Space For Sale

by Jeff Pollard

  “Push it, you must heat the tires and brakes!” Rousseau says over the radio. Kingsley complies, pressing the car harder, weaving through the narrow city streets, lined in metal retaining walls, between the old buildings and the hundreds of advertisements lining the track. The Circuit de Monaco has been likened to riding a motorcycle in a living room. Four drivers have died in this race, though the last death occurred in 1967. Several cars have ended up in the harbor.

  Kingsley gets the white flag as he races through the start-finish line. One lap to go. He still holds the lead, but second place, Rubens Barichello, is only a hundred yards behind him, bearing down on him.

  “That's second place in your mirrors,” Rousseau says. “Don't let him pass you. You'll never be able to take that position back.”

  As Kingsley exits the tunnel, entering the bright light, he brakes for the chicane, doing so a bit early, to be cautious. As he takes the turn, Barichello catches up directly behind him. They exit into a short straight along the harbor. “Block him!” Rousseau shouts into the radio. Kingsley doesn't block Barichello, giving him room to pull along his left side. They race along the harbor, wheel-to-wheel. Through the sweeping left turn at Tabac, Barichello pulls slightly ahead, having the inside line. But the quick left-right, then right-left along the pool juggle the lead back and forth until they are once again side-by-side, approaching the 180 degree right hand La Rascasse, where two cars simply cannot fit. Kingsley has inside position, on the right. Barichello lets off the gas for a moment, pulling in directly behind Kingsley, hoping to out brake him and turn under him through the last two corners. Kingsley waits to brake, flying past the normal braking point, hitting the pedal hard, he skids through the turn, holding the inside line. Barichello stays on his tail, hoping to take away the inside line on the last corner before the right-sweeping straight to the finish line. Kingsley pushes the car as hard as he can, keeping Barichello behind him, giving him no room to dart to the inside.

  They exit the final turn, Barichello stays right on K's tail, hoping to draft off his wake, gain momentum, then pass him at the last second. Kingsley knows Barichello is going to dart out from behind him to try to take the race from him. Kingsley could block, swerving to stay ahead of his opponent and giving him no room to pass. It's not considered gentlemanly, but he could do it. Kingsley holds to the right of the right-sweeping straight, making the pass to the left require a longer distance to be traveled. Barichello inches up on Kingsley's tail as they both gun their engines, flat-out. Barichello darts to the left, out from Kingsley's wake. He pulls alongside, gaining ground slowly.

  They hit the start-finish line, wheel-to-wheel. The drivers let off the gas, not sure who won. They take a final lap of the course at slow speed, pulling into the pits, still unsure of the victor. Both guaranteed a spot on the podium, along with third-place Mark Webber, the three of them pull into the victory plaza.

  Kingsley gets out of the car, holding the steering wheel. He sets the wheel down on the nose of the car, taking off his gloves. Rubens Barichello approaches, taking his helmet off.

  “What a finish,” Barichello says with a wide smile. He thinks he just had a battle for the ages with the great Sebastian Vettel. Kingsley struggles to remove his helmet which is too tight; the best fit they could find. Kingsley tugs but the helmet won't come off. Barichello approaches, putting his hand out to shake with his fellow competitor. Kingsley flips open his visor then shakes his hand.

  “Where's Sebastian?”

  “He bought his seat,” Mark Webber, third-place finisher and teammate of Sebastian Vettel, says. The two cars appear identical, blue with red and yellow Red Bull designs.

  “Bought his seat? Who are you?” Barichello asks.

  “Just call me K,” Kingsley says. The victory plaza begins to fill with officials, crews from the teams, fans, cameras, and in a moment, the trophy arrives along with Caroline, Duchess of Monaco.

  “Do we know who won yet?” Kingsley asks Mark Webber as the three men are asked to approach the three-level podium.

  “Sebastian, come forward,” Caroline says, holding a wreath of olive leaves destined for the victor's neck. Kingsley, still wearing his helmet, looks to Rubens Barichello.

