Oceanworlds

by J. P. Landau

  “Is that sufficient to put the lives of the crew in danger?” asked the reporter.

  “Everything in space is a risk-reward calculation. What Mission Control is doing is taking measured risks. How measured? I have no clue, but I do know that in a few minutes they’ll release wind measurement balloons that climb to the upper atmosphere. If they show strong wind shear—a speed or direction change in a short vertical distance—the mission should be canceled. Period. Earth’s atmosphere is molasses thick for fast-moving objects. It’s like sticking your hand out of the window while driving on a highway. Accelerating to great speeds while in the atmosphere creates enormous friction, pressure, and heat, putting materials through major stresses. I’ve been there, and it feels like being in the jaws of a huge dog with rabies. You really don’t want additional strains on the rocket … but you do not preemptively cancel. You cancel when you have the information.”

  12:43 PM, T-minus forty-seven minutes

  The support structure started separating from the rocket. Meanwhile, 180 miles southeast, Hurricane Isaias makes landfall on Freeport, Bahamas, and for a few minutes its residents looked at a clear sky high above while a churning eye wall besieged the city amid towering thunderstorms.

  1:21 PM, T-minus nine minutes twenty-three seconds

  As the countdown marched down to zero, the radio channel between Mission Control and Shackleton opened to the world and something unheard of in the history of space flight happened.

  “Shackleton, we are receiving data from the upper atmosphere. There are abnormal conditions, and they are about to worsen,” said Nitha.

  James’ voice came back, “Roger that. How bad?”

  “It’s 13 percent outside the max safety threshold. Mission Control cannot continue countdown without the crew’s authorization.”

  James seemed to have muted the intercom. “FLIGHTO. Under 30 percent we are GO,” he said.

  “Copy that Shackleton. Mission Control will cast our final vote at T-minus three minutes.”

  All bets were off. NOAA hurricane hunter Miss Piggy and its twin brother Kermit the Frog were flying through the middle of the storm, sending back data.

  Meanwhile, after being ferried from network to network for the past several hours, the science celebrity settled under the YouTube tent for the interview, his final stop.

  “Did you hear what I heard? Jeez, this is really happening!” said Bill Nye ‘the Science Guy,’ bow tie and all.

  “With Hurricane Isaias having a small but real chance of landing here in half a day or so, why aren’t the crowds dispersing?” asked the correspondent.

  “Because this is happening in ten minutes! But no, seriously, the question is relevant … have you ever been to Paris?” The correspondent nodded. “I bet you went to the Louvre,” Nye continued, and again was answered with a nod. “And you headed straight to the Mona Lisa. I know there would have been a giant queue, because I’ve been in those same shoes, to see the small rectangle beyond a thick bulletproof slab of glass. Yet you can buy a perfect—and I mean perfect—replica done by a computer, layer by layer, just like Da Vinci’s one from half a millennium ago. See it every day, hanging from your bathroom door, as you wash your face. But you don’t. And we are talking about things past, while today we are here to witness the birth of a new, brighter future.”

  He continued, “While we are at it, let’s think about that future. Philosophy and the religions were born out of our longing to comprehend ‘where do we come from’ and ‘where are we heading.’ Every culture has stories about their existence, about their presence in the world, about their relationship with the rest of the Universe. This mission aligns metaphysics and science like never before in an unparalleled opportunity to seek and find the ultimate truth … because there are two essential questions deep within each of us: where did we come from? And, are we alone in the Universe? These are the questions at the core of our existence. This mission could potentially answer both. In thirty years, when you’re old and I am no more, our civilization will look back at this moment in awe. ‘I was there,’ you will tell your grandchildren. ‘I saw with my own eyes the legend being born, as it launched into the boundless sea of space.’

