blue, purple or yellow, green and orange, with plain forest sand at the top. Each hole was then topped with a cage, and an ant colony was transferred with the fungus that the ants cultivate like a crop. Throughout the experiment, the researchers collected sand that the ants deposited on the surface and provided the colonies with food for their fungus, including leaves, small flowers and oatmeal. Seven months later, Tschinkel and Seal carefully excavated the nine surviving ant colonies and quantified grains of sand moved from one sand layer to another. The team reports its findings July 8 in PLOS ONE.

By the end of the study, each ant colony had deposited an average of 758 grams of sand on the surface and moved another 153 grams between one colored layer and another underground, mostly upward. The ants dug chambers to farm their fungus, and they sometimes filled them up with sand from deeper layers as they dug new chambers in areas with temperature and humidity best suited for cultivation.
With more than a thousand nests per hectare, the ants may be moving about a metric ton of sand each year, covering the surface with 6 centimeters of soil over the course of a millennium, the researchers calculated.

All of this mixing and moving could prove a challenge for geologists and archaeologists relying on OSL. “When ants deposit sand from deeper levels at higher levels (or the reverse), they are mixing sand with different light-emitting capacity, and therefore with different measured ages,” Tschinkel notes. “People who use OSL need to know how much such mixing occurs, and then devise ways of dealing with it.” Now that scientists know that ants could be a problem, they should be able to develop ways to work around the little insects.

Pulling consecutive all-nighters makes some brain areas groggier than others. Regions involved with problem solving and concentration become especially sluggish when sleep-deprived, a new study using brain scans reveals. Other areas keep ticking along, appearing to be less affected by a mounting sleep debt.

The results might lead to a better understanding of the rhythmic nature of symptoms in certain psychiatric or neurodegenerative disorders, says study coauthor Derk-Jan Dijk. People with dementia, for instance, can be afflicted with “sundowning,” which worsens their symptoms at the end of the day. More broadly, the findings, published August 12 in Science, document the brain’s response to too little shut-eye.
“We’ve shown what shift workers already know,” says Dijk, of the University of Surrey in England. “Being awake at 6 a.m. after a night of no sleep, it isn’t easy. But what wasn’t known was the remarkably different response of these brain areas.”

The research reveals the differing effects of the two major factors that influence when you conk out: the body’s roughly 24-hour circadian clock, which helps keep you awake in the daytime and put you to sleep when it’s dark, and the body’s drive to sleep, which steadily increases the longer you’re awake.

Dijk and collaborators at the University of Liege in Belgium assessed the cognitive function of 33 young adults who went without sleep for 42 hours. Over the course of this sleepless period, the participants performed some simple tasks testing reaction time and memory. The sleepy subjects also underwent 12 brain scans during their ordeal and another scan after 12 hours of recovery sleep. Throughout the study, the researchers also measured participants’ levels of the sleep hormone melatonin, which served as a way to track the hands on their master circadian clocks.

Activity in some brain areas, such as the thalamus, a central hub that connects many other structures, waxed and waned in sync with the circadian clock. But in other areas, especially those in the brain’s outer layer, the effects of this master clock were overridden by the body’s drive to sleep. Brain activity diminished in these regions as sleep debt mounted, the scans showed.

Sleep deprivation also meddled with the participants’ performance on simple tasks, effects influenced both by the mounting sleep debt and the cycles of the master clock. Performance suffered in the night, but improved somewhat during the second day, even after no sleep.
While the brain’s circadian clock signal is known to originate in a cluster of nerve cells known as the suprachiasmatic nucleus, it isn’t clear where the drive to sleep comes from, says Charles Czeisler, a sleep expert at Harvard Medical School. The need to sleep might grow as toxic metabolites build up after a day’s worth of brain activity, or be triggered when certain regions run out of fuel.

Sleep drive’s origin is just one of many questions raised by the research, says Czeisler, who says the study “opens up a new era in our understanding of sleep-wake neurobiology.” The approach of tracking activity with brain scans and melatonin measurements might reveal, for example, how a lack of sleep during the teenage years influences brain development.

Such an approach also might lead to the development of a test that reflects the strength of the body’s sleep drive, Czeisler says. That measurement might help clinicians spot chronic sleep deprivation, a health threat that can masquerade as attention-deficit/hyperactivity disorder in children.

Nature’s rarest type of atomic nucleus is not giving up its secrets easily.

