ASTRO SPACE NEWS

A DIVISION OF MID NORTH COAST ASTRONOMY (NSW)

(ASTRO) DAVE RENEKE

SPACE WRITER - MEDIA PERSONALITY - SCIENCE CORRESPONDENT ABC/COMMERCIAL RADIO - LECTURER - ASTRONOMY OUTREACH PROGRAMS - ASTRONOMY TOUR GUIDE - TELESCOPE SALES/SERVICE/LESSONS - MID NORTH COAST ASTRONOMY GROUP (Est. 2002)   Enquiries: (02) 6585 2260       Mobile: 0400 636 363        Email: davereneke@gmail.com

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Dave will use a high-powered laser to highlight the major stars, constellations, and planets visible that night, As you cruise, be sure to keep an eye out for dolphins, adding to the magic of the experience. These unique cruises run monthly Bookings https://www.portadventurecruises.com.au/explore-cruises Enquiries: Elsa 0434 393 199

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Reason for sale: Upgraded to a ZWO Seestar 50. This telescope is in perfect condition and ready for someone keen to explore the wonders of the night sky.

Contact: Dave Reneke Phone: 0400 636 363 Email: davereneke@gmail.com

What Would Be the Scariest Message Humanity Could Receive from Space?

Imagine this: Earth finally receives its first confirmed signal from an alien civilization. Anticipation buzzes across the planet. Scientists gather, politicians hold their breath, the world tunes in… only to find the message is a familiar one. It's a grainy broadcast from 1936, the opening ceremony of the Berlin Olympics—featuring none other than Adolf Hitler.

No, this isn't a bizarre sci-fi plot twist. That particular broadcast was one of the first strong television signals powerful enough to escape Earth's atmosphere. As SETI astronomer Seth Shostak explained, "It was at a high frequency that might make it through the ionosphere." Though it's extremely unlikely aliens would actually pick it up—it was weak and broadcast in all directions—it sparks an unsettling thought: what if our first impression to the cosmos is history's worst PR moment?

In the film Contact, this is exactly what happens. Aliens return our signal without understanding its content—essentially saying "hello" by sending us a message of hatred. It's a cosmic miscommunication of epic proportions. But that's just the start of what could go wrong. The real chills begin when you imagine the other types of messages we might receive.

What if we picked up a signal that simply said, "We are on our way"?
No details. No origin. Just the cold announcement. That's the kind of vague transmission that would freeze world leaders in their tracks and send scientists scrambling. Or worse: what if the message said, "We know you're there. We've always known"?

Suddenly, we're not alone—we never were. According to the Zoo Hypothesis, alien civilizations might already be watching us. We could be the unaware animals in a galactic safari park, with intelligent beings observing us until we're advanced—or behaved—enough to be contacted. What if their message said, "Welcome. You're ready." Ready for what? It might be uplifting—or it might mean we've just been promoted from observation to participation in some kind of cosmic trial.

There's also the unnerving idea behind one solution to the Fermi Paradox: that advanced civilizations are silent because they're hiding. Maybe they learned the hard way that broadcasting your presence is dangerous. And if we hear a message from space, is it a friendly greeting—or a baited trap?

All this speculation hinges on SETI—the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. Today, SETI researchers around the globe scan the skies, using radio telescopes to listen for unnatural signals from deep space. So far? Silence. But the search continues, growing more sophisticated every year, using AI, wide-spectrum analysis, and even optical methods.

Still, perhaps the scariest message of all would be… no message. What if there's nothing out there? No civilizations, no watchers, no galactic neighbors. Just us. Alone. That may be more frightening than hostile aliens—because it means we're it. The lone spark of intelligence in a vast, cold universe. If we screw it up here, there may be no second chance, anywhere.

So, next time you stare at the night sky and wonder who's out there, just remember—it's not just a question of if they exist, but what they might say when they finally call. And what if… they already have?

NASA just took the closest-ever images of the sun, and they are incredible (video)

On Dec. 24, 2024, Parker made history by flying closer to the sun than any spacecraft in history. The probe reached a distance of just 3.8 million miles (6.1 million kilometers) from the solar surface, entering the outermost layer of the sun's atmosphere, known as the corona. During this flyby, it also reached a top speed of 430,000 miles per hour (690,000 kilometers per hour), breaking its own record as the fastest ever human-made object.

Now, NASA has released remarkable video captured during the historic flyby, offering the closest views of the sun ever recorded. The new images were captured with Parker's Wide-Field Imager for Solar Probe, or WISPR, revealing a never-before-seen view of the sun's corona and solar winds shortly after they are released from the corona.

"Parker Solar Probe has once again transported us into the dynamic atmosphere of our closest star," said Nicky Fox, associate administrator, Science Mission Directorate at NASA Headquarters in Washington, in a statement accompanying the images. "We are witnessing where space weather threats to Earth begin, with our eyes, not just with models. This new data will help us vastly improve our space weather predictions to ensure the safety of our astronauts and the protection of our technology here on Earth and throughout the solar system." 

WISPR's images revealed an important boundary in the sun's atmosphere called the heliospheric current sheet, where the sun's magnetic field changes direction from north to south. It also captured, for the first time in high resolution, collisions between multiple coronal mass ejections (CMEs), which are major drivers of space weather, and are important in understanding risks to astronauts and technology on Earth such as power grids and communications satellites.

"In these images, we're seeing the CMEs basically piling up on top of one another," said Angelos Vourlidas, the WISPR instrument scientist at the Johns Hopkins Applied Physics Laboratory, which designed, built, and operates the spacecraft in Laurel, Maryland. "We're using this to figure out how the CMEs merge together."

Before the Parker Solar Probe, NASA and its international partners could only study solar wind from afar, which is why the spacecraft has been instrumental in closing key knowledge gaps. It identified the widespread presence of "switchbacks" — zig-zagging magnetic field patterns — around 14.7 million miles from the sun and linked them to the origins of one of the two main types of solar wind.

Governments must address a growing crisis in our orbits

We stand at the edge of a dramatic shift in how humanity interacts with space. No longer just the domain of rocket scientists and astronauts in bulky suits, space is rapidly becoming a bustling new economy — one that could soon shape everything from global communications and climate monitoring to energy, security, and even how we explore other worlds.

But here's the rub: while this new frontier is bursting with opportunity, it's also at serious risk of becoming chaotic, dangerous, and unmanageable. And that's why a group of astronauts, scientists, former policymakers, and global space experts have come together to form the Global Space Council — a collective with a simple, urgent mission: to make sure space remains safe, open, and beneficial for all.

Space Isn't What It Used to Be

Just a decade ago, there were fewer than a thousand active satellites in orbit. Today? Over 9,000, with thousands more on the way. Space is becoming crowded — and fast. Private companies like SpaceX, Blue Origin, and Rocket Lab are revolutionizing how we launch things into orbit. 

At the same time, nations big and small are entering the space race — not just for exploration, but for economic advantage, technological prestige, and national security. We are on the cusp of space tourism, asteroid mining, lunar outposts, and massive satellite networks providing internet to the remotest corners of Earth. It's an exciting time — but also a fragile one.

The Wild West Above Our Heads

Without coordination, space could become a "Wild West" — a lawless domain where the risks grow as fast as the profits. We're already seeing satellite collisions, dangerous amounts of space debris, and rising tensions as countries test anti-satellite weapons. The rules of the road in space are vague, outdated, and often ignored. And unlike Earth, there's no 911 to call when things go wrong 500 km above the surface.

Enter the Global Space Council

That's where the Global Space Council steps in. This isn't just another think tank. It's a high-level alliance of former astronauts, space agency heads, scientists, industry leaders, and policy experts from around the world. Their aim is to foster international dialogue, encourage responsible behavior, and create long-term strategies to protect space for future generations.

Think of it as a kind of "United Nations for Space," focused on transparency, safety, and collaboration — with the wisdom of people who've actually been there.

Why It Matters to You

Even if you never plan to leave Earth, space affects your daily life. Your GPS, weather forecasts, TV broadcasts, internet connections, and even banking systems rely on satellites. If space becomes unsafe or overly monopolized, the ripple effects will reach right into our homes, economies, and national security. This isn't about stopping progress — it's about managing it smartly. Like the oceans, or the climate, space is a shared domain. It belongs to all of us — and what we do (or fail to do) now will shape the future for everyone.

A Final Frontier… Worth Protecting

The space domain is changing faster than most people realize. We're at a pivotal moment. If we get it right, space could help solve some of Earth's biggest challenges. If we get it wrong, we risk turning one of our greatest assets into a warzone or junkyard. The Global Space Council is here to ensure we head toward the stars together, not in conflict — and with the foresight, ethics, and cooperation worthy of the vast, silent sky above.

'Death Date' of the Universe Revealed

Brace yourself — the end is coming. Not tomorrow. Not next century. But yes, scientists now believe they may have pinned down a cosmic expiration date for our universe. A "best before" moment for everything that exists. Sounds dramatic? It is. And it's not science fiction. This is the real deal, straight from the sharpest minds in cosmology.

For decades, the fate of the universe was anyone's guess. Would it keep expanding forever, getting colder and emptier as the stars quietly faded to black? Would gravity pull it all back together in a spectacular reversal – the so-called "Big Crunch"? Or might some unknown force tear it apart in a violent "Big Rip"? The theories were grand, the predictions wild, and the end – so far off – felt more poetic than personal.

But now, new research is shaking things up. Using incredibly precise measurements of how the universe is stretching, scientists think they've discovered not just the how, but also the when of its final act. And let's just say… the clock is ticking.

