Free A short history of nearly everything by Bill Bryson

degree was in fact longer near the poles, as Newton had promised. The Earth was forty-three kilometers stouter when measured equatorially than when measured from top to bottom around the poles.
    Bouguer and La Condamine thus had spent nearly a decade working toward a result they didn’t wish to find only to learn now that they weren’t even the first to find it. Listlessly, they completed their survey, which confirmed that the first French team was correct. Then, still not speaking, they returned to the coast and took separate ships home.
    Something else conjectured by Newton in thePrincipia was that a plumb bob hung near a mountain would incline very slightly toward the mountain, affected by the mountain’s gravitational mass as well as by the Earth’s. This was more than a curious fact. If you measured the deflection accurately and worked out the mass of the mountain, you could calculate the universal gravitational constant—that is, the basic value of gravity, known as G—and along with it the mass of the Earth.
    Bouguer and La Condamine had tried this on Peru’s Mount Chimborazo, but had been defeated by both the technical difficulties and their own squabbling, and so the notion lay dormant for another thirty years until resurrected in England by Nevil Maskelyne, the astronomer royal. In Dava Sobel’s popular bookLongitude , Maskelyne is presented as a ninny and villain for failing to appreciate the brilliance of the clockmaker John Harrison, and this may be so, but we are indebted to him in other ways not mentioned in her book, not least for his successful scheme to weigh the Earth. Maskelyne realized that the nub of the problem lay with finding a mountain of sufficiently regular shape to judge its mass.
    At his urging, the Royal Society agreed to engage a reliable figure to tour the British Isles to see if such a mountain could be found. Maskelyne knew just such a person—the astronomer and surveyor Charles Mason. Maskelyne and Mason had become friends eleven years earlier while engaged in a project to measure an astronomical event of great importance: the passage of the planet Venus across the face of the Sun. The tireless Edmond Halley had suggested years before that if you measured one of these passages from selected points on the Earth, you could use the principles of triangulation to work out the distance to the Sun, and from that calibrate the distances to all the other bodies in the solar system.
    Unfortunately, transits of Venus, as they are known, are an irregular occurrence. They come in pairs eight years apart, but then are absent for a century or more, and there were none in Halley’s lifetime.[5]But the idea simmered and when the next transit came due in 1761, nearly two decades after Halley’s death, the scientific world was ready—indeed, more ready than it had been for an astronomical event before.
    With the instinct for ordeal that characterized the age, scientists set off for more than a hundred locations around the globe—to Siberia, China, South Africa, Indonesia, and the woods of Wisconsin, among many others. France dispatched thirty-two observers, Britain eighteen more, and still others set out from Sweden, Russia, Italy, Germany, Ireland, and elsewhere.
    It was history’s first cooperative international scientific venture, and almost everywhere it ran into problems. Many observers were waylaid by war, sickness, or shipwreck. Others made their destinations but opened their crates to find equipment broken or warped by tropical heat. Once again the French seemed fated to provide the most memorably unlucky participants. Jean Chappe spent months traveling to Siberia by coach, boat, and sleigh, nursing his delicate instruments over every perilous bump, only to find the last vital stretch blocked by swollen rivers, the result of unusually heavy spring rains, which the locals were swift to blame on him after they saw him pointing strange instruments at the sky. Chappe managed to escape with his life, but