Scientists looking for the decay of an unusual form of the element tantalum, known as tantalum-180m, have come up empty-handed. Tantalum-180m’s hesitance to decay indicates that it has a half-life of at least 45 million billion years, Bjoern Lehnert and colleagues report online September 13 at arXiv.org. “The half-life is longer than a million times the age of the universe,” says Lehnert, a nuclear physicist at Carleton University in Ottawa. (Scientists estimate the universe’s age at 13.8 billion years.)
Making up less than two ten-thousandths of a percent of the mass of the Earth’s crust, the metal tantalum is uncommon. And tantalum-180m is even harder to find. Only 0.01 percent of tantalum is found in this state, making it the rarest known long-lived nuclide, or variety of atom.

Tantalum-180m is a bit of an oddball. It is what’s known as an isomer — its nucleus exists in an “excited,” or high-energy, configuration. Normally, an excited nucleus would quickly drop to a lower energy state, emitting a photon — a particle of light — in the process. But tantalum-180m is “metastable” (hence the “m” in its name), meaning that it gets stuck in its high-energy state.
Tantalum-180m is thought to decay by emitting or capturing an electron, morphing into another element — either tungsten or hafnium — in the process. But this decay has never been observed. Other unusual nuclides, such as those that decay by emitting two electrons simultaneously, can have even longer half-lives than tantalum-180m. But tantalum-180m is unique — it is the longest-lived isomer found in nature.
“It’s a very interesting nucleus,” says nuclear physicist Eric Norman of the University of California, Berkeley, who was not involved with the study. Scientists don’t have a good understanding of such unusual decays, and a measurement of the half-life would help scientists pin down the details of the process and the nucleus’ structure.
Lehnert and colleagues observed a sample of tantalum with a detector designed to catch photons emitted in the decay process. After running the experiment for 176 days, and adding in data from previous incarnations of the experiment, the team saw no evidence of decay. The half-life couldn’t be shorter than 45 million billion years, the scientists determined, or they would have seen some hint of the process. “They did a state-of-the-art measurement,” says Norman. “It’s a very difficult thing to see.”

The presence of tantalum-180m in nature is itself a bit of a mystery, too. The element-forging processes that occur in stars and supernovas seem to bypass the nuclide. “People don’t really understand how it is created at all,” says Lehnert.

Tantalum-180m is interesting as a potential energy source, says Norman, although “it’s kind of a crazy idea.” If scientists could find a way to tap the energy stored in the excited nucleus by causing it to decay, it might be useful for applications like nuclear lasers, he says.

The stories of dinosaurs’ lives may be written in fossilized pigments, but scientists are still wrangling over how to read them.

In September, paleontologists deduced a dinosaur’s habitat from remnants of melanosomes, pigment structures in the skin. Psittacosaurus, a speckled dinosaur about the size of a golden retriever, had a camouflaging pattern that may have helped it hide in forests, Jakob Vinther and colleagues say.
The dinosaur “was very much on the bottom of the food chain,” says Vinther, of the University of Bristol in England. “It needed to be inconspicuous.”
Identifying ancient pigments can open up a wide new world of dinosaur biology and answer all sorts of lifestyle questions, says zoologist Hannah Rowland of the University of Cambridge. “You might be able to take a fossil … and infer a dinosaur’s life history just from its pigment patterns,” she says. “That’s the most exciting thing.”

Not so fast, says paleontologist Mary Schweitzer of North Carolina State University in Raleigh. Evidence for ancient pigments can be ambiguous. In some cases, microscopic structures that appear to be melanosomes may actually be microbes, she says. “Both hypotheses remain viable until one is shot down with data.” Until then, she says, inferring dinosaur lifestyles from alleged ancient pigments is impossible.

Vinther’s work, published in the Sept. 26 Current Biology, is the latest in a long-simmering debate in the field of paleo color, the study of fossil pigments and what they can reveal about ancient animals. Disputes over his team’s findings and what’s needed to clearly identify fossilized melanosomes point to current pitfalls of the field.

But the promise is clear: Paleo color could paint a vivid picture of a dinosaur’s life, offering clues about behavior, habitat and evolution.

“This is a crucial new piece in the puzzle of how the past looked,” Vinther says.
Color me dino
Psittacosaurus (model shown) was a parrot-beaked herbivore about the size of a large dog. Researchers found signs of pigmentation (black specks) on its tail region, back leg and elsewhere that hint at its habitat.