They're calling it "cosmic decay." Picture this: the universe, still expanding thanks to something called dark energy (don't worry, it's just a fancy name for a force we barely understand), is gradually losing steam. Over unimaginable time scales, this energy may start to fade. When that happens, the whole thing begins to unravel. Galaxies stop forming. Stars flicker out. Black holes evaporate. And eventually, everything – matter, light, even time as we know it – slips into a dark, silent nothingness. Game over.

So, when will this happen?

According to the best current estimates, the universe has about 26.7 billion years left on the clock. That's roughly twice as long as it's already been around. We're currently 13.8 billion years into this cosmic adventure, so we're only halfway through. It's like intermission at the universe's grand opera — time to grab a drink and reflect on Act One before the curtain rises again.

But here's the kicker: this new estimate means the end might come sooner than we thought. Earlier models suggested we might have trillions upon trillions of years to go. But if this new analysis holds, we're on a tighter timeline than expected. Still billions of years away, mind you — no need to cancel your weekend plans.

What makes this awe-inspiring is the sheer scale of it all. Our everyday lives, our struggles, our joys — all of it plays out in the tiniest fraction of the universe's lifespan. And yet, somehow, we clever little humans have figured out how to peer into the farthest reaches of time and space, crunch the numbers, and predict the fate of everything. If that doesn't send a shiver down your spine, nothing will.

This revelation isn't just about doom and gloom. It's a triumph of human curiosity. To even ask the question "When will the universe end?" and to arrive at an answer — no matter how tentative — is a testament to how far we've come. From staring up at the stars in wonder to launching telescopes that see billions of light-years into the past, we've always wanted to know where we came from… and where we're going.

So yes, the universe will die. One day. Slowly. Quietly. But not before giving us the greatest show ever witnessed: galaxies colliding, stars being born and dying in brilliant flashes, black holes whispering their secrets, and us — here, now — wondering at it all. The universe may have a death date. But until then, what a ride.

Moths That Follow the Milky Way

In the vast tapestry of life on Earth, few stories are as enchanting—and humbling—as this one. Picture a creature no larger than a thumb, delicate as dust, fluttering through the darkness of night. And yet, it holds within its brain a map of the stars.

Every spring in southeastern Australia, billions of Bogong moths take to the skies in one of the most remarkable insect migrations known. With no GPS, no map, and no teacher, each moth begins an epic journey—up to 1,000 kilometers—to reach cool, hidden caves high in the Australian Alps. These caves, where they rest for the summer, are places the moths have never seen. And yet, like tiny celestial navigators, they arrive with astonishing precision.

How? The answer lies in the stars.

In a recent study published in Nature, scientists uncovered that these humble moths are, in fact, skywatchers—celestial travelers with a deep connection to the night sky. Using a specially designed "moth planetarium," researchers projected the stars overhead while ensuring the insects couldn't rely on magnetic fields to cheat. The moths, tethered delicately so they could still move and choose directions, unfailingly oriented themselves in the right migratory path when shown the actual night sky. But when the stars were scrambled, their internal compass spun out. They became lost.

Delving deeper, the scientists peered into the moths' brains, recording the activity of visual neurons. What they found was extraordinary: the moths' brains lit up most strongly when the projected sky aligned with the direction they should be flying. Even more astonishing, certain neurons were finely tuned to the brightest part of the Milky Way—particularly the region around the Carina Nebula. This suggests that these insects use that glowing, river-like band of starlight not just as a general guide, but as a visual landmark—much like we might use a lighthouse or mountain peak.

And just when you thought it couldn't get more incredible—there's more. When the stars were hidden by simulated clouds, the moths still found their way. They switched to navigating via Earth's magnetic field, revealing a kind of "dual compass" system. Like migratory birds, they seem to blend cosmic and terrestrial clues, tapping into two ancient forces of nature.

This discovery places Bogong moths among an elite club of animals known to navigate by the stars—a list that includes migratory birds, dung beetles, and possibly even seals and frogs. As for magnetic navigation, it's even more widespread—used by everything from tiny microbes to massive whales.

So here we are: creatures of the cosmos, bound to the stars not just by poetry or wonder, but by biological necessity. Moths, drawn to the Milky Way like iron filings to a magnet, remind us of something deep and ancient—that the night sky is not just decoration. It's a map. It's a guide. It's a connection.

What does this mean for astronomy? For one, it tells us that the night sky isn't ours alone. Across millennia and species, evolution has wired starlight into the living world. It also suggests that as light pollution dims the stars above our cities and towns, it could disorient not just human stargazers, but entire species whose lives depend on that glittering canopy.

So next time you see a moth fluttering near a porch light, consider this: it may be a tiny traveler, guided not by chance, but by the ghostly glow of a galaxy stretching across the night. A fellow astronomer—small, silent, and ancient—on a journey written in starlight.

Your Next Flight Might Signal Our Existence to Alien Civilizations

Every time a plane takes off or lands, Earth might be unintentionally announcing its presence to alien civilizations up to 200 light‑years away. New research led by University of Manchester PhD student Ramiro Caisse Saide shows that the radar systems safeguarding global aviation also broadcast immense radio signals into space—technosignatures that alien astronomers with equipment similar to our Green Bank Telescope could detect.

 Collectively, airport radars pump out roughly 2 × 10¹⁵ watts, a power level that could be picked up across a region containing more than 120,000 stars, any of which might host habitable worlds. Military radars, with focused beams reaching about 1 × 10¹⁴ watts in targeted directions, create an even sharper cosmic fingerprint.

The study used simulations to explore how these signals would look from nearby systems such as Barnard's Star, six light‑years away, and AU Microscopii, thirty‑two light‑years distant. Because Earth spins, an external observer would see our radar emissions rise and set in a distinctive daily rhythm. This work extends earlier findings that mobile‑phone towers could be noticed ten light‑years out; radar reaches far beyond because it continually scans large volumes of sky.

The implications reshape the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence. Instead of waiting for deliberate messages, scientists can also listen for the everyday "leakage" of technology from other worlds—just as ours is leaking now. The nearest known potentially habitable planet, Proxima Centauri b, lies a mere 4.2 light‑years away, well within range of our aviation chatter. If a civilization there has radar tech comparable to ours, it could already be aware that someone inhabits the pale blue dot orbiting the Sun.

Saide argues that understanding these accidental beacons advances both our curiosity about whether we are alone and our grasp of how far human technology projects beyond Earth. So the next time you board a flight, consider that your journey may be echoing across the galaxy—an inadvertent signal to any neighbors who might be listening.

Has Voyager 2 Just Made Contact With A Highly Advanced Object In Deep Space?

What if we're no longer alone? It's the kind of headline you'd expect from a supermarket tabloid wedged between Bigfoot sightings and Elvis working at a petrol station. But imagine, just for a moment, if it were real: Voyager 2—the grand old explorer humanity launched back in 1977—has just made contact with something… not from here.

Let's set the scene. Voyager 2, now more than 20 billion kilometers from Earth, is drifting through the icy silence of interstellar space. Having passed the boundary of our solar system, it continues to beam back data—albeit at the cosmic equivalent of a carrier pigeon's pace. But recently, NASA's Deep Space Network caught something strange. Very strange. A transmission, or perhaps a reflection, from an object that doesn't behave like a star, planet, or comet. Something… precise.

The signal wasn't random. It showed an odd repeating structure—mathematical in nature, as if designed. NASA initially suspected equipment glitch. It wasn't. Then background noise or a natural source. Nope. The object—let's call it Echo Point for now—seems to be actively interacting with Voyager's signal. Not only did Voyager's outgoing signal get bounced back in an amplified form, but the timing of the return suggested deliberate modulation. As if something out there heard us… and answered.

This wasn't some static-ridden blip. It was a clean frequency shift, resembling compressed digital information—something Voyager can't do by itself. Scientists have tentatively dubbed the interaction "Non-Natural Signal Event 1," or NNS-1. Its signature doesn't match any known pulsars, quasars, or interstellar gas clouds. The object isn't visible in optical or infrared scans. But it's there. And it's behaving oddly.

So, what could it be?

Let's speculate. The optimistic camp believes it may be a probe. Not ours, obviously—unless Elon Musk has been time-travelling. Some posit it could be a von Neumann probe—a self-replicating machine sent by an advanced civilization to explore the galaxy. If so, Voyager may have simply tripped a cosmic tripwire—a "ping" device waiting patiently for signs of intelligent life to pass by.

Another possibility? A communication relay. Perhaps Voyager's simple binary signal was enough to wake up a dormant network, one designed to monitor space for technological activity. Like finding an old phone booth that still works, and someone answers on the other end.

Now, skeptics will roll their eyes. And fair enough—we've been burned by false positives before (hello, "Wow!" signal of 1977). Nature has a knack for playing tricks with cosmic static. But here's the rub: this time we have a spacecraft right there. Voyager 2 isn't just listening, it's part of the conversation.

There are questions galore. Is the signal continuing? (Yes—but it changes subtly each time it's received.) Could it be an advanced AI, curious about our technology? Might we have just triggered a countdown to something bigger? Could Echo Point move? If so, then we're dealing with a controlled, possibly intelligent object—alien by definition.

And here's the kicker: what if we're the anomaly? What if the galaxy is already mapped, categorized, and neatly archived—and humanity just lit a flare in a well-monitored library?

