All Terrain Thinking

A Compendium of things I think are Important

Wonderful strange stories from around the world

Spatel Galactica

Space maybe the final frontier, for both your wallet and your sanity.

I've always had a soft spot for Sir Richard Branson. I like the way he's made it in business without wearing a suit or an obvious predilection for golf, or pricey health-spa resorts. But his space scam, sorry, scheme, is rather worrying.

A decade ago hardly a week went by when we weren't treated to the embarrassing spectacle of a bedraggled Branson being winched, at taxpayers expense, from some vast expanse of ocean. His speedboats kept plowing into lumps of wood off the coast of Ireland and his balloons, always too heavy for sustained flight, fell out of the sky.

But now His Richardness has stepped into the breach, saying that by 2007 Virgin Galactic will be using larger versions of SpaceShipOne to transport paying passengers. He has promised potential space tourists that, “We will be giving people something they will remember for the rest of their lives,” which, if recent space adventures, or indeed his own, are anything to go by, may not be that long.

Because we've all grown up with NASA absorbing more money than the Third World, the notion of any individual doing space travel on the cheap seems as preposterous as do-it- yourself brain surgery.

A snip at Bt47,376 a minute, this trip into space still looks set to be the most expensive journey in the history of travel, and they'll probably still charge you extra for the headphones. And with only four minutes to look down at Planet Earth there's going to be a hell of an argument over who gets the window seat.

Passengers will be securely strapped in while the craft accelerates to 3,218 kilometers an hour in 25 seconds. It will be fuelled by laughing gas and rubber, a rich, giggling mix of nitrous oxide and hydroxy-terminated polybutadiene. There are no ejector seats, no parachutes, and no toilet either, presumably because with that sort of take-off the passengers will have wet themselves already.

But once the seatbelt signs are switched off, passengers will literally float around the plane, peeking out of one of the portholes or trying to catch the last little cheese triangle that floated off their plate as they left the Earth's atmosphere.

They will then spend four minutes and Bt189,504 listening to everyone saying “Hmm, you know, when you see the whole Earth like that, it makes you realize how insignificant we really all are,” while the guy next to you just missed it all because he was still trying to get his plastic knife and fork out of the cellophane wrapper.

Branson says the first space plane will, rather unoriginally, be called “the VSS Enterprise” - as Virgin seek to mix contemporary air travel with the iconic myths of Star Trek. The search is now on for a gay Vulcan to be an air steward.

I do have concerns about this flight, none of which have anything to do with perilous spins, loud bangs or Branson's previous failures. No, my main concern is that passengers will conform to Branson's relaxed style and be allowed to fly in sweaters and jeans. If I went, and I would, I'd want the full Michelin Man kit. Plus an aqualung and a parachute.

Back in August 1960, an American pilot called Joe Kittinger climbed in to the open gondola beneath a balloon called Excelsior 111 and floated up to 31,333 meters. At this point, 32 kilometers above the Earth in what is technically space, he jumped. Moments later he became the first human to go through the sound barrier without the benefit of a plane. It was, and still is, the highest parachute jump ever, and it proved you can “abandon ship” even when you're in space. Kittenger is adamant that if the crew of Challenger had been equipped with chutes, some might well be alive today.

But lets be positive. This is only the first step towards a projected space tourism industry that predicts we will see orbiting “spotels” being built within our lifetime. Although, why anyone would want to go on holiday to outer space remains a mystery; if you want to pay a fortune to stay in the middle of a lifeless vacuum, there's a hotel in Yuma I could recommend.

So, let's imagine. It's cheaper. Come, with me…

Extracts from a diary, 2009, Spotel Galatarctica:

Monday: Satisfying, as we rise into orbit, to reflect we are pioneers of man's leap into space tourism. Also satisfying to remember the look on the faces of the Grant-Pedersons from down the road, when we told them where we were heading. We never stop hearing about their damn yak-trek in Bhutan .

On arrival, take up complimentary pedicure offer. A mistake - never underestimate the dangers of weightless toenail clippings.

Evening: Our first dinner in orbit. I got used to sucking the Chateau St Emilion through a straw, but there are other techniques to learn. It's not so much a matter of catching the waiter's eye as catching his foot before he floats out of range.

Tuesday: Pressure drop again. Thumbcap transmitter crashes. Then aura fuse blows. My wife says: “You're turning into a penguin. Stop it.” Pressure returned suddenly. Regained form, and swallowed my toothpaste.

After lunch: Lifecraft drill. Fresh rumors of asteroid collision, especially when virtual orchestra started playing Strauss melodies.

Wednesday: Days have become meaningless. No idea what we're eating. Young Daniel's gone mad and Helga has lapsed into a coma. There was a crunch of metal just now which probably means we're in the meteor belt they said would come nowhere near us.

“And how do you feel?' a pretty Bransonette asked me. “Like a military academy,” I replied, “bits of me keep passing out.”

Old time party planned for tonight. Saw three-armed Andro-meda guide opening a box of rubber Spock ears. Fear the worst. Evening: Fears con-firmed. Jollied into painful Clinton conga line.

Thursday: “You know,” said a fellow passenger, “it's at times like this, when I'm trapped in a Virgin airlock with a Bangkok Brit, and about to die from asphyxiation in deep space that I really wish I'd listened to what my mother told me when I was young.”

“Why, what did she tell you?”

“I don't know, I didn't listen.”

Evening: To the Branson Observation deck to try digital Earth view scope. Just type in your postcode for a stunning aerial view of your neighborhood. Actually saw people moving about. Bloody peasantry. Why can't they look less morbid? Alarmed to notice Grant-Pedersons are constructing their own launch pad.

Wonder if President Branson knows?

By Roger Beaumont

Prior | Tell us what you think | Next

Add to Your Social Bookmarks: Del.icio.us Digg Furl Reddit Simpy Spurl Y! MyWeb - StumbleUpon