  “Finally, and then I promise to say no more, Carl Sagan said it better than anyone: ‘For all its material advantages, the sedentary life has left us edgy, unfulfilled. Even after 400 generations in villages and cities, we haven’t forgotten. The open road still softly calls, like a nearly forgotten song of childhood. We invest far-off places with a certain romance. This appeal, I suspect, has been meticulously crafted by natural selection as an essential element in our survival. Long summers, mild winters, rich harvests, plentiful game—none of them lasts forever. Your own life, or your band’s, or even your species’ might be owed to a restless few—drawn, by a craving they can hardly articulate or understand, to undiscovered lands and new worlds. Maybe it’s a little early. Maybe the time is not quite yet. But those other worlds—promising untold opportunities—beckon. Silently, they orbit the Sun, waiting.’”

  1:24 PM, T-minus six minutes two seconds

  Belinda looked at Iman. I knew what I was getting into the moment Jimmy asked me out on our first date, she thought. Iman, on the other hand, could very well say Sergei was taken away from her by decree.

  At that moment, there was no prime real estate like Launch Complex 39 Observation Gantry, half the distance from Press Site to launchpad. Just over a mile shy from the rocket, closer than any bystander and most personnel. The third and highest deck—holding two-dozen people—was strictly assigned to family members. When White House staff contacted Belinda behind the President’s back requesting a spot, she immediately said yes. There were only two bodyguards on that deck. Even the First Lady was one below. The only other non-family was Derya’s guest, the German Chancellor. I guess he had a few tickets too many.

  Belinda was startled by an iconic voice, “Thank you for inviting me, Belinda.”

  She turned to the President of the United States. She had imagined this encounter many times before. “I did not invite you, Mr. President. Your aides did. Frankly, you’re persona non grata around here.”

  Evidently taken aback, it took him a few moments to reply. “May I ask—”

  “Shackleton was always going to be an uphill battle, but we never counted on your office blowing up a dam right over us,” said Belinda. And hopefully you never counted on me recording this conversation right now.

  “I wonder why you say that.”

  “Mr. President, please. Almost every stop sign and roadblock we have encountered had your fingerprints all over it.”

  He paused, undecided. “I don’t—I didn’t think society was prepared for the implications of discovering extraterrestrial life. It may be a low probability event, but it’s my life’s work to do the best I can for this country and for the world—how do you think some religions would cope with the news?” His melodic, masculine voice seemed to be genuinely wanting to know her view.

  “This is the search for the ultimate truth, however inconvenient it may be.” Belinda’s heavy breathing made the words twitchy and garbled. “That’s what scientists do.”

  “I’m a politician, Belinda. Sometimes less is more.”

  “Who do you think you are to, to personally decide for the future of our species?”

  “Rightfully or not, I am the President of the most powerful nation on Earth, invested with immense authority—and even so, the mission couldn’t be derailed. You won’t believe this, and that’s okay, but I only ordered specific steps against it a handful of times. Because it has been the only time in office when I felt invisible hurdles rendering my actions ineffective. Today I learned why. I was engaging the people’s minds but could never convince their hearts. Because in fact I never really convinced myself. I now know I was wrong.” He sounded sincere and thoughtful. Against her will, she had already forgiven him.

  1:26 PM, T-minus three minutes twenty seconds

  N
itha lubricated her mouth and throat with coffee as she prepared for what she knew would be the pinnacle of her career.

  Nitha said, “Mission Control, give go/no go for launch. FIDO.”

  “We’re go FLIGHT.”

  “GUIDANCE.”

  “Go.”

  “SURGEON.”

  “We are go. We are go.”

  “PROP.”

  “Go.”

  “ODIN.”

  “Go!”

  “EECOM.”

  “Go FLIGHT.”

  “WEATHER.” There were a few seconds of silence.

  “We are 24 percent outside the max safety threshold. FLIGHT, we are go!”

  “INCO.”

  “Go. Go FLIGHT.”

  “Ground Control.”

  “We are go!”

  She took a long breath, “Any specialist can cancel to T-minus fifteen seconds,” she reminded them. “This is it. Mission is GO for launch.”

  The countdown auto-sequence began.

  1:29 PM, T-minus twelve seconds

  “Eleven. Ten. Nine. Ignition Sequence Start. Eight. Seven. Six. Five.”