For now, Voyager 2 will keep doing what it's always done: drifting, recording, whispering back across the dark. But something just whispered back. Whether it's an alien machine, a natural phenomenon we don't yet understand, or a trick of deep-space physics, the fact remains: for the first time in nearly 50 years, Voyager 2 didn't just send data… it got a reply. So what if… just what if… someone out there has been waiting for us to say hello?

Earth may have at least 6 'minimoons' at any given time. Where do they come from?

Earth might have up to six tiny natural satellites—called minimoons—orbiting it at any given time. These objects are not permanent moons but are temporarily captured in Earth's orbit, making at least one revolution before continuing on their path around the Sun. A minimoon is typically defined as being closer than four times the Earth-Moon distance during part of its orbit.

According to new research, many of these minimoons may actually be fragments of our own Moon. When meteoroids strike the lunar surface, they eject debris into space. Most of that material escapes to orbit the Sun, but some of it can get briefly trapped by Earth's gravity. These fragments are small—usually between 1 and 2 meters (3 to 7 feet) across—and travel quickly, making them incredibly hard to detect.

Researchers used simulations to estimate how many of these lunar fragments become temporary satellites. Their model suggests around 6.5 such objects may be orbiting Earth at any moment. However, this number comes with massive uncertainty, due to unknown factors such as the size of impact craters and the speed of the ejected debris.

Historically, it was believed that most minimoons came from the asteroid belt between Mars and Jupiter. But recent findings challenge that. Two known objects—including 469219 Kamoʻoalewa—appear to have originated from the Moon. Kamoʻoalewa likely broke off during the impact that formed the Giordano Bruno crater between 1 and 10 million years ago. A second minimoon with lunar origins was identified recently, suggesting the Moon may regularly produce these tiny satellites.

Detecting minimoons is a major challenge. Their small size and high speed mean that even advanced telescopes struggle to spot them. Instead of appearing as steady dots in images, they often show up as streaks, which are harder for computers to recognize. For example, 2020 CD3—one confirmed minimoon—was visible on just two of the roughly 1,000 nights it was in range of the Catalina Sky Survey.

Still, detection is possible. Once a minimoon is spotted, astronomers can track it more easily and predict its path. A typical minimoon sticks around for about nine months before drifting off, and new ones are constantly arriving, thanks to ongoing debris ejections from the Moon and other sources. These tiny moons could have commercial value. Because they're so close, visiting them would require very little fuel compared to missions to the asteroid belt. They could be prime targets for extracting water, metals, and other useful materials.

Scientifically, minimoons offer a unique opportunity to study impact processes and the evolution of the Moon-Earth system. Understanding how lunar debris escapes into space and is temporarily captured could help improve our models of crater formation and the risk posed by future impacts. In short, these elusive little visitors are more than just space oddities—they may hold answers to big questions about our solar 

How long would it take Superman to travel from Krypton to Earth?

Forget wrinkle cream. The real secret to eternal youth? Be from Krypton. Scientists and storytellers have teamed up to pinpoint where Superman's long-lost home planet could have been. Yes, we now have celestial coordinates for Krypton — and it's not as far, or as fictional, as you might think. Astronomers, fueled by comic book canon and some good old cosmic detective work, have proposed that Krypton might have orbited a real red dwarf star called LHS 2520 — a tiny, cool star just 41.9 light-years from Earth. 

That's a mere hop in galactic terms, but it opens a can of space-worms: if baby Kal-El's journey took the long route through the cosmos, how old is Superman really? Hold onto your capes, all will be revealed. Astrophysicist and superhero fanboy-in-residence Neil deGrasse Tyson made the connection back in 2012, even appearing in Action Comics #14 to help Superman himself locate his star of origin. Tyson's pick, LHS 2520 (also known as GJ 3707), is cooler and dimmer than our Sun, but has just the right conditions — including a so-called "Goldilocks zone" — for Kryptonian life to have flourished.

So far, so fun. But now let's talk space travel. Given LHS 2520's distance from Earth, light takes nearly 42 years to reach us from that point. And baby Kal-El didn't exactly come with warp drive. DC comics long implied Kryptonians weren't great at space travel — which makes his speedy arrival on Earth a bit... puzzling. Even assuming some advanced tech, the logistics start to unravel faster than Superman's cape in a woodchipper.

Let's crunch the numbers: if Superman's little spaceship traveled at human spacecraft speeds — say, like NASA's Orion capsule — it would've taken about 1.14 million years to get here. Luckily, Krypton's planetary explosion might offer a solution. Debris from such cataclysmic events can travel up to 10% the speed of light. If Kal-El's ship hitched a ride just ahead of the flying rubble, he could have made the trip in only 420 years. That's right — Superman might have arrived on Earth at the ripe old age of 421.

Add the 33-ish years he's spent here as mild-mannered reporter Clark Kent, and our beloved superhero clocks in at 453 years old. Biologically, he's in his 30s. ...and that glowing green stuff he's allergic to? Kryptonite — literal chunks of his home planet — somehow arrived around the same time he did. That's more evidence that he wasn't zipping around faster than light, unless green rocks also get frequent flyer points.

But don't fret. Superman probably aged gracefully thanks to high-tech Kryptonian stasis pods, or maybe he just took a long nap in the Phantom Zone — a timeless, interdimensional prison his people used to toss criminals into like intergalactic time-out. In the end, none of this cosmic math matters too much. Because whether he's 33 or 453, Superman's real age doesn't show up on his face — it shows up in his values. Truth, justice, and the ability to bench-press a continent without breaking a sweat.

So next time you look up at the stars, squint toward LHS 2520 and raise a toast. Not only is that (possibly) where Superman came from — it's proof that even our wildest stories can have a place in the universe. And if you happen to find yourself feeling a bit older than usual, remember: at least you're aging in Earth years. Superman's got 420 on you.

What Happens If You Throw a Paper Airplane from the Space Station?

Some questions are meant to keep philosophers up at night: What's the meaning of life? Are we alone in the universe? And then there's that lesser-known, but no less intriguing mystery: What happens if you throw a paper airplane from the International Space Station?

Well, thanks to a couple of brilliant—and clearly fun-loving—researchers from the University of Tokyo, we now have an answer. Aerospace engineers Maximilien Berthet and Kojiro Suzuki decided to investigate what would happen to a humble origami glider if it were tossed from the ISS. Their study dives into the "dynamics of an origami space plane during Earth atmospheric reentry." In plain terms: if you yeeted a paper plane from orbit, would it survive?

Let's start with the basics. "Origami," as you might know, is Japanese for folded paper, and their test craft was just that—an A4 sheet folded into what looks suspiciously like something a bored 10-year-old might toss across a classroom. But behind its simple shape lay complex aerodynamics, simulated with computer modeling.

The ISS orbits about 400 kilometers above Earth, hurtling around the planet at roughly 28,000 kilometers per hour (that's 7,800 meters per second if you're keeping score). The researchers modeled their paper plane being launched at that altitude and velocity—an idea that would ordinarily spell instant doom for such a flimsy object. But space is a strange place: at that height, the atmosphere is so thin that the paper plane wouldn't be torn apart. Not right away, at least.

From the moment of launch, the plane begins its long fall. For the first few hundred kilometers of descent, it behaves surprisingly well. There's not much air up there to push it around. But the clock is ticking: it takes about three and a half days to reach an altitude of 120 kilometers, and that's when things go downhill fast—literally and figuratively.

At around 120 km up, the atmosphere thickens enough to start messing with the plane. Its low "ballistic coefficient"—basically, a measure of how much it resists air drag—means it slows down quickly. That also means it becomes unstable. The simulations showed that once it hits this denser layer of air, the plane starts to tumble out of control. In other words, it becomes a glorified falling leaf. Anyone who's made a paper plane knows the moment: that wild, unpredictable corkscrew plunge to the floor.

But these researchers didn't stop at digital simulations. They built a real-world model—one-third the size of the original design and reinforced with an aluminum tail—and took it to the Kashiwa Hypersonic and High Enthalpy Wind Tunnel. There, they blasted it with wind at Mach 7 (that's seven times the speed of sound) for seven seconds, simulating the brutal conditions of atmospheric reentry.

The result? A scorched, bent paper plane with its nose crumpled backward. But to its credit—it didn't instantly fall apart. It held on long enough to teach us something.

This quirky experiment wasn't just done for laughs (although, let's be honest, it is kind of funny). The point was to explore whether such ultra-light, simple structures could one day be used in real missions. Projects like LEAVES, a Japanese concept to explore Venus, or even Earth observation tools, might benefit from deployable, low-cost gliders that collect data and safely burn up on reentry—no need for retrieval.

Of course, a real mission would require sensors, electronics, and probably a bit more than schoolroom origami. But this experiment proves a valuable point: sometimes science doesn't need to be heavy or expensive to teach us something useful. Besides, what's more inspiring than the idea that a folded piece of paper—something made in minutes by a kid with a dream—can fly from space, and survive long enough to leave a mark?

The Moon Landing Tapes That Vanished—and the Aussie Dish That Saved the Day

In the grand museum of history's "you had one job" blunders, few can rival this jaw-dropper: NASA—yes, the very agency that hurled humans across 384,000 kilometers of space to land on the Moon—accidentally taped over the original footage of that very event.  Yes. Really.

Let's rewind to July 20, 1969. The world paused as Neil Armstrong took that immortal "one small step." Families clung to their TV sets, watching grainy, ghost-like images flicker across black-and-white screens. But here's the kicker: what they were seeing wasn't the actual Moon footage. It was a camera filming a monitor—a copy of a copy. The true original was something called SSTV (Slow-Scan Television), a high-resolution format never seen by the public.

