The Bishop on the Moon in 2018
Many a science fiction writer of the mid-to-late 20th century will have been disappointed by NASA’s announcement of its plans to put man back on the Moon a mere 13 years and 100-billion dollars from now; confirming that space agency’s sluggish development of inertial dampers, light-cone drives, hyperspace-bypass override oscillotators and other highly anticipated means of achieving faster-than-light travel. The Bishop, on the other hand, was merely amused as the satellite feed between a NASA official and his Australian interviewer went down—twice—saying more than your ecclesiastical elucidator ever could on just why mankind in space is such a space-brained idea.
The Bishop, to be fair, is willing to admit a certain thankfulness for satellites and other space-race-driven technology—though he has never been a fan of the microwave oven, and figures that the magic ju-ju heaty-uppy box would probably have been perfected quite quickly and cheaply on its own, rather than as the sole useful by-product of several billion dollars wasted on something else. (‘Sorry, Dad, I wrote-off the Beemer, but in doing so I learned a valuable lesson about the function of red lights at intersections.’) However, having created those satellites and reached a stage where a mere five-percent of all space-travellers and an acceptable number of ground crew are killed in their development, installation and repair, one is compelled to wonder why the United States is so keen to return for a week of Moon-rock collecting, when stones and other useless bits of dirt and dust are one of the few resources we are unlikely to run short of anytime soon.
Is the Bishop merely accepting the mantle of neo-Luddite in pointing out that heading into space is something humankind was never really meant to do? After all, his opponents will say, man was never ‘meant’ to fly. In response, your humble correspondent notes than man was also never meant to play strip poker in piranha-infested waters and, sensibly, doesn’t. Space flight is exceedingly dangerous, highlighted most cogently by the fact that not only is it impossible to breath in space, but the act of holding your breath when you get there is fatal, too—causing one to blow up in a way normally reserved for helium balloons and Kirstie Alley. Indeed, putting people in a vacuum only goes to illustrate how very specifically tailored human beings are to life in one atmosphere of pressure, as the blood literally boils, for the same reason scalding water sprays the Bishop every time he absent-mindedly ignores the warning to wait before removing his car’s radiator cap.
Space is also very difficult to get to, especially for a species that has trouble making trains run on time. As anyone who’s ever put on a Superman costume knows, rising off the ground just doesn’t happen on its own and, in contradistinction to the graceful imaginings of sci-fi writers and twelve year olds everywhere, about all our space-flight technology ever looks like amounting to is pouring the entire gross domestic product of Qatar into a couple of pointy canisters and lighting a match. Then there are the g-forces involved, and the unfortunately life-disaffirming consequences of a slightly botched re-entry angle should give pause to anyone who baulks at the thought of a parallel park.
Add to this the costs of space flight, the simple keeping track of which may require higher order differential equations than the act of astronautery itself, and the Bishop is left asking the obvious question: ‘Where is my next drink?’ Followed by: ‘Is it really worth all the trouble?’
The Bishop, to be fair, is willing to admit a certain thankfulness for satellites and other space-race-driven technology—though he has never been a fan of the microwave oven, and figures that the magic ju-ju heaty-uppy box would probably have been perfected quite quickly and cheaply on its own, rather than as the sole useful by-product of several billion dollars wasted on something else. (‘Sorry, Dad, I wrote-off the Beemer, but in doing so I learned a valuable lesson about the function of red lights at intersections.’) However, having created those satellites and reached a stage where a mere five-percent of all space-travellers and an acceptable number of ground crew are killed in their development, installation and repair, one is compelled to wonder why the United States is so keen to return for a week of Moon-rock collecting, when stones and other useless bits of dirt and dust are one of the few resources we are unlikely to run short of anytime soon.
Is the Bishop merely accepting the mantle of neo-Luddite in pointing out that heading into space is something humankind was never really meant to do? After all, his opponents will say, man was never ‘meant’ to fly. In response, your humble correspondent notes than man was also never meant to play strip poker in piranha-infested waters and, sensibly, doesn’t. Space flight is exceedingly dangerous, highlighted most cogently by the fact that not only is it impossible to breath in space, but the act of holding your breath when you get there is fatal, too—causing one to blow up in a way normally reserved for helium balloons and Kirstie Alley. Indeed, putting people in a vacuum only goes to illustrate how very specifically tailored human beings are to life in one atmosphere of pressure, as the blood literally boils, for the same reason scalding water sprays the Bishop every time he absent-mindedly ignores the warning to wait before removing his car’s radiator cap.
Space is also very difficult to get to, especially for a species that has trouble making trains run on time. As anyone who’s ever put on a Superman costume knows, rising off the ground just doesn’t happen on its own and, in contradistinction to the graceful imaginings of sci-fi writers and twelve year olds everywhere, about all our space-flight technology ever looks like amounting to is pouring the entire gross domestic product of Qatar into a couple of pointy canisters and lighting a match. Then there are the g-forces involved, and the unfortunately life-disaffirming consequences of a slightly botched re-entry angle should give pause to anyone who baulks at the thought of a parallel park.
Add to this the costs of space flight, the simple keeping track of which may require higher order differential equations than the act of astronautery itself, and the Bishop is left asking the obvious question: ‘Where is my next drink?’ Followed by: ‘Is it really worth all the trouble?’
posted by Salisbury at 12:30 pm
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