  “Go on Kingsley,” Barichello says, patting him on the back. K flips his visor down and pushes through the crowd, taking his position at the top of the podium. Webber and Barichello take their places alongside Kingsley, on the lower steps of the podium. Caroline holds out the wreath to place around his neck. Kingsley bends down for her, but the wreath clearly won't fit over the helmet. The crowd has a laugh at what seems to be the young Sebastian Vettel playing a practical joke.

  “Remove your helmet please,” Caroline says. Kingsley pulls hard, peeling the helmet off his skull. A shock wave travels through the plaza. Those spectators and officials down on the track had not been watching TV and did not know that a driver change had been made.

  “Kingsley?” Caroline asks, stunned.

  “Your highness,” K replies, bending down to allow Caroline to place the ring of olive leaves around his neck. She is too stunned to do it.

  “I don't...what?”

  “He bought Sebastian's seat,” Mark Webber, says from the bronze-level podium.

  “Can I get the kiss now?” K asks. Caroline places the wreath around his neck, then plants a kiss on his forehead before he stands upright.

  “You risked a hundred million dollars just to see me?” Caroline asks Kingsley at the race's after-party in the official palace of Monaco.

  “Euros,” K says, taking a glass of Champagne off waiter's tray.

  “As opposed to picking up a phone like a normal person,” Caroline says, still trying to figure out Kingsley's angle.

  “Any schlub can call you on the phone. I wanted to make an entrance.”

  “And what exactly are you entering?” Caroline asks sarcastically.

  “I'll bet nobody's ever won the Grand Prix of Monaco just to talk to you,” K replies, “that kind of entrance.”

  “Quite a plan, but if you'll excuse me, I have a king and queen to greet,” Caroline says, pushing through the crowd. Again, Kingsley finds himself staring at the back of European royalty. She seems to personally know every important or ridiculously rich person on the planet. The ballroom is filled with the top drivers from the race, as well as Formula 1 legends from years past. Many F1 drivers officially live in Monaco to take advantage of the low tax rates. You wouldn't suspect the principality of being short on public funds from the looks of the palace. Aside from the coarse, new-money, F1 drivers, the crowd is mostly made up of European royalty of one kind or another. Formula 1 is the world's second most popular sport after Futbol, and thus attract many famous fans. Caroline moves through the ballroom, greeting kings, princes, prime ministers, billionaires, actors, legends.

  “Man, does she fucking know everybody?” Dexter Houston says as he walks up behind K. Kingsley gives him a dirty look. “What?”

  “This isn't the barracks,” Kingsley says. “Like half the people in the room are directly related to Charlemagne, let's try to keep it at least a little bit classy.” Dexter stuffs his face full of Calamari, getting grease all over himself.

  “Who's she talking to now?” Dexter asks with squid in his mouth.

  “That's J.K. Rowling.”

  “Who's J.R. Kowling?”

  “She wrote Twilight,” Kingsley says sarcastically.

  “Those stupid vampire movies, ugh,” Dexter says. “Who's that?”

  “Christ Dexter, do you ever read a newspaper?” K asks.

  “Is that a rhetorical question?”

  “Let's just save some time, stop asking, I'll just narrate her trip for you. Okay, she's shaking hands with Prince Charles, you know Prince Charles right? Alright, she's kissing Jude Law, he's an actor.”

  “I know who Jude Law is,” Dexter says.

  “Ewan McGregor, Gordon Brown, that's Jaqcues Chirac, and now she's flirting with Silvio Burlesconi.”


  “Steve Buscemi?” Dexter asks. K gives him a dirty look. “I'm kidding!”

  “And now she's rolling out the red carpet for King Carl Gustav. That's Carl the Sixteenth to you.”

  “I'd like her to roll that red carpet out for me, if you know what I'm saying,” Dexter says. Kingsley hangs his head low, not wanting to even respond to Dexter who's just trying to push his buttons now. “So what's the plan here?”

  “For you to go as far away from me as possible so you don't, you know, show off how uncultured and American you are,” Kingsley says.

  “I'm cultured. I'm an astronaut!”

  “Riding the Space Shuttle does not impart culture,” K replies.

  “People want to meet astronauts, I'm like famous and not because I was born into it. Any idiot can be born into money. I achieved shit.”