So where did that pristine footage go? Prepare to wince. In the early 1980s, NASA found itself running low on magnetic tape stock. Those big reels were expensive and bulky, and apparently someone thought, "Hey, why not reuse a few?" So, in a bureaucratic purge of biblical proportions, the agency began erasing thousands of tapes for reuse—including, you guessed it, the only known copies of the original Moonwalk footage.

No conspiracy. No sabotage. Just good old-fashioned bureaucratic incompetence and a stunning lack of foresight. For two decades, nobody even noticed. It wasn't until the early 2000s that anyone asked the awkward question: "Uh… where are those tapes?"

Cue a motley team of retired NASA engineers, archivists, and space enthusiasts—led by Stan Lebar, who helped design the Moon camera. Think Indiana Jones with clipboards. They dug through warehouses, scanned inventory lists, and sifted through dusty boxes from Maryland to California in a desperate quest for history's most important missing video. The answer lay not in Houston, but—surprise!—in the sheep-filled hills of Australia.

Back in '69, the Moon broadcast was relayed through several Earth stations. One of the best was Honeysuckle Creek, just outside Canberra. Their setup picked up a cleaner, stronger signal than the one beamed through Houston. That signal passed through the Parkes Observatory (yes, the one immortalized in The Dish) and eventually reached U.S. television screens.

Luckily, while NASA was busy erasing history, technicians at the Australian Broadcasting Corporation (ABC) were preserving it. Their recordings—archived and forgotten—sat quietly in a vault for decades.

When NASA's internal search hit a dead end, it was those Aussie tapes that came to the rescue. In 2009, NASA collaborated with Lowry Digital in Hollywood (the team behind restorations of Star Wars and Casablanca) to salvage and enhance what remained. The result was a beautifully cleaned-up version of what the world originally saw in low quality—still not the SSTV original, but far better than what had endured.

The tragedy? Those SSTV tapes—superior in every technical way—are now irretrievably lost. Wiped clean. Gone forever. And yet, there's a strange poetry in all this. That the most iconic moment in American space history was rescued not by the might of NASA, but by Australian technicians in the outback, feels fitting. After all, the Moon landing was never just America's triumph—it was humanity's.

We launched. We landed. We taped over it. Then, in a stroke of accidental international teamwork, we pieced it back together.  Because sometimes, mankind doesn't just reach for the stars. It also stumbles around the archive room, muttering,  "Now where on Earth did we put that tape?"

Binoculars: Your Magical Gateway to the Stars

There's something magical about the night sky that captures a child's imagination like almost nothing else. Those glittering jewels scattered across the velvet black above Camden Haven seem to whisper secrets from another world. And the best part? You don't need a spaceship—or even a telescope—to join the adventure.

Few hobbies are as universally loved or as easy to share across generations as stargazing. It's a family-friendly activity that requires no special skills and very little gear to get started. All you need is a decent pair of binoculars—and they don't even have to be new! That dusty pair tucked away in the closet might just become your ticket to the cosmos.

Surprised? Don't be. Many parents are amazed to learn that binoculars can reveal more than they ever imagined—glittering star clusters, ghostly comets, even distant galaxies. Think of them as two mini-telescopes working in unison, giving you a sharp, wide-angle view of the heavens. And unlike telescopes, binoculars don't come with a steep learning curve. You just pick them up, look up, and wow.

For children and newcomers to astronomy, binoculars have some real advantages. They're light as a feather, fit easily into small hands, and are simple to point and use. There are no knobs to twist or settings to fiddle with—just instant access to the sky. Best of all, they're wonderfully affordable. A good pair of entry-level binoculars (say, 7x50) can cost as little as $60 to $100. Even the more powerful 10x50 models, ideal for those wanting to zoom in on lunar craters or Jupiter's moons, come in under $150. Compared to telescopes, that's a stellar bargain.

Need another reason to love them? Binoculars are multi-purpose marvels. Use them for whale watching, bird spotting, or cheering on your favourite footy team. Try doing that with a telescope! Their versatility makes them an investment that pays off in many ways. OK I know what you're thinking, they're difficult to hold still right? Now here's a cool trick; duct tape them to a camera tripod. Cool huh? Or simply order a special binocular to tripod clamp from your camera store.

When choosing binoculars, the numbers matter. The first number (like 7x or 10x) is the magnification. The second (like 50) is the size of the objective lenses—the larger the number, the more light they gather. Beginners might prefer the wider, brighter view of 7x50s, while 10x50s provide that little extra reach into deep space.

Start simple. Use a sky app on your phone to find the constellations, planets, and stars visible in your area. Let the Moon be your first stop—its rugged surface is spectacular through binoculars. Then move on to the planets. Catch Jupiter and its Galilean moons lined up like tiny stars. Spot Saturn's rings (yes, it's possible!), and track Venus as it waxes and wanes like our Moon.

Binoculars are also a brilliant way to introduce kids to science. They'll ask questions, chase shooting stars, and discover the joy of exploring the unknown. And if you're lucky, they'll remember those nights forever. Want to go further? Join your local astronomy club. You'll find friendly folks eager to share their telescopes, sky maps, and enthusiasm. It's a great way to learn, connect, and keep the excitement going. I've got 12 telescopes at home—but I always keep a pair of binoculars close. Why? Because they're quick, easy, and still manage to thrill me every time I look up. So go ahead—grab those binoculars, rally the kids, step outside, and let the stars show you what you've been missing. The universe is waiting. Happy stargazing!  

The first commercial space station is nearly here. And it could change space forever

In 2026, something extraordinary will happen above Earth — not orchestrated by NASA, not launched by a national government, but by a private startup. A team of astronauts will step aboard Haven-1, the first fully commercial space station, developed by a California company called Vast. Compact, futuristic, and self-funded, Haven-1 is set to mark a turning point in the history of human spaceflight.

Space Capsule Carrying Ashes of 166 People Crashes Into Sea

In an age where space has become the new frontier for science, commerce, and sometimes the downright bizarre, the recent crash of the Nyx capsule into the Pacific Ocean will go down as one of the strangest chapters in modern spaceflight.

Billed as a leap forward in reusable space transport, Nyx was designed to return to Earth smoothly, gently, and intact. Instead, it ended in a violent, unplanned splashdown — no parachutes, no grace. Just a high-tech cannonball nosediving into the sea.

And it wasn't just cargo that went down with it. The Nyx capsule, launched on what was supposed to be a relatively straightforward orbital test, was carrying human cremains (ashes of the deceased) meant for a symbolic "burial in space." Alongside them? A small scientific payload that included — yes, seriously — samples of cannabis. Whether it was for medical research, agricultural experiments in microgravity, or just a token from a very mellow payload team remains unclear.

One thing's for sure: neither the ashes nor the weed made it home.

The spacecraft's landing system, which should have gently parachuted Nyx to a controlled splashdown, failed to deploy. Engineers suspect a software glitch, but the investigation is ongoing. The result? A catastrophic crash that shattered the capsule and scattered its contents across the ocean floor — a final resting place far deeper than anyone had planned.

In a press conference that straddled the line between technical explanation and heartfelt apology, the private space company behind Nyx acknowledged the crash and the loss. With solemn tones, they extended their "deepest regrets to the families" of those whose remains were aboard the ill-fated craft. For many, the mission had symbolized a poetic sendoff — a final orbit among the stars before returning to Earth. Instead, they now lie somewhere in the crushing darkness of the deep sea.

Still, in a moment of corporate optimism (or spin, depending on your point of view), the company described the crash as a "partial success." The Nyx had, after all, completed several key objectives in orbit before re-entry. Telemetry was gathered. Data transmitted. The capsule held together — right up until the parachute-less plunge.

"There's always something to learn," said one mission manager. "This was a hard lesson, but a valuable one. Reusability is the future — and these moments help shape it."

The public reaction, however, has been mixed. While some applauded the transparency and saw the crash as part of spaceflight's natural growing pains, others were... less forgiving. Memes erupted online, dubbing the incident everything from "High Dive 420" to "Ashes to Ashes, Splash to Splash."

Critics questioned the decision to combine sentimental cargo with experimental systems. Was it wise — or even respectful — to mix the memorial aspirations of grieving families with a prototype re-entry platform still under testing?

Despite the loss, the company is already planning the next Nyx mission, with upgrades to parachute deployment systems, improved fault tolerance, and — notably — stricter rules about mixing critical cargo with trial flights. There's even talk of launching a future mission to retrieve the wreckage, though whether that includes a deep-sea recovery of the remains is unknown.

For now, the Nyx capsule rests in silence beneath the waves — a reminder that in the pursuit of the stars, we sometimes land far from where we intended.

But in a strange way, perhaps it's poetic: a mission meant to symbolically carry its passengers beyond Earth did exactly that — just not in the way anyone expected. As space travel becomes more accessible and more... peculiar, one thing is clear: this is not your grandfather's space program.

We Told You We Went — and Now India Has the Receipts!

It's official. Again. We went to the Moon. Not once, but many times. And now, thanks to India's Chandrayaan-2 spacecraft, we have another round of rock-solid, high-resolution proof — the kind that makes conspiracy theorists squirm in their basement chairs.

Chandrayaan-2, India's second lunar mission, is orbiting the Moon with one of the most powerful cameras ever sent there — the OHRC (Orbiter High-Resolution Camera). And what did it do? It pointed its lens at two of the most iconic spots in space history: the Apollo 11 and Apollo 12 landing sites. And guess what? There they are. Right where NASA said they'd be. The descent stages, the equipment, the shadows — clear as lunar day.

