There’s something more. There’s a set of less tangible arguments, many of which, I freely admit, I find attractive and resonant. Spaceflight speaks to something deep inside us—many of us, if not all. An emerging cosmic perspective, an improved understanding of our place in the Universe, a highly visible program affecting our view of ourselves might clarify the fragility of our planetary environment and the common peril and responsibility of all the nations and peoples of Earth. And human missions to Mars would provide hopeful prospects, rich in adventure, for the wanderers among us, especially the young. Even vicarious exploration has social utility.
I repeatedly find that when I give talks on the future of the space program—to universities, business and military groups, professional organizations—the audiences are much less patient with practical, real-world political and economic obstacles than 1. They long to sweep away the impediments, to recapture the glory days of Vostok and Apollo, to get on with it and once more tread other worlds. We did it before; we can do it again, they say. But, I caution myself, those who attend such talks are self-selected space enthusiasts.
In 1969, less than half the American people thought the Apollo program was worth the cost. But on the twenty-fifth anniversary of the Moon landing, the number had risen to two thirds. Despite its problems, NASA was rated as doing a good-to-excellent job by 63 percent of Americans. With no reference to cost, 75 percent of Americans (according to a CBS News poll) favored “the United States sending astronauts to explore Mars.’ For young adults, the figure was 68 percent. I think “explore” is the operative word.
It is no accident that, whatever their human flaws, and how ever moribund the human space program has become (a trend that the Hubble Space Telescope repair mission may have helped to reverse), astronauts and cosmonauts are still widely regarded as heroes of our species. A scientific colleague tells me about a recent trip to the New Guinea highlands where she visited a stone age culture hardly contacted by Western civilization. They were ignorant of wristwatches, soft drinks, and frozen food. But they knew about Apollo 11. They knew that humans had walked on the Moon. They knew the names of Armstrong and Aldrin and Collins. They wanted to know who was visiting the Moon these days.
Projects that are future-oriented, that, despite their political difficulties, can be completed only in some distant decade are continuing reminders that there will be a future. Winning a foothold on other worlds whispers in our ears that we’re more than Picts or Serbs or Tongans: We’re humans.
Exploratory spaceflight puts scientific ideas, scientific thinking, and scientific vocabulary in the public eye. It elevates the general level of intellectual inquiry. The idea that we’ve now understood something never grasped by anyone who ever lived before—that exhilaration, especially intense for the scientists involved, but perceptible to nearly everyone—propagates through the society, bounces off walls, and comes back at us. It encourages us to address problems in other fields that have also never before been solved. It increases the general sense of optimism in the society. It gives currency to critical thinking of the sort urgently needed if we are to solve hitherto intractable social issues. It helps stimulate a new generation of scientists. The more science in the media-especially if methods are described, as well as conclusions and implications-the healthier, I believe, the society is. People everywhere hunger to understand.
When i was a child, my most exultant dreams were about flying—not in some machine, but all by myself. I would be skipping or hopping, and slowly I could pull my trajectory higher. It would take longer to fall back to the ground. Soon I would be on such a high arc that I wouldn’t come down at all. I would alight like a gargoyle in a niche near the pinnacle of a skyscraper, or gently settle down on a cloud. In the dream—which I must have had in its many variations at least a hundred times—achieving flight required a certain cast of mind. It’s impossible to describe it in words, but I can remember what it was like to this day. You did something inside your head and at the pit of your stomach, and then you could lift yourself up by an effort of will alone, your limbs hanging limply. Off you’d soar.
I know many people have had similar dreams. Maybe most people. Maybe everyone. Perhaps it goes back 10 million years or more, when our ancestors were gracefully flinging themselves from branch to branch in the primeval forest. A wish to soar like the birds motivated many of the pioneers of flight, including Leonardo da Vinci and the Wright brothers. Maybe that’s part of the appeal of spaceflight, too.
In orbit about any world, or in interplanetary flight, you are literally weightless. You can propel yourself to the spacecraft ceiling with a slight push off the floor. You can go tumbling through the air down the long axis of the spacecraft. Humans experience weightlessness as joy; this has been reported by almost every astronaut and cosmonaut. But because spacecraft are still so small, and because space “walks” have been done with extreme caution, no human has yet enjoyed this wonder and glory: propelling yourself by an almost imperceptible push, with no machinery driving you, untethered, high up into the sky, into the blackness of interplanetary space. You become a living satellite of the Earth, or a human planet of the Sun.
Planetary exploration satisfies our inclination for great enterprises and wanderings and quests that has been with us since our days as hunters and gatherers on the East African savannahs a million years ago. By chance—it is possible, I say, to imagine many skeins of historical causality in which this would not have transpired—in our age we are able to begin again.
Exploring other worlds employs precisely the same qualities of daring, planning, cooperative enterprise, and valor that mark the finest in the military tradition. Never mind the night launch of an Apollo spacecraft bound for another world. That makes the conclusion foregone. Witness mere F-14s taking off from adjacent flight decks, gracefully canting left and right, afterburners flaming, and there’s something that sweeps you away—or at least it does me. And no amount of knowledge of the potential abuses of carrier task forces can affect the depth of that feeling. It simply speaks to another part of me. It doesn’t want recriminations or politics. It just wants to fly.
“I… had ambition not only to go farther than anyone had done before,” wrote Captain James Cook, the eighteenth-century explorer of the Pacific, “but as far as it was possible for man to go.” Two centuries later, Yuri Romanenko, on returning to Earth after what was then the longest space flight in history, said “The Cosmos is a magnet… Once you’ve been there, all you can think of is how to get back.”
Even Jean-Jacques Rousseau, no enthusiast of technology, felt it:
The stars are far above us; we need preliminary instruction, instruments and machines, which are like so many immense ladders enabling us to approach them and bring them within our grasp.
“The future possibilities of space-travel,” wrote the philosopher Bertrand Russell in 1959,
which are now left mainly to unfounded fantasy, could be more soberly treated without ceasing to be interesting and could show to even the most adventurous of the young that a world without war need not be a world without adventurous and hazardous glory.[29] To this kind of contest there is no limit. Each victory is only a prelude to another, and no boundaries can be set to rational hope.
29
Russell’s phrase is noteworthy: “adventurous and hazardous glory.” Even if we could make human spaceflight risk-free-and of course we cannot-it might be counterproductive. The hazard is an inseparable component of the glory.