To acquire new knowledge of the physical universe, it is necessary to build large research infrastructures that replace the older generation instruments that have exhausted its scientific capabilities. This premise drives the Square Kilometre Array Observatory (SKAO), an intergovernmental organization constructing two large radio telescopes with complementary science goals in Australia and South Africa. Big science requires the resources of many countries, and the SKAO was established to realize it. Although the corresponding growth in investment enables steady scientific advancement, step increments in knowledge are often serendipitous, and new-generation telescopes are designed to maximize their ‘discovery space’. Big science also needs large, multinational research teams to drive the key science objectives that define the large instruments, but often major discoveries result from the ingenuity of small groups or individuals with unique opportunities and skills. This is a personal account of my involvement in observational radio astronomy that led to the construction of the SKA-mid telescope in South Africa, highlighting the influence of privilege, providence, and lived experience on my career.

This chapter surveys one of the most significant enterprises of the Committee of Instruments and Proposals, established by the Board of Longitude following the Longitude Act of 1818. This was the management of a new observatory proposed for the Cape of Good Hope. Several Commissioners of Longitude had direct interests: John Barrow had been administrator and surveyor at the Cape; Joseph Banks advised on maritime surveys there; Davies Gilbert lobbied actively for a southern equivalent of the Royal Observatory. Commissioners successfully negotiated the scheme with the Admiralty and the Colonial Office. Though funds were forthcoming from the Navy, long-distance management proved difficult. The resulting issues reached the Committee and the Board, as did increasing costs of equipment from London’s finest instrument makers. These challenges had not been resolved at the Board’s dissolution in 1828; indeed, that moment coincided with discussions as to the possibility of closing the observatory. The affairs of the Cape Observatory thus reveal both opportunities and challenges in issues of scientific and geographical management in the epoch of empire and reform.

This chapter details the creation and management of the Nautical Almanac, one of the Board of Longitude’s most important concerns. Appointed Astronomer Royal and thus a Commissioner of Longitude in 1765, Nevil Maskelyne oversaw its publication and that of associated texts, directing the work of a group of mathematical computers overseen by comparers. Hierarchical organisation and increasing costs preoccupied much of the Board of Longitude’s subsequent affairs. Calculated up to a decade in advance, the Nautical Almanac became a symbol of the Board’s repute among foreign academies and observatories, although its accuracy was later subject to satire and criticism. After Maskelyne’s death, work seems to have suffered and its management was overhauled by the Longitude Act of 1818 that brought it under Thomas Young’s management. Controversy wracked the Board’s direction of the Nautical Almanac for the next decade. Its assignment from 1831 to the astronomer William Stratford as superintendent was a major element of the aftermath of the Board’s abolition.

This chapter scrutinises the British Longitude Act of 1714 and its immediate aftermath. It shows, first, the extent to which the wording of the Act drew on precedents from the previous century. Second, it argues that the Act was never intended to create a ‘Board of Longitude’ as a formal, standing committee with regular meetings. Rather, it nominated a number of individuals – by name or by virtue of their official role – seen fit to judge potential ideas. This is a powerful example of the way in which longitude legislation was revisable and open-ended. With this in mind, the chapter shows that the Act did indeed foster considerable activity and discussion around longitude matters over the next two decades. This activity was marked by considerable continuity in the persistence of schemes already being discussed before 1714: eclipses, lunar distances, artificial timekeepers, magnetic variation and dip, signalling, and dead reckoning.

Focusing on the period from the early 1760s to the resolution of the John Harrison affair in 1773, this chapter argues that it was only in this period that the ‘Board of Longitude’ came into being. This was largely in response to the debates surrounding the sea trials of Harrison’s fourth marine timekeeper (H4) and two other longitude schemes – Tobias Mayer’s tables and method for lunar distances and Christopher Irwin’s marine chair for observing Jupiter’s satellites. The transformation into a standing board manifested in regular rather than sporadic meetings and the appointment of a secretary to keep the Board’s papers in order as the Commissioners, for whom astronomer Nevil Maskelyne would become a central figure, sought to defend their decisions over the allocation of monetary rewards. The debates with Harrison, which focused on questions of adequate testing and the judging of trials, disclosure and replicability, and accusations of self-interest, would see the Board harden its stance through the use of legislation to ensure resolution. The Harrisons and their supporters, by contrast, sought to bolster support through lobbying and publication of their claims.

