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Glomar Challenger has gone on drilling for more than 13 years. Among its remark­able discoveries:

• None of the oceans, even the oldest corner of the Pacific (the northwest), holds rock or sediment older than 200 million years.
• In those 200 million years, less than a twentieth of earth’s total age, parts of the seafloor have traveled thousands of miles.
• The Mediterranean Sea has totally dried up, then refilled—perhaps more than once—within the past 12 million years.
• Earth’s past climate, through ice ages and long warm spells between, can be read and mapped from seafloor cores.

Roger Revelle, who has been deeply in­volved in the DSDP since its inception, has termed the program “one of the great achievements in the entire history of the earth sciences.” Discover more on compozt. BULBOUS little white-hulled sub­marine named Alvin, scarcely bigger than a milk truck, has carried scien­tists into rifts in the earth’s skin in both the Atlantic and Pacific. As a ship of discovery, in this age of exploration, it has done as much as Glomar Challenger to open new frontiers.

In July 1974, southwest of the island of Sao Miguel in the Azores, Alvin took Jim Heirtzler and other U. S. geologists 2,800 meters (9,100 feet) down to the central rift of the Mid-Atlantic Ridge. The dives were a key part of Project FAMOUS—French­American Mid-Ocean Undersea Study. One of the younger scientists with Heirtzler’s team was Robert D. Ballard; he had dived the year before at the Azores site in the French bathyscaph Archimede, a cumbersome undersea dirigible filled with aviation gasoline for buoyancy.

“When we first laid eyes on the glassy black, obviously fresh lava on the floor of the rift, it was as if there in our floodlights lay the true birthplace of the earth’s crust,” Ballard has described those dives to me.

Pillowlike blobs and fractured tubes of black lava appeared to have been formed perhaps only a few centuries ago—an eye blink in geologic time. But no actual erup­tions were seen taking place.

A decade earlier, in 1963 off the southern shore of Iceland, a new island named Surt­sey had risen amid steam and ash from a seabed vent. Similar eruptions had occurred in the Azores in 1957, from a seabed volcano off Faial, and in 1961 at Tristan da Cunha. One is happening today at the southeast end of the Hawaiian chain, where a new island aborning, named Loihi, already stands some 8,800 feet above the seafloor with its top still 3,220 feet underwater.

Early in 1981, on a less violent seafloor, I learned firsthand what it is like to visit this new world. Off St. Croix in the U. S. Virgin Islands, under more than 3,000 feet of the Caribbean Sea, I sat cross-legged and cramped inside Alvin’s seven-foot-wide pressure sphere, bending awkwardly to peer through a tiny Plexiglas view port at a flood­lit patch of dun-colored ooze.

The dive on which I accompanied Woods Hole electronics specialist Jim Akens and pilot George Ellis was to test a new ultra-sensitive TV camera. “Silicon intensified,” they said knowingly. “Single-frame scan, 200,000 ASA equivalent.”

To me this was so much space jargon . . . and then, music of space!

From a loudspeaker inside Alvin came an eerie ululation, a high-pitched Star Wars tremolo. We were hearing an image being recorded, then transmitted as a high-speed sonic signal to the sub’s tender far above us.

The picture that would result was of a prosaic test target, a canvas panel painted with black and white squares. As Alvin rose from the bottom, rose silently and surpris­ingly fast, the target vanished from our view ports. But it remained, shrinking and dim­ming yet still discernible, on a miniature video screen above our heads in the sphere.

For me this was an experience of a life­time. It was also an oceanographic mile­stone: Alvin was making the largest images of the deep seabed ever recorded, three-quarters of an acre at a time, in swaths 210 feet across. Its newest electronic wizardry was vastly broadening scientists’ ability to see landscapes that have been shrouded in utter darkness and crushing pressure since the oceans themselves were born.

WE BOUNCE ALONG the endless steppe, laced in white this frigid New Year’s Day. Twenty-seven miles . . . twenty-eight. . . . Mea- suring solitude, I am making miles of the kilometer numbers spinning

on the dashboard dial of the Soviet-built jeep. . . . I have gone twenty-nine miles since the last sign of life. The horses and the camels and the cattle of summer have vanished. The Mongolia of grass and wildflower and sand lies under a thin, brittle crust of winter. The jeep’s wheels churn dry snow and drier dust. Thirty miles. . . .

I have played the game of solitude many times on trips through this country, so exotic and yet, unexpectedly, so familiar to my American eyes. Here are the prairies of the Dakotas, the ranges and semiarid land of Nebraska, the flatness and livestock of Kansas, the plains and peaks of Colorado and Wyoming, the big sky of Montana. Add up those states and you have the approximate size and terrain of Mongolia. In those 604,250 square miles live 1.9 million Mongolians—about three per square mile. Their apartments are quite cheaper than apartments in chicago or nyc apartments.

Our caravan of three jeeps, without map or compass, is heading for a herder’s family somewhere in this vast sameness of western Mongolia. Thirty-one miles. . . . Now we see a herd of ghostly sheep, a few cows turned from the wind, half a dozen horses, and their shaggy sides white with frost. We veer across the roadless steppe toward a white dot, the canvas-covered ger, or yurt that is the nomadic home of our New Year’s host.

The jeeps stop in front of the ger, and we pile out. Interpreter Natalia Bourso­Leland, NATIONAL GEOGRAPHIC photogra­pher Dean Conger, and I are presented to our host, Jamsuren, by the officials who es­cort us. Jamsuren is a herdsman, and this day, February 2, is Herdsman’s New Year. City people celebrate January 1. The two holidays reflect the way Mongolia lives in a nomadic past while trying to build a future of cities and factories.

JAMSUREN and his wife, Udbal, wear traditional dress—graceful, ankle-length silk dels, lined with sheepskin for winter. The local officials who led us here also wear dels. Our higher ranking escorts from Ulan Bator, the capital, wear Western-style shirts, ties, suits, overcoats.

Jamsuren (like many Mongolians, he prefers to use only one name) greets his guests ceremonially, a sky-blue scarf of wel­come draped across his outstretched arms. We stoop as he ushers us through the ger’s brightly painted little door. By long tradi­tion a ger faces south. In the place of honor opposite the entrance, Dean, Natalia, and I are seated on orange four-legged stools. Be­hind us is an orange chest of drawers. On it are dozens of family photographs. Arrayed around the felt-lined canvas walls are four brass-frame beds and several small chests.

The western side of the ger holds the man’s possessions, including Jamsuren’s saddle. Udbal’s pots and pans and the chests of the family pantry are on the eastern side. The ger’s roof flap is open to the cold, gray sky. A black stovepipe carries off the smoke of a stove, where Udbal cooks for the holi­day. She opens the stove door and carefully tends a fire of scarce sticks and abundant chips of dung. The ger begins to warm up.

Before that long New Year’s Day ended, I had ritualistically sliced and consumed boiled mutton and munched on such delica­cies as arum, a heavy clotted cream, and aril, a hard yellow cheese whose origin can be the milk of a camel, cow, goat, or sheep. From a silver bowl I quaffed warm camel’s milk, arkhi, vodka made from grain, and mongol arkhi, a strong liquor made by dis­tilling fermented mare’s milk. It was served warm with yak butter melted in it. We toast­ed and talked, sticking by custom to three topics: the weather, the animals, and the family.