  The valves inside the Raptor engines opened in tandem as turbopumps higher up the rocket began spinning toward 5,000 rpm. Within a second, they were shoving a flood of oxygen and methane down the giant’s throat. The two torrents collided in each of the engine combustion chambers, where a spark transmuted them into a barrage of fire. Meanwhile, over 2 million gallons of water—the lifetime water consumption of one hundred people—were being dumped into the flame trench under the rocket to suppress the throbbing vibration and savage heat. From afar, a flash gave way to a smoke plume that almost instantly hid behind bulging just-made water clouds swaddling the launchpad.

  “Four. Three. Two. One—”

  Shackleton arose so ponderously at first that for a moment it seemed to Belinda as if it had aborted lift-off and was attempting touchdown.

  “We have lift-off!”

  Belinda hadn’t noticed the incongruence between the monumental fireworks and the dead silence until she saw the shock wave rippling over the marsh in front, racing for them at 1,100 feet per second. There was no sound build-up. A booming roar slammed her chest, her skull, her knees in drilling staccato bursts. The ground was quaking. Every bolt and rivet in the Observation Gantry rattled. Some 120 decibels of compression waves pummeled her body as she felt the heat of the engines on her face.

  The biggest, most powerful rocket in history emerged from the clouds it had just given birth to and cleared the tower at a hundred miles an hour, shaking the Atlantic shoreline. Hardly eight minutes later it would be cruising in orbit at 17,500 miles an hour.

  Belinda was too overwhelmed to continue watching the ascent. Turning around, she saw the President’s hardened eyes welling with tears.

  Since launch, Sophia had been drifting between euphoria and terror. On two occasions she was certain something had gone horribly wrong. She had underestimated just about everything: the rumbling of the engines muffled her thoughts behind their noise wall; Shackleton’s pulsing and throbbing as it fought at once against both gravity and atmosphere made her body feel like it was having an epileptic seizure; and the 3-g felt like a giant had compressed her chest in a Heimlich maneuver and forgot to let go. The sky past the window had gone from blue to dark blue to indigo, and was now almost black as the sunrays bounced around ever fewer air molecules in the thinning atmosphere. Earth’s curvature was now patent. With great effort she turned her head and saw the rest of the crew lined up. My space-ial family: Fry, Bender, Zoidberg, Professor Farnsworth, and yours truly Amy Wong. Forget ethnicity! Leela is way cooler.

  “Approaching MAX Q,” said Sergei, one minute and twenty-six seconds after launch. As the rocket climbed, diminishing air friction was compensated by speed increase. Between ten and thirteen miles high the aerodynamic stress reached critical point. “All nominal.”

  Over the intercom, Mission Control exhaled a communal sigh of relief.

  The rocket continued curving into a horizontal position relative to the planet’s surface. The colossal energy expenditure was not centered on going up but on going very fast around the Earth. Getting to space was easy, staying there was hard: just one-tenth of the energy was used to reach orbital altitude, and fully nine-tenths to achieve orbital speed.

  “All engines cut-off. Prepare for stage separation,” said Sergei at two minutes twenty-six seconds in, forty miles high.

  She heard a muffled thump as the pyro bolts previously connecting the now almost-empty rocket to the spaceship exploded. The roaring, shaking, and g-force unceremoniously vanished as the giant white shaft separated and would soon fall back to Earth. All she could hear were the fans of some equipment softly whirring in the background. A few seconds later, Shackleton came to life and she experienced a new, much kinder jolt as the spaceship’s engines took over to continue accelerating them to achieve orbit.

  “Shackleton, your trajectory is nominal!” said an exultant Nitha.

  At eight minutes forty-seven seconds after launch, 17,500 miles an hour and 132 miles high, the engines cut off.

  A Yoda figurine hanging down in front of Yi an instant prior began somersaulting with an ease and calmness that could only come from being no longer bound by Earthly physics.

  Shackleton was in orbit.

  Only Derya screamed in celebration and Yi extrapolated why. He was moved beyond the ability to speak.