These aren't fuzzy blobs or pixelated guesses. These are crisp, high-detail images taken from lunar orbit by a modern spacecraft not affiliated with NASA. That's important. Because it's not just America confirming its own history. It's another space agency — one with its own goals and no stake in defending American pride — independently verifying that humans really did plant their boots (and a flag) on the Moon.

This isn't just cool science — it's history looking back at us from 384,000 kilometres away. The Apollo 11 site, where Neil Armstrong and Buzz Aldrin made their giant leap in 1969, now beams back to us in astonishing detail. You can even see the descent module that brought them down. Apollo 12, just four months later, is equally visible — reminding us that walking on another world was once something we did, not just something we dreamed about.

And yet, despite decades of photographs, telemetry data, moon rocks, seismic experiments, and the fact that multiple space agencies — including Japan and now India — have independently verified the sites... the Moon hoax crowd still clings to their dusty old denial. To them, it was all filmed in a Hollywood basement by Stanley Kubrick, with waving flags and suspicious shadows. Please. The only thing more manufactured than that theory is the aluminium foil on their heads.

Let's be clear: the Moon landings were — and still are — the greatest technical achievement in human history. It was a time when slide rules, courage, and a whole lot of caffeine got us further than anyone had ever gone before. And now, in stunning HD clarity, India has added its own confirmation to the stack of proof so high it could practically reach the Moon itself.

What makes this even sweeter is the international collaboration of truth. Chandrayaan-2, a triumph of Indian space engineering, didn't go up to settle a score — it went up to explore, to study, to learn. But while it was there, it gave humanity a gift: undeniable, independent evidence of our past triumphs on the lunar surface.

So, to the doubters still clinging to their YouTube rabbit holes — maybe it's time to turn off the fake documentaries and look at the data. Real spacecraft. Real missions. Real photos. From multiple nations. The Moon isn't a hoax — it's a human footprint. And now we have the pictures to prove it. Again.

 The Universe That's Running Away from Us

Imagine stepping outside on a crisp, clear night and looking up at the stars. That twinkle you see might be from a galaxy millions, even billions, of light-years away. It's easy to believe—maybe even hope—that someday we'll reach those distant lights. That one day, humans will master space travel and hop across the cosmos like we do continents. But here's the cosmic gut punch: we can't.

Even if we built a spaceship that could travel at the speed of light—something that defies everything we currently know about physics—it still wouldn't be fast enough. A staggering 94% of the galaxies in our universe are moving away from us so quickly, we will never be able to reach them. Not in a million years. Not in a billion. Never.

This isn't science fiction. It's scientific fact. The universe is expanding, and it's doing so at such a rate that it's outrunning even our most ambitious dreams. We're not talking about faraway destinations being "difficult" to get to—they are literally unreachable. It's like trying to catch a train that's already left the station and keeps speeding up forever.

For many scientists, this realization is equal parts humbling, haunting, and strangely beautiful. In a universe of infinite wonder, most of it is slipping beyond our grasp with each passing second. But rather than breed despair, this cosmic truth has become a call to action—a reason to look harder, explore faster, and dream bigger.

Back in the 1920s, astronomer Edwin Hubble discovered that the universe wasn't static—it was expanding. That was revolutionary enough. But what we've learned in the century since has blown the doors wide open. Thanks to powerful telescopes like Hubble and the James Webb Space Telescope, we now see galaxies that are not only far away, but receding at breakneck speeds—too fast for light-speed travel to ever catch up.

Think about that. Our most powerful technologies are like message bottles tossed into an ocean that's forever growing. The farther a galaxy is, the faster it's speeding away due to the expansion of space itself. It's not that the galaxies are racing through space—it's that space is stretching, taking everything along with it. And yet, we persist.

Advancements That Defy Limits

Despite this universal roadblock, human ingenuity hasn't thrown in the towel. We've built machines that can land on asteroids, rovers that explore Mars, and telescopes that peer back billions of years. We've begun experimenting with ion drives, solar sails, and plasma engines—all small but significant steps toward faster space travel.

Meanwhile, physicists are tossing around mind-bending concepts like wormholes and warp drives. While they're theoretical for now, so was flight a century ago. The speed of light might be a barrier, but history shows that barriers often inspire breakthroughs.

There's also an emotional urgency. What we can't reach, we can still see—for now. The photons (light particles) from these far-off galaxies are just arriving, carrying ancient snapshots of the universe's youth. But in a few billion years, even that light will vanish from view. Those galaxies will be gone from our night sky—not just physically, but visually.

This is where the story becomes more than science—it becomes personal. Humanity has always been a species of wanderers, charting oceans, climbing mountains, crossing deserts. Now we face the greatest unknown of all: a universe we can never fully conquer. And maybe that's the point.

In an age where so much seems within reach—from smartphones to AI to space tourism—perhaps we need this reminder: that the cosmos isn't here for us to own. It exists in its own rhythm, majestic and unbothered. The unreachable parts don't diminish our importance—they give our fleeting moment in cosmic time more meaning. 

So, the next time you look up at the night sky, know this: you're seeing into forever. And even if we can't reach most of it, we were still lucky enough to witness it. To wonder about it. To dream. And in the end, maybe that's what makes us truly human.

Captain Cook and the Night the Sky Turned Red

In the annals of Australia's history, one of the most curious and pivotal chapters begins not with gold or convicts, but with a planet — Venus. In 1768, Captain James Cook set sail from England aboard HMS Endeavour, not primarily as a conqueror or colonizer, but as a man on a scientific mission. His orders were clear: travel to the Pacific to observe the rare Transit of Venus — a celestial event in which the planet Venus passes directly between Earth and the Sun.

This was no starry-eyed detour. By timing the event from various points on the globe, astronomers hoped to calculate the astronomical unit — the exact distance between Earth and the Sun — a cornerstone measurement for understanding the size of the solar system.

To ensure scientific accuracy, Cook was not alone. He carried with him Charles Green, a skilled astronomer from the Royal Observatory at Greenwich. Green had trained under the famed Nevil Maskelyne and brought with him precision instruments, quadrants, and the careful temperament of a man who knew he was helping unlock the scale of the universe.

Their chosen observation post? The island of Tahiti — remote, beautiful, and ideally positioned in the South Pacific. On June 3, 1769, Cook, Green, and the crew set up their telescopes and watched, with awe and meticulous notetaking, as Venus crept slowly across the burning disk of the Sun. The mission was a scientific success, and their efforts contributed to an international scientific collaboration that was revolutionary for its time.

But Cook was not one to simply turn back. With his astronomical duty fulfilled, he opened the sealed portion of his orders — which directed him to seek out and chart the unknown southern continent, Terra Australis Incognita. Cook and his men became the first known Europeans to chart New Zealand in full, and then the eastern coast of Australia. On April 29, 1770, Cook made landfall at what he named Botany Bay, noting its rich flora and fauna, carefully recorded by Joseph Banks, the ship's prolific naturalist.

Fate, however, had other plans. On June 11, 1770, Endeavour struck the Great Barrier Reef, tearing open her hull. The crew — tired, sick, and nearly starving — managed to beach the crippled ship near the mouth of a river and remained for weeks, patching the damage with makeshift repairs, their survival uncertain.

Then came the night the sky turned red! On September 16, 1770, while sailing near the equator, the sky above Endeavour lit up with massive crimson auroras — a phenomenon no one aboard could explain. Joseph Banks and his assistant Sydney Parkinson wrote in fearful tones of the eerie light, though they had no understanding of what they were seeing.

Auroras at the equator? Impossible, it was thought. Yet modern science now confirms this bizarre occurrence. The event, now known as the "Cook Event" was part of a massive solar storm, recently estimated to rival the infamous Carrington Event of 1859. Such storms can disrupt satellites, GPS, and power grids. But in 1770, Cook's wooden ship, powered by wind and guided by starlight, sailed on undisturbed.

It's fitting, in a way. Cook's mission began with a planet passing across the Sun, a moment of scientific grandeur, and later, the heavens returned the favour, painting the skies red in a massive and frightening cosmic encore. From Tahiti's telescopes to Australia's hidden shores and a night of magnetic fire, Cook's voyage was more than colonial history. It was, at its core, a journey written in the stars.

Blasting to Mars in Just 30 Days? Russia's New Plasma Rocket Could Change Everything

Strap in. Space travel might be about to get a whole lot faster—and cooler. In a jaw-dropping development straight out of a sci-fi blockbuster, Russia has pulled back the curtain on a revolutionary new rocket engine that could take humans to Mars in just 30 days. That's not a typo. Thirty. Days.

Forget the months-long slog we've all come to expect from Mars mission timelines. This is warp-speed in comparison—and it's all thanks to an advanced plasma-electric rocket engine powered by nuclear energy. Developed by Rosatom, Russia's state nuclear agency, the engine is a radical shift away from the slow and steady chemical rockets we've relied on for decades.

So, what's the magic behind this new tech?

It's called plasma propulsion, and it works by using nuclear power to superheat and accelerate ionized gas—plasma—out of a nozzle at insanely high velocities. We're talking exhaust speeds of nearly 100 kilometres per second. That's about 20 times faster than anything we're using now. And the power output? A whopping 300 kilowatts.

Let's put it this way: this isn't just another science experiment buried in an obscure lab. The engine has already completed successful ground tests. While it's still in the prototype stage, it's proving itself to be more than just theoretical wishful thinking. This is real, it's working—and it could revolutionise space travel as we know it.