  “I wouldn't say things like that too loudly in a place like this. They're already tense around Americans and their disregard for divine right. Besides, if people really cared about meeting astronauts, then you'd know famous people already, instead of needing to follow me around.”

  “Okay, well, I guess you got me. How come I never got a parade when I came back from space?”

  “Because nobody throws parades for the first guy to impregnate a frog in zero-gravity,” K replies.

  “I'm not even going to respond to that with dignity,” Dexter says, jamming more fried squid into his gullet.

  “Now, please, go try your astronautical charms on Jude Law or somebody, while I get in with Caroline.”

  “So is this whole trip just so you can get some royal pussy, is that the deal?”

  “Dexter, watch your filthy whore mouth. If I can get her on board, she'll be able to hook us up with every rich person on the planet. I want to make her the first truly private space explorer.”

  “Space Tourist.”

  “Nobody likes being called a tourist,” K says. “We get her, then everyone will want to be cultured like her, and we'll have so many customers we'll never need to worry about money again.”

  “So this is just business,” Dexter says suspiciously.

  “That's right. Business.”

  “Not that you're like in love with this woman, because you don't have feelings,” Dexter says.

  “Just business. Now if you'll excuse me, I'm going to mingle with royalty. Try not to have sex with anything.”

  “Says the...the guy who...” Dexter can't come up with a response before K's already out of earshot. Dexter turns to two women standing next to him, sipping Champagne, each probably worth a billion dollars or more. “I'm an astronaut,” he says. They smile and turn away, giving him the cold shoulder.

  “So this is a business meeting,” Caroline says suspiciously to Kingsley. The two of them are catching a breath on a balcony overlooking the principality.

  “No,” Kingsley says defensively.

  “So why did you risk one hundred million dollars to see me?” Caroline asks.

  “Euros. And because I'm trying to...”

  “Trying to what?” Caroline asks.

  “You know, usually women follow me around and try to steal my hair or watch me with binoculars, I'm not used to being on this end of the deal,” Kingsley says.

  “What deal?” Caroline asks coyly.

  “I want to put my Griffin in you,” Kingsley says. “I mean...I want you to ride my rocket. Send you into space.”

  “Freud's grandson is in the next room if you need to talk to somebody.”

  “I want to send you into space, for free.”

  “Why?” Caroline asks.

  “Because you're cool.”

  “What is this, primary school?” Caroline asks.

  “You know every rich person who might buy a ticket to ride the Griffin. So I want to send you up, and thus get you to refer plenty of customers.”

  “So you want me to become an Avon lady, is that it? Exploit my friendships to make money?”

  “Something like that,” Kingsley says.

  “And that's the reason you're here? To turn me into a viral marketing ad?”

  “For the most part,” K says.

  “What's the other part?”

  “I think you know,” K says.

  “I do, but I want you to say it,” Caroline teases him.

  “I'm trying to. . .court you,” Kingsley says reluctantly.

  “I don't date misogynists,” Caroline replies then sips her Absinthe.

  “Who said anything about dating, and besides, I'm here to shoot you into space.”

  “What makes you think I'd be interested in riding a rocket in the first place.”

  “You're on the board of the Interplanetary Society,” Kingsley replies.

  “I'm on lots of boards.”

  “Well, do you want a free ride on my Griffin or not?” K asks.

  “You really need to work on your salesmanship,” a voice says from the doorway. K turns to find Richard Branson, the Virgin billionaire. Richard Branson is Kingsley's only real competition for being a prospective Bond villain. Branson has circled the Earth in a high-altitude balloon, funds his own space program, owns an airline, a large portion of the British music industry, and is of course, a daredevil extraordinaire.

  “Hey it's Mr. Virgin himself,” Kingsley says sarcastically.

  “I'm afraid I've already been courted when it comes to space travel,” Caroline says.

  “Seems I've once again beaten you K, good luck next time,” Richard Branson says.

  “You've not beaten me at anything, what are you talking about?” K asks. “And it's Kingsley to you.”