Tap the image below to see signs of pigmentation from Psittacosaurus fossils.
A field emerges
Scientists have been puzzling over animals of the past for centuries, but eight years ago, paleontology got a wake-up call. That’s when Vinther and colleagues proposed that microscopic structures in a roughly 125-million-year-old fossil feather were actually a type of melanosome (SN: 8/2/08, p. 10). These pigment pouches rest inside pigment cells and, in this particular fossil feather, might have delivered a blackish hue, like a blackbird’s.

Scientists had noticed similar structures inside fossilized skin and feathers since the early 1980s. But people assumed that these structures were remnants of bacteria — perhaps decomposers that feasted on the dead animals, says paleontologist Martin Sander of the University of Bonn in Germany.

The new, colorful interpretation sparked a flurry of research, and scientists have since spotted what appear to be melanosomes in all kinds of fossilized animals. Paleontology, in fact, is now awash in colors and patterns. Pigment pods may have painted reddish-brown speckles on the face of a Late Jurassic theropod, brushed chestnut stripes on a long-tailed dino from China and made the plumage of a four-winged dinosaur called Microraptor iridescent. That shimmery dinosaur “probably had a weak, glossy iridescence all over its body,” says evolutionary biologist Matthew Shawkey of Ghent University in Belgium. His team deduced Microraptor’s color from the shape of its melanosomes.
Modern melanosomes generally carry a mixture of two melanin pigments: dark brown-black eumelanin and red-yellow pheomelanin. Scientists have linked color in mammals and birds to melanosome shape — a meatball shape for reddish brown hues, for example, and a sausage shape for darker colors.

In iridescent feathers, melanosomes tend to be even thinner, Shawkey says. Microraptor’s melanosomes looked like skinny sausages — similar to those seen in the feathers of modern crows and ravens, says Shawkey, who reported the findings with Vinther and colleagues in Science in 2012 (SN Online: 3/9/12).

Three years later, Vinther laid out the case for inferring color — and ancient histories — from fossilized pigments in a review in Bioessays. Not only can the distinctive shapes of melanosomes offer clues, he noted, but chemical tests can help detect the presence of melanin itself. Finding this pigment in fossils, he argued, puts the old bacteria hypothesis to rest.

Schweitzer and colleagues disagreed with Vinther’s take in a review published in Bioessays later in 2015. Researchers need to be cautious when deducing the hues of extinct animals, the scientists wrote. Any melanosome look-alikes in fossilized feathers or skin could actually be microbes.
After all, microbes are everywhere. “These animals died in an environment that was not sterile and free from microbes,” Schweitzer says. “Think about it. If you take a piece of chicken and throw it out in your backyard, how long does it take for microbes to overgrow that chicken?”

The tiny organisms are hardy, too. Both microbes and the sticky biofilms they form are preserved in the fossil record. And, Schweitzer says, microbes and melanosomes overlap completely in shape and size, which makes the two tough to tell apart. What’s more, some microbes actually make melanin themselves; detecting the pigment in a fossil is not a rock-solid sign that the ancient animal was black, brown or freckled.

It’s not that Schweitzer or Bioessays coauthor Johan Lindgren, a geologist at Lund University in Sweden, doubt that melanosomes can leave traces in the fossil record. The issue, Lindgren says, is that not all round structures you find are melanosomes.

Chemical tests could help distinguish the two. Bacteria, for example, leave behind traces that can be identified with pyrolysis gas chromatography-mass spectrometry. But that requires samples to be vaporized. “It can mean destroying much of what you are trying to study,” says geochemist Roy Wogelius of the University of Manchester in England. “So it’s not always possible.”

Vinther’s new work isn’t likely to settle the debate. In fact, people were arguing both sides in October at a meeting of the Society of Vertebrate Paleontology in Salt Lake City.

Arindam Roy, a Bristol colleague of Vinther’s, reported size differences between fossilized melanosomes and bacteria growing on decaying chicken feathers in the lab. Alison Moyer, an N.C. State colleague of Schweitzer’s, said that looks weren’t enough. Finding keratin, a protein that typically surrounds melanosomes, could serve as evidence for pigments in fossils.

From color to camouflage
The fossil described in Vinther’s new paper is “spectacular,” Schweitzer says. “It’s got skin all over the place. I can’t think of too many dinosaur specimens that are preserved like this.”