Why is this so exciting? For starters, speed. The traditional journey to Mars takes anywhere between 6 to 9 months. That's a long time to be stuck in a tin can with limited supplies, cosmic radiation, and nowhere to pull over for a break. Slashing that trip down to just a month opens up a whole new world of possibilities. Not only would it make missions more efficient, but it also significantly reduces the risks to astronauts from long-term space exposure.

This technology also fits the bill for the kind of sustainable, clean energy solutions we're seeking in both space and on Earth. Nuclear power provides a constant energy source, and plasma propulsion systems are known for their efficiency and low fuel consumption. In short, it's not just fast—it's smart.

NASA and other space agencies are certainly watching. The future of interplanetary travel is being written right now, and while America leads in many spacefronts, Russia's plasma-electric engine is a bold statement: the next giant leap may not come from the Moon, but from Mars—and it could have a Russian flag on it.

Still, there are hurdles. Building a fully flight-ready version of this engine, testing it in space, and integrating it into a crewed spacecraft are no small feats. But if the momentum continues, we could witness a game-changing shift in space mission design within the next decade.

In the grand scheme of space exploration, this could be our Apollo moment—but for Mars. The future is nuclear. The future is plasma-powered. And it might be arriving faster than anyone expected. Buckle up. Mars just got a whole lot closer.

The Ghost in the Machine: A Satellite Speaks Again

A satellite, which was launched in 1974, disappeared from ground-based sensors in the 1990s, has been finally found after 25 years. It was supposed to be dead. For decades, this aging satellite—long past its use-by date—drifted silently through space, no longer transmitting, no longer listening. Engineers signed off. The mission was over. Another piece of space junk, nothing more. Until one day… it started talking again.

No command was sent. No system rebooted. And yet, a signal—clear and unmistakable—came whispering back across the void. The satellite had, somehow, reawakened. Cue the head-scratching. Some experts are calling it a glitch. Perhaps a random cosmic ray strike tickled its circuitry in just the right way. Maybe a long-dormant capacitor finally discharged. Technically possible? Sure. Likely? Not particularly.

Others have embraced a more poetic theory—nicknaming it "space Ouija." As if, out there in the vacuum, something unseen reached out with a curious finger and gave it a nudge. Just enough to stir its ghostly heart. Whatever the reason, the satellite is now back from the dead. Not to complete a mission, not to take orders, but simply to speak. To say: "I'm still here."

And that, perhaps, is what makes it so captivating. In a sky full of human-made noise, this unexpected signal feels different—unplanned, unsummoned, and unexplained. Maybe it's just old tech having one last crackle before final silence. Or maybe, just maybe, something out there was listening… and decided to answer back.

The Vera C. Rubin Observatory Begins Its Grand Survey

The southern skies are about to get their most thorough check-up in history. Perched high on Cerro Pachón in Chile, the Vera C. Rubin Observatory is finally opening its eyes. After more than a decade of planning, building, and calibrating, this billion-dollar marvel ahs begun its unprecedented mission: to capture the entire southern night sky in stunning detail every few days for the next ten years.

At its heart is a technological beast—the world's largest digital camera, weighing in at three tonnes with a staggering 3,200 megapixels. Each of its exposures will cover an area of the sky 45 times the size of the full Moon, and it will repeat this feat roughly every two nights. The telescope's mission? To build an evolving cinematic masterpiece of our universe, frame by breathtaking frame. But this isn't just about pretty pictures. This is serious science.

What Will Rubin See?

Named in honour of pioneering American astronomer Vera Rubin, whose work on galaxy rotation helped point us to the invisible hand of dark matter, the observatory has its sights set on some of the deepest questions in cosmology. What is the universe made of? What is dark matter really? How is the universe changing over time? With its ultra-sensitive imaging system and suite of six colour filters ranging from ultraviolet to infrared, Rubin will observe the cosmos in remarkable depth and clarity. 

Over time, it will allow astronomers to chart cosmic change: galaxies in motion, exploding stars, and distant quasars pulsing like the universe's own Morse code. It will also let scientists detect gravitational lensing—the warping of light by massive objects—a phenomenon that's not just visually spectacular, but scientifically vital for mapping the elusive dark matter that pervades the cosmos.

A Watchful Eye on the Home Front

Closer to home, Rubin's gaze will sweep across the Solar System with unmatched thoroughness. Professor Jonti Horner, from the University of Southern Queensland, is especially excited about what the observatory will reveal about asteroids and comets. "Rubin will find things that no other telescope could spot—dark, fast, small objects that we've been missing," he said.

This includes potentially hazardous asteroids. Early detection is key, and Rubin's ability to constantly scan and compare sky images gives it the power to alert astronomers to sudden changes—like a new object on a possible collision course with Earth. In fact, if Rubin had been operational a decade ago, we might have discovered asteroid 2024 YR4 much earlier. Thankfully, it's now deemed unlikely to pose a threat, but the point remains: time is critical when dealing with cosmic hazards, and Rubin buys us more of it.

The Beginning of a Revolution

The first images from the observatory have been received (above) at 1am (AEST) Tuesday, June 24. It's a moment astronomers around the world—many from Australia—have been eagerly awaiting. Dr Tania Barone from Swinburne University of Technology is one of them. "We're going to be able to see changes in the sky in a way that we've never been able to do before," she said. 

"Each time Rubin looks at a patch of sky, it will immediately compare it to previous images and send out alerts if anything has changed." That means supernovae, variable stars, distant galaxies behaving oddly, or even a new comet just entering the inner Solar System could be spotted, flagged, and followed up by telescopes around the world within minutes.

Old Questions, New Tools

Perhaps most tantalising of all is the possibility that Rubin might help confirm—or rule out—the existence of Planet Nine, the hypothesised giant lurking in the outer Solar System. Its gravity may be subtly tugging on distant objects, but no telescope has yet spotted it. Rubin just might. And then there's the data—petabytes of it.

The observatory will generate one of the largest astronomical datasets ever created, fuelling research and discoveries for decades. Some scientists even have projects they dreamed up 30 years ago that they can finally test. As Professor Rachel Webster of the University of Melbourne put it: "We haven't had a tool like this before."

A New Era Dawns

What lies ahead is unknown, and that's exactly what excites astronomers. The Vera C. Rubin Observatory isn't just a new telescope—it's a time machine, a cosmic watchtower, and an astronomical artist all rolled into one. Its legacy begins this week, and if history is anything to go by, the universe won't disappoint.

The First Astronomers: Australia's Indigenous Stargazers

Long before the domes of observatories dotted the landscape and satellites blinked their mechanical eyes in orbit, the night sky above Australia was being read, interpreted, and passed down by its First Peoples — a cultural legacy unbroken for over 65,000 years.

For Aboriginal and Torres Strait Islander communities, the stars weren't distant and abstract. They were living stories, woven tightly into the rhythms of life. These weren't merely tales to be told around campfires. They were tools for survival, systems of governance, calendars, and compasses. Above all, they were connections — between land, people, and sky.

Every nation — and there are over 250 language groups across Australia — had its own celestial map. Western astronomers tend to focus on the stars themselves, joining dots to form familiar shapes like Orion or the Southern Cross. But Indigenous stargazers saw what many overlooked: the spaces between. A shining example — quite literally — is the Emu in the Sky. Formed not from stars but from the dark dust lanes of the Milky Way, this colossal emu stretches across the heavens. Its position at different times of year signalled crucial seasonal changes. When its body appeared to be running across the sky, it meant emus were laying their eggs — a vital food source. The night sky was not just a canvas; it was a calendar.

The Yolŋu people of Arnhem Land tell the story of Walu, the Sun-woman, who carries a blazing torch across the sky each day. Her journey explains not just the movement of the Sun but the importance of light, heat, and time. The Moon, too, has a story. Ngalindi, the Moon-man, was once full and strong but was attacked by his angry wives, each blow diminishing his shape until he died — only to rise again. Through this tale, generations understood the cycle of lunar phases. They didn't need telescopes. They had time, patience, and stories told with precision.

This ancient sky wisdom is passed down not in books, but through songlines — intricate oral maps connecting sacred sites, stars, and stories. A songline might describe a journey across vast landscapes, detailing every waterhole, mountain, and constellation along the way. As you walk and sing the landscape, you're not just navigating the land — you're tracing the stars and keeping culture alive.

For Ghillar Michael Anderson, a Euahlayi elder and one of the pioneers of Indigenous astronomy in public discourse, the stars have always been teachers. "When I was a kid," he said, "we would lay on our backs at night, and the old fellas would point to the sky and tell us who we are, where we came from, and what's coming next."

Now, modern science is finally catching up. Astronomers and physicists are beginning to realise what was hidden in plain sight — or rather, in thesky. Some Aboriginal sky stories align remarkably with scientific phenomena: descriptions of eclipses, meteor strikes, or tidal patterns locked in memory and song. In Western Australia, a crater known as Wolfe Creek is explained in Jaru and Walmajarri tradition as the place where the Rainbow Serpent fell to Earth — an origin story that eerily echoes the impact of a meteorite.

There's growing momentum to honour and integrate this knowledge into mainstream science. Institutions like the Australian National University and CSIRO are partnering with Indigenous elders to learn how their understanding of the stars can complement modern astronomy. School programs are introducing children to both Western and Aboriginal star lore, side by side — not as competing systems, but as enriching layers of knowledge.