  After freeing himself from the harness, like all the others except Sergei, he floated to the Observation Window’s ninety square feet of opulence—by far the largest window of any spaceship ever. His retinas saturated with the blue of the Earth below, and, inevitably, in moisture. “Wow” was the most Yi was able to say, somewhat breathlessly. He remained immobile for a long while, ogling humanity’s cradle and home. If anybody spoke during that time, he didn’t hear them.

  Mankind’s presence was all over. The checkered Pythagorean geometry, like a Scottish tartan, of Great Britain’s landscape. The nearly perennial haze over Southeast Asia due to forests burning in Indonesia, one of the last great lungs pumping CO2 out from the atmosphere. The bombastic brilliance of the metropolises at night, tempered by the humble, reverent soft-treading of the nomadic Saharan tribes, their campfires little peppered specs of light under the night. A reminder from a time not long past when nature and humankind weren’t at such great odds. But the most unforgettable view for Yi was Korea at nighttime. The South had sharply outlined contours of light around it, with a series of contiguous blobs of electric glitz inside. North Korea, instead, connecting the peninsula with the continent, was unlit besides the rare fleck. Three years after Kim Jong-un executed his long-awaited decision to blow his brains out against an immaculate white wall—in a bizarre tribute to Wu Guanzhong, the founder of modern Chinese painting, as per the photos I saw—it remained indistinguishable from the ocean at each side of it.

  * * *

  9 The propellant transfer lines from tower to rocket chilled down to twice the lowest naturally occurring temperature ever recorded on Earth. The propellant is composed of a fuel and an oxidizer, which when combined and ignited create a violent, but in this case controlled, chemical reaction that expands the gases and generates the thrust that launches the rocket upward.

  There can be no combustion, no fire, without an oxidizer. Ever wondered about the ‘No Smoking’ signs in hospitals? It’s not just a lung cancer prevention campaign, it also has to do with those conspicuous 100 percent oxygen cylinders floating around. Fuel plus oxygen plus spark equals ignition.

  On Earth we forget this all the time because oxygen is everywhere. Our cars’ internal combustion engines make the mixture backstage every time we go for a drive. But in space the policy is BYOB—bring your own bottle. Shackleton needs 3.6 pounds of oxygen for each pound of methane, so most of the spaceship’s precious weight and volume is taken up by a giant tank full of the stuff that’s free and omnipresent back on Earth.

 
SpaceX engines use liquid methane as fuel and liquid oxygen as oxidizer. At ambient temperature one becomes natural gas and the other plain oxygen. But if kept under cryogenic conditions, roughly under -240 degrees Fahrenheit, the volume of the former decreases 600 times and the latter 900 times. And it still takes a thirty-six-story-high rocket to launch the five-person crew and their cargo into orbit around the Earth. Escaping the planet’s gravity is hard.

  Isaac Newton, possibly the biggest intellect in history, created calculus four centuries ago to solve this problem. His drawings show a person on top of a sphere, throwing an object forward. It climbs and then drops in a parabola, coming to rest further down the sphere. But if the throw is energetic enough, two things can happen.

  One, the object moves at a rate such that its fall is exactly the same as the sphere’s curvature, so it moves around the sphere forever. This is called orbiting the Earth, and requires a speed of five miles per second—ten times faster than a bullet’s speed. But for Saturn that’s not nearly enough, which takes us to …

  Two, the object is thrown with such force that it conquers the sphere’s gravity and escapes. However, that doesn’t come cheap. To go from standing on the ground to orbiting the Earth requires about twenty pounds of propellant per pound of payload. To the Moon the ratio worsens to 60:1, equivalent to carrying enough gasoline on a car to travel back and forth between Los Angeles and New York seven times. The problem is exponential: the lion’s share of every gallon of propellant is used to transport the yet-to-be-consumed propellant, and each additional gallon makes it worse. On Earth, this is solved by gas stations. In space, by refilling in orbit.

  The Shackleton spaceship needs to be topped up in orbit, but that’s not good enough. A modified Super Heavy rocket would need to dock to Shackleton, accelerate both until it runs low on juice, undock and slingshot the latter into deep space. Only then the pennies add up to the propellant price of ferrying the crew and its cargo on a round trip from Low Earth Orbit to Saturn.