Star Eater

Albert Einstein thought that a black hole—a collapsed star

so dense that even light could not escape its thrall—

was too preposterous a notion to be real.

Einstein was wrong.

Our star, the sun, will die a quiet death. The sun’s of only average mass, starwise, and after burning through the last of its hydrogen fuel in about five billion years, its outer layers will drift away, and the core will eventually compact to become what’s known as a white dwarf, an Earth-size ember of the cosmos.

For a star ten times as big as the sun, death is far more dramatic. The outer layers are blasted into space in a supernova explosion that, for a couple of weeks, is one of the brightest objects in the universe. The core, meanwhile, is squeezed by gravity into a neutron star, a spinning ball bearing a dozen miles in diameter. A sugar-cube-size fragment of a neutron star would weigh a billion tons on Earth; a neutron star’s gravitational pull is so severe that if you were to drop a marshmallow on it, the impact would generate as much energy as an atom bomb.

For a star ten times as big as the sun, death is far more dramatic. The outer layers are blasted into space in a supernova explosion that, for a couple of weeks, is one of the brightest objects in the universe. The core, meanwhile, is squeezed by gravity into a neutron star, a spinning ball bearing a dozen miles in diameter. A sugar-cube-size fragment of a neutron star would weigh a billion tons on Earth; a neutron star’s gravitational pull is so severe that if you were to drop a marshmallow on it, the impact would generate as much energy as an atom bomb.

But this is nothing compared with the death throes of a star some 20 times the mass of the sun. Detonate a Hiroshima-like bomb every millisecond for the entire life of the universe, and you would still fall short of the energy released in the final moments of a giant-star collapse. The star’s core plunges inward. Temperatures reach 100 billion degrees. The crushing force of gravity is unstoppable. Hunks of iron bigger than Mount Everest are compacted almost instantly into grains of sand. Atoms are shattered into electrons, protons, neutrons. Those minute pieces are pulped into quarks and leptons and gluons. And so on, tinier and tinier, denser and denser, until...

Until no one knows. When trying to explain such a momentous phenomenon, the two major theories governing the workings of the universe—general relativity and quantum mechanics—both go haywire, like dials on an airplane wildly rotating during a tailspin.

The star has become a black hole.

What makes a black hole the darkest chasm in the universe is the velocity needed to escape its gravitational pull. To overcome Earth’s clutches, you must accelerate to about seven miles a second. This is swift—a half dozen times faster than a bullet—but human-built rockets have been achieving escape velocity since 1959. The universal speed limit is 186,282 miles a second, the speed of light. But even that isn’t enough to defeat the pull of a black hole. Therefore whatever’s inside a black hole, even a beam of light, cannot get out. And due to some very odd effects of extreme gravity, it’s impossible to peer in. A black hole is a place exiled from the rest of the universe. The dividing line between the inside and outside of a black hole is called the event horizon. Anything crossing the horizon—a star, a planet, a person—is lost forever.