The dinosaur lies on its back, flattened in a slab of volcanic rock. Skin covers a completely intact skeleton, and dozens of long bristles poke from the tail. Psittacosaurus, an herbivore that lived some 120 million years ago, walked on two legs and would have reached about half a meter in height.
“It would have been a supercute animal,” Vinther says. “It’s got this wide face and looks a little bit like E.T.”

Black material speckles the dinosaur’s body, tail and face. Vinther believes the material is the ancient remains of pigment. His team examined samples chipped from the fossil and saw what he considers the telltale orbs of melanosomes — mostly impressions in the rock but also some microbodies, the 3-D structures themselves.

Based on the dinosaur’s pigment patterns, it would have had a dark back that faded to a lighter belly. That type of coloring, called countershading, shows up in animals from penguins to fish and may act as a form of camouflage. It lightens parts of the body typically in shadow, and darkens parts typically exposed to light. “If you want to hide, it makes sense to try and obliterate those shadows,” Rowland says.

Their prediction for diffuse light matched the model painted like Psittacosaurus. “It’s like what we see in forest-living animals,” Vinther says. “This thing was camouflaged.”
Lingering doubts
Going from fossil to forest may be more of a leap than a step, other scientists suggest.

Psittacosaurus’ skin very well may contain ancient pigments, Wogelius says. “I don’t think it’s a crazy idea.” But, he adds, of Vinther’s group: “I don’t think they’ve proved what they claim.”

Vinther’s team, for exampl e, used just four tiny fossil samples to extrapolate the coloring of the whole dinosaur. “I think it’s a bit of an overreach,” Wogelius says.

Schweitzer also notes that the specimen was varnished, presumably to protect the bones and soft tissues. It happened before Vinther and colleagues got their hands on the dinosaur and makes it impossible to perform the chemical tests that would bolster the claim for pigments. “Varnish is horribly destructive to fossils,” she says. “It totally ruins the specimen for other types of analysis.”

Vinther argues that his team has chemically analyzed other fossils and found evidence of melanin — not bacteria. The microbodies in those fossils look just like the ones in Psittacosaurus, he says.

Vinther’s team also saw evidence of just one kind of microbody, and it had a distinct round shape. If the structures were actually bacteria, he says, you’d expect to see a whole range of shapes and sizes. “Some of them would be shaped like corkscrews, some would have flagella, some would be humongous, some would be tiny.”

That’s the tricky part with bacteria, counters Lindgren. “In some cases you can have a huge consortium, but in other cases you can have one single type.”
Vinther’s interpretation has its supporters. “I was skeptical at first,” Sander says, “but now there’s been such an array of these little bodies that it’s pretty clear that at least some of them are not bacteria.” Despite some continuing controversy, Sander says many paleontologists now accept that micro­structures in fossils may be melanosomes.

Additional research, though, “would help the entire community,” he says, “so that there are no longer any lingering doubts.”

Along with chemical tests, Schweitzer suggests, researchers could try transmission electron microscopy, a technique that blasts an electron beam through a thinly sliced sample. With TEM, melanosomes appear as black blobs. Bacteria tend to look different — in some cases, more like fried eggs.

Shawkey, for one, is looking to chemistry. In a paper published online November 14 in Palaeontology, his team used a technique called Raman spectroscopy to help build a case for feather color in a bird that died some 120 million years ago. In the feathers, the researchers spotted the skinny sausages of iridescent melanosomes and chemical signs of the pigment eumelanin. Shawkey thinks the chemical evidence could help “head off any criticism that we might encounter.”

Working through the field’s snags, paleontologists might come together to fill in the hues and tints, and potentially the habits and habitats, of ancient animals that until recently had been known primarily by their bones.

Atom blast for gas

A pair of simultaneous nuclear explosions, one more than 1.6 miles underground and the other 1,000 feet above it, have been proposed as a way to extract huge quantities of natural gas from subterranean rock. Each blast would be … about 2.5 times the size of the bomb used at Hiroshima. By breaking up tight gas-bearing rock formations, a flow of presently inaccessible gas may be made available.… A single-blast experiment, called Project Gasbuggy, is already planned. — Science News, December 17, 1966
Update
On December 10, 1967, Project Gasbuggy went ahead, with a 29-kiloton nuclear explosion deep underground in northwestern New Mexico. The blast released natural gas, but the gas was radio­active. The area is still regularly monitored for radioactive contamination. Today, natural gas trapped below Earth’s surface is often extracted via fracking, which breaks up rock using pressurized fluid (SN: 9/8/12, p. 20). Though less extreme, potential links to drinking water contamination and earthquakes have stoked fears about the technique.