  “I beat you to space with SpaceShipOne, and now I'm beating you to sending passengers into space with SpaceShipTwo. The maiden flight is in six weeks and Miss Caroline herself will be on board.”

  “Okay, but you do know the difference between orbital and sub-orbital right?” K asks. “You threw a plane up high and it came right back down. Congrats. I'm not messing around with sub-orbital, Nazi Germany managed sub-orbital flight.”

  “I'll be the first to send passengers into space,” Branson says, “and that's all the history books will remember, and all the press will shower praise on me. The public doesn't care about technical clap-trap K, they care about broad strokes, first people in space, first man on the Moon.”

  “Okay, well you two can measure your penises, I have actual responsibilities to worry about,” Caroline says, leaving the balcony, returning to the ballroom.

  “I'd wager she's related to Helen of Troy,” Branson says as they both watch her leave.

  “Don't say that too loud, Orlando Bloom is by the crab cakes.”

  “I don't get it,” Branson says.

  “He played Paris in Troy.”

  “Who's Paris?” Branson asks.

  “Just shut up Richard,” K says.

  Chapter 5

  “Kingsley, don't freak out or anything, but...we're actually getting good press,” Brittany Hammersmith, SpacEx CFO says.

  “Good press for us, or like actual good press?” Kingsley asks without turning away from the console. The SpacEx crew are at mission control at the SpacEx HQ in Hawthorne, California, monitoring the Griffin 2 as it approaches the International Space Station.

  “Good for anyone,” Brittany says, holding out an iPad with an article pulled up.

  “I swear to god, Britt, if I read the phrase 'pipe dream' or some kind of speculation about what I'm smoking, I'm going to accidentally land a rocket on the writer's house.”

  “Just read the damn thing,” Brittany waves the iPad at Kingsley.

  The Space Race is Back!

  The Space Shuttle has now officially retired. Done. Finished. The orbiters will be delivered to their final resting places at museums by the end of the year. NASA cannot put men in space. They pay to ride on a Russian Soyuz. China just launched their first space station, the Tiangong 1, and a crewed mission, Shenzhou 9 will visit their new station in a couple of months. NASA is no longer the leader in manned sp
ace travel. The Orion/SLS, NASA's next space vehicle and rocket, is slated for a first test flight in 2017 at the earliest. The first manned flight isn't expected until 2021. Many insiders don't expect Orion/SLS to ever come to fruition. How did we get here?

  After the Apollo program ended, the Nixon administration delivered a nearly fatal blow to NASA, cutting their budget drastically. If NASA was going to continue to exist, they would need serious cost savings. Thus the Space Shuttle was born. Touted as a cheap, reusable, system that would allow quick turnaround and a promise of over 700 flights in the span of twelve years, the shuttle was to make spaceflight routine and inexpensive. If that was the goal, then the shuttle was a catastrophic failure. She was neither cheap nor easily reusable. Two shuttles were lost, Challenger in '86, and Columbia in '03. If anything, the shuttle proved that spaceflight is not routine.

  Having endured 30 years of the failed shuttle that ate up nearly all of NASA's budget without flying anywhere near the planned mission rate, NASA had been stuck in low-Earth-orbit for three decades. Now the shuttle is gone. Is that progress? You might think that NASA would learn from the mistakes made in the shuttle era, and come back to the drawing board to design something that would truly be reusable, would be able to fly frequently, cheaply, with little waste. You would be wrong.

  Rather than learning from the shuttle experience, NASA went back to the drawing board and drew up, what they call “Apollo on steroids.” The Orion/SLS is supposed to take people back to the Moon, to an asteroid, to deep space, eventually to Mars. However, the budget simply isn't there. The planned next lunar lander, called Altair, died along with the Constellation Program. So what is Orion to do? It's too big to fly on existing boosters, so the Space Launch System was born. The SLS is just the product of keeping the dated and expensive shuttle infrastructure in place. If we wanted a spacecraft capable of visiting the space station and doing so cheaply, we could do it for $200 million a mission on existing rockets. But NASA is pushing forward with the Orion/SLS, at a price tag of over a billion dollars a mission, and at least five billion dollars to develop the system in the first place.