Even major observatories are embracing the change. At the Sydney Observatory, visitors can now explore Aboriginal sky stories alongside telescopic wonders. It's a reminder that you don't have to look to space probes or billion-dollar projects to appreciate human curiosity — sometimes, the oldest stories hold the most insight.

For too long, these deep-rooted traditions were sidelined or ignored, viewed as myth rather than method. But as we hurtle through an age of space tourism and AI-driven astronomy, there's a quiet realisation: the future of science might just benefit from looking backward — to the wisdom of those who watched the stars not just with instruments, but with awe, connection, and cultural memory. In the words of elder David Mowaljarlai, "Our law is not written in books. It is written in the Earth and in the sky." And it's still there — waiting to be read.

Are We Alone? Cosmic Loneliness and the Consequences of Contact

It's the biggest question in the universe—and the most unsettling. Are we alone? Since our ancient ancestors first looked skyward, we've wondered whether those pinpricks of light are suns with planets like ours, maybe even teeming with life. And now, with powerful telescopes and the science of exoplanets, we know: many of them are. In fact, there are more planets than stars. And with around 400 billion stars in the Milky Way, and an estimated two trillion galaxies in the observable universe, we're talking about numbers so vast they practically demand company.

In 1961, astronomer Frank Drake put that curiosity into numbers with his now-famous Drake Equation, a kind of cosmic betting slip to estimate how many intelligent civilizations might exist in our galaxy. With even modest figures plugged in, it suggested the Milky Way could be bustling with life. Carl Sagan was a passionate supporter of the idea—his gentle voice famously whispering, "We are a way for the cosmos to know itself."

So... where is everyone?

That silence—deafening, really—is what we call the Fermi Paradox, named after physicist Enrico Fermi, who bluntly asked the question during a casual lunch: if aliens exist, why haven't we seen them? No probes, no messages, no great galactic billboard flashing "Welcome, Earthlings." Nothing.

One disturbing possibility is The Great Filter—a critical hurdle that life rarely clears. It could be that the spark of life is itself vanishingly rare. Or maybe most civilizations don't make it far—discovering nuclear weapons before they master diplomacy, or artificial intelligence before ethics. If the Great Filter lies ahead of us, it means doom might be baked into our future.

Then there's the idea that advanced civilizations might be deliberately keeping quiet. After all, shouting into the void might attract the wrong kind of attention. What if the cosmos is like a dark forest, and each civilization is a silent hunter? In such a scenario, broadcasting "We're here!" is a recipe for extinction. The alien version of a bear doesn't come with hugs and friendly probes—it comes with planet-killing tech.

Or perhaps alien life isn't broadcasting at all because it doesn't use the same tools we do. It might be post-biological—consciousness uploaded into machines, drifting silently between stars. It might not want to communicate. It might not even recognize us as alive. To a vastly older intelligence, humans might be as interesting as ants arguing over who gets the biggest crumb.

And what if we do make contact? The consequences would be profound. Religions might splinter or transform. Science would explode with questions. Governments—already bad at transparency—might panic, hide, or try to weaponise the event. Some might celebrate, others collapse. Humanity would, for the first time, have to confront its place in a populated universe, possibly as the galactic junior species.

There are already rules—sort of. The United Nations has protocols for how to handle alien contact. SETI (the Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence) has a "first contact" protocol too, but it's little more than a glorified press release: verify, notify, then don't reply without international consultation. But what if the signal's a countdown? What if it's music? Or coordinates?

Would we answer? Should we? Stephen Hawking warned against it. He pointed out that when technologically advanced civilisations have met less advanced ones here on Earth, it hasn't ended well for the latter. Think of colonisation, of empires. We might be sending postcards to conquistadors.

And yet, how can we not reach out? It's in our nature. Curiosity may have killed the cat, but it built space telescopes and launched golden records into the void. So we scan, we listen, and we dream. Are we alone?  Maybe. But in a universe as vast and ancient as this one, silence might not mean absence. It might just mean waiting. And one day, perhaps unexpectedly, the sky might blink back.

The Milky Way's Black Hole: Spinning at Top Speed?

At the heart of our Milky Way galaxy lies a cosmic beast: a supermassive black hole known as Sagittarius A* (or Sgr A* for short). It's around 4 million times the mass of our Sun and, for the most part, it's been a quiet monster—relatively speaking. But now, evidence suggests it may be spinning at or near its maximum possible speed, and that changes everything.

Black holes have two key properties: mass and spin. The spin of a black hole isn't about rotation in the everyday sense; it's about how space-time itself twists around it. A black hole spinning close to the speed of light becomes a cosmic dynamo, warping everything nearby—from the paths of stars to the behaviour of matter caught in its gravitational grip.

Recent data—particularly X-ray emissions and radio observations—have pointed toward a rapidly rotating Sgr A*. Scientists estimate it may be spinning at nearly the theoretical limit. This is significant because spin tells us a story. A fast spin might suggest a history of dramatic mergers with other black holes or a steady diet of material falling in from a preferred direction over millions of years.

Why does this matter? Because a spinning black hole could power jets, shape galactic evolution, and affect how stars form in the galactic core. If Sgr A* is indeed whirling at top speed, it could even stretch the boundary where time and space become entangled—the event horizon—and influence how nearby stars orbit and age.

It also raises tantalising questions about what lies beyond. A maximally spinning black hole potentially keeps the inner edge of the accretion disk—a ring of superheated matter—dangerously close to the event horizon. That closeness lets us glimpse the extreme physics at play in the most unforgiving place in the galaxy.

So while Sgr A* might look calm from 26,000 light-years away, it could be spinning like a cosmic turbine, subtly shaping our galaxy from the shadows. And that, for a "quiet" black hole, is pretty loud news.

About a hundred years ago, something curious was going on in the world of physics. Albert Einstein, already a towering figure in science, had published his theory of general relativity in 1915. It was bold, elegant, and it rewrote the rules of gravity and space. One part of it assumed the universe was calm and constant—unchanging, unmoving, eternal. But the universe had other plans.

As telescopes improved and astronomers peered deeper into the night sky, they started noticing something odd. Distant galaxies weren't just sitting still. They seemed to be racing away from us—and not just drifting, but accelerating. The further away they were, the faster they appeared to be fleeing. This wasn't just a scientific head-scratcher. It was a direct challenge to Einstein's view of a static cosmos.

Einstein's equations, it turned out, could handle this discovery. His theory didn't require the universe to be static after all—it could also describe one that's expanding. And once scientists leaned into that possibility, everything changed. New models emerged, showing a universe not fixed in size or shape, but dynamic—constantly evolving and growing. What looked like a contradiction turned out to be a revelation.

When we say the universe is expanding, we don't mean that galaxies are flying through space like shrapnel from a firework. That's the common image, but it's not quite right. It's not so much the galaxies themselves that are moving—it's the space between them that's stretching. Imagine dots on the surface of a balloon. As you blow air into it, the balloon expands, and the dots move farther apart. Not because they're moving on their own, but because the balloon itself is growing. In this analogy, the balloon's surface is like our universe. The galaxies are dots. As the universe expands, those galaxies drift apart—not because they're rushing through space, but because space itself is growing beneath them.

This idea changes everything about how we picture the cosmos. There is no "edge" of the universe, no outer wall where it all ends. And perhaps strangest of all: there is no centre. That's right. If the universe is like the surface of a balloon, then asking "Where is the centre?" is like asking where the centre of the balloon's surface is. You can walk around it forever and never find one. You might think the centre is inside the balloon—but remember, that's just part of the analogy. Our universe isn't expanding into a bigger room. It's not sitting inside anything. It's expanding everywhere, all at once.

This idea trips up even the best of minds, because our brains aren't built to grasp four dimensions. We're used to thinking in terms of space—left and right, up and down, back and forth. But the universe also runs through time, and general relativity treats time and space as part of the same thing: spacetime. It's a bit like watching the surface of the balloon grow while time itself ticks forward. Everything is stretching—across space and through time.

And here's the real kicker: we still don't know what's causing this expansion. Something invisible—possibly what scientists call dark energy—is pushing the universe apart faster and faster. What is it? We're not sure. Where is it coming from? Another mystery.

In the end, the story of the expanding universe is a humbling one. It reminds us that the cosmos isn't built to match our intuition. It's vast, strange, and constantly in motion. There's no centre. No edge. Just endless expansion, everywhere, forever. And in that ever-stretching darkness, we're still searching for answers—one telescope glance at a time.

The Winter Solstice In 2025? Australia's Shortest Day Of The Year Is Close

Getting a little tired of stumbling home in pitch black at 6pm? Never fear. Australia will experience the shortest day of the year in June with the winter solstice. While a long dark night may seem ominous, it means we're one step closer to spring (and the return of daylight savings). Australia will experience its winter solstice on June 21, as the South Pole reaches its maximum tilt away from the sun. We've collated everything you need to know about the shortest day of the year. 

Betelgeuse is Acting Strange Again—Are We on the Brink of a Celestial Spectacle?

It's happening again. Betelgeuse, the fiery red shoulder of the Orion constellation and one of the most massive stars visible from Earth, is misbehaving. Located around 640 light-years away, this red supergiant is once more experiencing an eerie dimming phase—and astronomers are once more on edge, eyes glued to telescopes, fingers crossed, and theories flying.

Is Betelgeuse about to die in spectacular fashion? Could we soon witness one of the greatest light shows the night sky has ever offered—a supernova so bright it would be visible in the daytime? Or is this just another hiccup in the life of a star known for its unpredictability?