SAN FRANCISCO — One climate doomsday scenario can be downgraded, new research suggests.

Decades of atmospheric measurements from a site in northern Alaska show that rapidly rising temperatures there have not significantly increased methane emissions from the neighboring permafrost-covered landscape, researchers reported December 15 at the American Geophysical Union’s fall meeting.

Some scientists feared that Arctic warming would unleash large amounts of methane, a potent greenhouse gas, into the atmosphere, worsening global warming. “The ticking time bomb of methane has clearly not manifested itself yet,” said study coauthor Colm Sweeney, an atmospheric scientist at the University of Colorado Boulder. Emissions of carbon dioxide — a less potent greenhouse gas — did increase over that period, the researchers found.
The CO2 rise “is still bad, it’s just not as bad” as a rise in methane, said Franz Meyer, a remote sensing scientist at the University of Alaska Fairbanks who was not involved in the research. The measurements were taken at just one site, though, so Meyer cautions against applying the results to the entire Arctic just yet. “This location might not be representative,” he said.

Across the Arctic, the top three meters of permafrost contain 2.5 times as much carbon as the CO2 released into the atmosphere by human activities since the start of the Industrial Revolution. As the Arctic rapidly warms, these thick layers of frozen soil will thaw and some of the carbon will be converted by hungry microbes into methane and CO2, studies that artificially warmed permafrost have suggested. That carbon will have a bigger impact on Earth’s climate as methane than it will as CO2. Over a 100-year period, a ton of methane will cause about 25 times as much warming as a ton of CO2.

A research station in Alaska’s northernmost city, Barrow, has been monitoring methane concentrations in the Arctic air since 1986 and CO2 since 1973. An air intake on a tower about 16.5 meters off the ground constantly sniffs the air, taking measurements. Barrow has warmed more than twice as fast as the rest of the Arctic over the last 29 years. This rapid warming “makes this region of the Arctic a great little incubation test to see what happens when we have everything heating up much faster,” Sweeney said.

Over the course of a year, methane concentrations in winds wafting from the nearby tundra rise and fall with temperatures, the Barrow data show. Since 1986, though, seasonal methane emissions have remained largely stable overall. But concentrations of CO2 in air coming from over the tundra, compared with over the nearby Arctic Ocean, have increased by about 0.02 parts per million per year since 1973, the researchers reported.

The lack of an increase in methane concentrations could be caused by the thawing permafrost allowing water to escape and drying the Arctic soil, Sweeney proposed. This drying would limit the productivity of methane-producing microbes, potentially counteracting the effects of warming.
Tracking Arctic wetness will be crucial for predicting future methane emissions in the region, said Susan Natali, an Arctic scientist at the Woods Hole Research Center in Falmouth, Mass. Studies have shown increased methane emissions from growing Arctic lakes, she points out. “We’re going to get both carbon dioxide and methane,” she said. “It depends on whether areas are getting wetter or drier.”

NEW ORLEANS, La. – Skin that mostly hangs loose around hagfishes proves handy for living through a shark attack or wriggling through a crevice.

The skin on hagfishes’ long, sausage-style bodies is attached in a line down the center of their backs and in flexible connections where glands release slime, explained Douglas Fudge of Chapman University in Orange, Calif. This floating skin easily slip-slides in various directions. A shark tooth can puncture the skin but not stab into the muscle below. And a shark attack is just one of the crises when loose skin can help, Fudge reported January 5 at the annual meeting of the Society for Integrative and Comparative Biology.
Hagfishes can fend off an attacking shark by quick-releasing a cloud of slime. Yet video of such events shows that a shark can land a bite before getting slimed. To figure out how hagfishes might survive such wounds, Fudge and colleagues used an indoor guillotine to drop a large mako shark tooth into hagfish carcasses. With the skin in its naturally loose state, the tooth readily punched through skin but slipped away from stabbing into the body of either the Atlantic (Myxine glutinosa) or Pacific (Eptatretus stoutii) hagfish species.
But when the researchers glued the skin firmly to the hagfish muscle so the skin couldn’t slip, the tooth typically plunged into inner tissue. For comparison, the researchers tested lampreys, which are similarly tube-shaped but with skin well-fastened to their innards. When the guillotine dropped on them, the tooth often stabbed directly into flesh.
The finding makes sense to Theodore Uyeno of Valdosta State University in Georgia, whose laboratory work suggests how loose skin might work in minimizing damage from shark bites. He and colleagues have tested how hard it is to puncture swatches of skin from both the Atlantic and Pacific species. As is true for many other materials, punching through a swatch of hagfish skin held taut didn’t take as long as punching through skin patches allowed to go slack, he said in a January 5 presentation at the meeting. Even a slight delay when a sharp point bears down on baggy skin might allow the hagfish to start dodging and sliming.