The papacy’s long-standing entanglements with the twin disciplines of astronomy and astrology can be summarized along three thematic strands. One revolves around the ecclesiastical calendar and the astronomical exigencies of the reckoning of Easter, whose historical ramifications range from late antique Easter controversies to the Gregorian reform of the calendar (1582) and the beginnings of the Vatican Observatory. Another is the more general role of popes as patrons of astronomical research as well as their more anomalous involvement in scientific censorship during the cosmological controversies of the early modern period, as exemplified by the trial against Galileo Galilei (1616/33). A third is the complex relationship between the Roman Curia and astrology, which includes episodes of patronage as much as instances of sharp anti-divinatory legislation, with the latter culminating in the trial against Orazio Morandi (1630).

This chapter delves into the production of scientific knowledge and its practice within the expansive temporal and geographical scope of the Ottoman Empire. Organized chronologically into two main sections, the chapter portrays the foundational scientific institutions and conventions while also introducing the textual and material facets of scientific enterprises. Through this focused lens, the chapter traces the enduring and evolving elements of scientific pursuits and their sociopolitical implications from the fifteenth through the nineteenth centuries.

The emergence of a systematic literature around land-surveying in the late first century AD affords an ideal opportunity to study the development of an ars within the scientific culture of specialized knowledge in the early Roman Empire. The variegated methods that belonged to the historical inheritance of surveying practice challenged the construction of a discrete and coherent disciplinary identity. The surveying writings of Frontinus and Hyginus evince several strategies intended to produce a systematic and explanatory conception of the ars. These include rationalizing explanations of key surveying terminology and practice with a view to natural first principles and an accounting of surveying methods in interdisciplinary perspective with astronomy, natural philosophy, and mathematics. While these earliest surveying works pose several unique challenges, they ultimately provide a precious window onto the challenges and opportunities that greeted the emergence of an ars in the fervid scientific culture of the period.

Early states converge on a similar, number-based, “algorithmic” theoretical science. In Greek mathematics we see a new science, based not on the anonymous teacher but on the named author, seeking fame. Such authors look for new, surprising results, and therefore couch them in the language of proof. The resulting body of knowledge of many surprising proofs has no precedent in previous societies. The generation of Archimedes adds considerable subtlety and brings this to the cusp of modern science. The new Greek departure intertwines with other traditions, especially in the Near East, giving rise to a number-based but also proof-based astronomy (that of Ptolemy) and to the Arabic algebra. In the Renaissance, efforts to creatively engage with this Greek legacy gave rise to the scientific revolution. The science we know is objectively valid, but also historically contingent; one of the contingencies making it possible was the new departure of Greek mathematics.

Focusing on Menippus’ description of his celestial journey and the great cosmic distances he has travelled, I argue that Icaromenippus is a playful point of reception for mathematical astronomy. Through his acerbic satire, Lucian intervenes in the traditions of cosmology and astronomy to expose how the authority of the most technical of scientific hypotheses can be every bit as precarious as the assertions of philosophy, historiography, or even fiction itself. Provocatively, he draws mathematical astronomy – the work of practitioners such as Archimedes and Aristarchus – into the realm of discourse analysis and pits the authority of science against myth. Icaromenippus therefore warrants a place alongside Plutarch’s On the Face of the Moon and the Aetna poem, other works of the imperial era that explore scientific and mythical explanations in differing ways, and Apuleius’ Apology, which examines the relationship between science and magic. More particularly, Icaromenippus reveals how astronomy could ignite the literary imagination, and how literary works can, in turn, enrich our understanding of scientific thought, inviting us to think about scientific method and communication, the scientific viewpoint, and the role of the body in the domain of perhaps the most incorporeal of the natural sciences, astronomy itself.

This chapter presents new, annotated translations of the testimonia and fragments of Hipparchos of Nikaia (active 162–128 BC), arranged as 46 extracts. The chapter introduction reviews Hipparchos’ wide-ranging and original achievements in mathematics, astronomy, and climatology, his rigorous (but occasionally over-sceptical) criticisms of Eratosthenes’ geographical work, and his development of superior models of climatic zones and latitude. Though not a geographer as such, his advances in the mathematical underpinnings of geography were influential.

The Tokugawa period saw a transformation in the systematic inquiry into nature. In the seventeenth century scholars were engaging in discrete fields of study, such as astronomy or medicine. But over the course of the next two centuries the fields that initially seemed distant and unrelated gradually converged into one enterprise that we now call “science.” Although Japanese scholars were not isolated from European science, it was not the outside influence that caused this transformation. Rather, the new conceptualization of science came from within, as different scholars came to align themselves along different lines. What brought them together was no longer social status, practical goals, or even their respective disciplines, but the kind of questions they asked, the kind of evidence they considered acceptable, and the sources they deemed authoritative. Together, they now engaged in Science, with a capital S, that was greater than the sum of its parts.