Let's rewind to late 2019. Betelgeuse began to fade—dramatically. By early 2020, it had lost more than 60% of its brightness. Panic (or excitement) swept the astronomical community. Was this it? Was the old giant about to go supernova? As we held our collective breath, scientists scrambled to explain the dimming. Theories ranged from surface cooling to massive convective cells to, eventually, a veil of cosmic dust expelled from the star itself. In the end, it was chalked up to a giant stellar sneeze: the star had burped out a cloud of material, which then condensed and briefly blocked some of its light.

But here we are again. In 2025, Betelgeuse is up to its old tricks. Astronomers have detected a new dimming event, and this one has its own flavor of mystery. The brightness drop isn't quite as severe as the Great Dimming of 2019–2020, but the star is definitely flickering oddly—too rapidly, too inconsistently. And the timing is curious. Some models suggest Betelgeuse may be entering the final throes of its life.

A red supergiant like Betelgeuse is a ticking time bomb, cosmically speaking. Having burned through its hydrogen, it's now fusing heavier elements in a frantic race against gravitational collapse. Eventually, it will reach iron in its core—a dead end for fusion. When that happens, the star's core will collapse in milliseconds, triggering a cataclysmic supernova explosion.

But here's the catch: this could happen tomorrow, or in 100,000 years.

If Betelgeuse does go supernova in our lifetimes, it would be a once-in-a-civilisation event. For weeks or months, it would outshine every star in the night sky—possibly even visible in the daylight. Some calculations suggest it could rival the brightness of a full Moon, casting shadows at night. And yet, despite the drama, it poses no danger to Earth. At 640 light-years away, it's far enough that we'll get a stunning light show without the harmful radiation.

Still, it's a strange feeling—knowing that, somewhere out there, a star is dying. And we might be seeing its final performance. Or perhaps we're just witnessing more stellar indigestion.

Adding to the intrigue is the fact that Betelgeuse is huge. If placed at the center of our solar system, its outer surface would engulf the orbits of Mercury, Venus, Earth, and possibly Mars. It's not just a big star—it's a bloated, unstable, boiling cauldron of plasma, convulsing and sputtering in its old age.

So for now, the world watches. Telescopes across Earth and in orbit are trained on Orion. Is this just another dusty shrug? Or is Betelgeuse preparing for its final bow?

Whatever happens, it reminds us of the grand scale and unpredictable rhythm of the cosmos. We are watching a giant breathe its last—or stretch before another long sleep. Either way, the suspense is astronomical.

Lost in Time: The Disappearance of Apollo 11's Watch and Moonwalk Footage

In the summer of 1969, humanity made history. Apollo 11's mission to the Moon became one of the greatest achievements of the 20th century. But as with any grand tale, there are loose ends—mysteries that have never been fully explained. Two particular items from that mission have sparked decades of speculation: Buzz Aldrin's Moon watch and the original Moonwalk footage.

Both are missing. Both vanished under strange circumstances and both left behind stories as intriguing as the mission itself, but let's start with the watch. Buzz Aldrin's Omega Speedmaster Professional was no ordinary timepiece. It was the only model NASA certified for spacewalks and lunar excursions. While Neil Armstrong left his watch inside the Lunar Module (the onboard timer had failed), Aldrin wore his during the historic walk. That made his watch the first ever to tick on the Moon.

After returning to Earth, Aldrin followed standard NASA procedure and turned in his gear, including the now-famous wristwatch, for transfer to the Smithsonian's National Air and Space Museum. But somewhere along the bureaucratic chain, the most important watch in space history simply vanished! Lost for all time, pardon the pun.

No alarms. No press releases. No detailed investigation was ever made public. It was quietly, and officially, listed as "lost in transit"—a "phrase that does little to explain how a priceless piece of lunar history could disappear under NASA's watchful eye. Was it stolen? Misplaced? Swapped by a collector or a staffer with sticky fingers? No one knows.

Today, if it resurfaced, that watch could fetch upwards of $20–30 million at auction. But despite whispers, rumours, and theories, it's never turned up. Buzz Aldrin, now in his 90s, has said he did everything by the book. The paperwork was filed. The watch was handed over. And then… nothing.

But the watch wasn't the only thing to go missing. The original, high-quality video footage of Neil Armstrong's first steps on the Moon, that grainy black-and-white moment beamed to the world, is also gone! Lost for all time! What we see today is not the original recording but a second-hand video of a monitor displaying the original feed. In other words, we're watching a copy of a copy.

NASA recorded the broadcast in a special format called Slow Scan Television format, not compatible with standard TV at the time. To share it live, engineers pointed a regular television camera at a monitor showing the video feed—effectively filming the screen. The original tapes, containing pristine images, were later stored… and eventually lost.

Hold onto something because you won't believe this! In 2006, after years of enquiry, NASA admitted the master tapes were erased during a routine magnetic tape recycling programme in the 1980s. At the time, the agency was facing budget constraints, so NASA sent out a communiqué to reuse all recorded tape! It's hard to believe that the historic Moon footage was wiped to make room for newer data—a victim of poor archiving and short-sighted planning.

Together, the missing watch and missing Moonwalk footage serve as cautionary tales. In the excitement of giant leaps, small steps, like cataloguing, storing, and protecting artefacts, can be overlooked.

So here we are, decades later, still wondering: how do you lose a priceless wristwatch and humanity's greatest video? Simple. You don't lose them in space. You lose them right here on Earth.

Remember, the starlight you see coming from all those constellations tonight left there hundreds, and in most cases thousands of years ago, and it's just arriving now! Remember, when you stargaze, you're looking back in time. Your telescope is your time machine, coupled with imagination it can take you anywhere!

If you're new to astronomy the hardest part is learning all those stars. Relax! It's a lot easier than you think, but you won't do it sitting inside at your keyboard and monitor. Some people say that we spend too much time indoors and not enough time observing the things around us, like the moon, stars and planets.

But what if your screen, in this case your Smartphone or tablet, can actually help you appreciate the skies more? Well they can and they're amazingly simple to use! Here's some of my favorite free apps. 'Sky View' will identify almost everything above your head at night and it's fantastic! Try 'The Moon' for your lunar viewing, then download an accurate new Aussie app 'ISS Flyover' to catch the space station passing over for a week ahead. It's a small charge but worth it.

This one is a knockout. On your tablet or laptop download an app called 'Star Chart.' It puts a virtual planetarium right in your pocket. It uses state of the art GPS technology that will show you the current location of every star and planet visible from Earth. Cool huh?

For even more realistic night sky experiences install 'Stellarium' on your laptop or iPad. I'm not going to spoil the surprise, just do it. It's free and has so much to offer you will be surprised. An alternative is the popular program 'Celestia.' A world of creative wonder awaits you.

Planets, stars, and star patterns have shaped our lives. Remember standing out in your backyard as a kid trying to count 'em all? I did. This fascination with the stars and the night sky extends to almost all indigenous cultures throughout the world. Hey, ever wondered if you can use your phone as an Astro-camera, well you can!

With most smartphones today you can photograph your night sky without needing a connected computer or much post-processing. Plus, the images you capture can be immediately shared with family and friends and posted on social media. For the best results, you should attach your phone to a camera tripod to hold it steady. Don't laugh, I've even taped mine or used Blu-Tac!

Smartphone astrophotography lets you easily record a snapshot of what you see through your telescope as well. To take any kind of image of the night sky means a long exposure, which means stability. If you're seriously keen, I recommend buying the Celestron NexYZ adapter. You can then easily start taking photos of lunar eclipses, lunar craters, planets, the phases of the Moon.

The app 'NightCap Camera' ranks highly on the list of the best night vision camera apps. With it, you can take amazing low light and night photos. All you need to do is just hold steady and tap the shutter. Simple huh!

**Leave a message or comments on this website Email me directly : www.davereneke@gmail.com

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'ASTRO DAVE' RENEKE - A Personal Perspective

I've often been asked what I do, where I've been and what sort of activities I've engaged in throughout my 50 years involvement in astronomy and space. Here is an interview i did with Delving with Des Kennedy on Rhema 99.9 recently. 

David Reneke, a highly regarded Australian amateur astronomer and lecturer with over 50 years of experience, has established himself as a prominent figure in the field of astronomy. With affiliations to leading global astronomical institutions, 

David serves as the Editor for Australia's Astro-Space News Magazine and has previously held key editorial roles with Sky & Space Magazine and Australasian Science magazine. 

His extensive background includes teaching astronomy at the college level, being a featured speaker at astronomy conventions across Australia, and contributing as a science correspondent for both ABC and commercial radio stations. David's weekly radio interviews, reaching around 3 million listeners, cover the latest developments in astronomy and space exploration.

As a media personality, David's presence extends to regional, national, and international TV, with appearances on prominent platforms such as Good Morning America, American MSNBC news, the BBC, and Sky News in Australia. His own radio program has earned him major Australasian awards for outstanding service.

David is recognized for his engaging and unique style of presenting astronomy and space discovery, having entertained and educated large audiences throughout Australia. In addition to his presentations, he produces educational materials for beginners and runs a popular radio program in Hastings, NSW, with a substantial following and multiple awards for his radio presentations.

In 2004, David initiated the 'Astronomy Outreach' program, touring primary and secondary schools in NSW to provide an interactive astronomy and space education experience. Sponsored by Tasco Australia, Austar, and Discovery Science channel, the program donated telescopes and grants to schools during a special tour in 2009, contributing to the promotion of astronomy education in Australia. BELOW Is the recorded interview  

'Astro Dave' Is Radio-Active 

Heard On DOZENS Of Stations Weekly - CLICK for past interviews