But Michelle Graham, who studies locomotion in flying snakes at Virginia Tech, wondered if puncture wounds would be a drawback to such a defense. A hagfish that avoids a deep stab could still lose blood from the skin puncture. That’s true, said Fudge, but the loss doesn’t seem to be great. Hagfish have unusually low blood pressure, and video of real attacks doesn’t show great gushes.

Hagfish blood also plays a part in another benefit of loose skin — an unusual ability to wiggle through cracks, Fudge reported in a second talk at the meeting. One of his students built an adjustable crevice and found that both Atlantic and Pacific hagfishes can contort themselves through slits only half as wide as their original body diameter. Videos show skin bulging out to the rear as the strong pinch of the opening forces blood backward.

The cavity just under a hagfish’s skin can hold roughly a third of its blood. Forcing that reservoir backward can help shrink the body diameter. Fortunately the inner body tapers at the end, Fudge said. So as blood builds up, “they don’t explode.”

A new device the size of a coffee mug can generate drinkable water from desert air using nothing but sunlight.

With this kind of device, “you can harvest the equivalent of a Coke can’s worth of water in an hour,” says cocreator Omar Yaghi, a chemist at the University of California, Berkeley. “That’s about how much water a person needs to survive in the desert.”

Though that may not sound like much, its designers say the current device is just a prototype. But the technology could be scaled up to supply fresh water to some of the most parched and remote regions of the globe, such as the Middle East and North Africa, they say.
Previous attempts at low-energy water collection struggled to function below 50 percent relative humidity (roughly the average afternoon humidity of Augusta, Ga.). Thanks to a special material, the new device pulled water from air with as low as 20 percent relative humidity, Yaghi and colleagues report online April 13 in Science. That’s like conjuring water in Las Vegas, where the average afternoon relative humidity is 21 percent.

Drinking water supplies can’t keep up with the rising demands of a growing human population, and shifts in rainfall caused by climate change are expected to exacerbate the problem. Already, two-thirds of the world’s population is experiencing water shortages (SN: 8/20/16, p. 22). One largely untapped water source is the atmosphere, which contains more than 5 billion Olympic-sized pools’ worth of moisture in the form of vapor and droplets.

Getting that moisture out is easy when the air is saturated with water. But humid regions aren’t where the water-shortage problem is, and drawing water from the drier air in parched areas is a greater challenge. Spongy materials such as silica gels can extract moisture from the air even at low relative humidity. Those materials, however, either amass water too slowly or require lots of energy to extract the collected water from the material.

The new device uses a material that avoids both problems. MIT mechanical engineer Evelyn Wang, Yaghi and colleagues repurposed an existing material composed of electrically charged metal atoms linked by organic molecules. This metal-organic framework, christened MOF-801, creates a network of microscopic, spongelike pores that can trap such gases as water vapor. At room temperature, water vapor collects in the pores. As temperatures rise, the water escapes.

The team’s prototype includes a layer of MOF-801 mixed with copper foam. Left in the shade, this layer collects water vapor from the air. When moved into direct sunlight, the layer heats up and the water vapor escapes into an underlying chamber. A condenser in the chamber cools the vapor, converting it into a potable liquid. This entire process takes around two hours.
Laboratory tests of the device harvested 2.8 liters of water per day for every kilogram of MOF-801 used. As it is now, the device could be used as a personal water source in dry regions without water-producing infrastructure, Yaghi says, or the system could be scaled up to produce enough water for a whole community.

The device’s ability to produce water at low relative humidity is a breakthrough, says Krista Walton, a chemical engineer at Georgia Tech in Atlanta. “No one else is using MOFs like this today,” she says.

As for the cost of scaling up, the ingredients used in the device’s metal-organic framework “aren’t exotic,” Walton says. Producing large amounts of the material “would definitely be possible if the demand were there.”