Human life is important. We in the progressive space advocacy community believe in the mission of human space precisely because - if cause and effect can be deliberately confused - consciousness is practically the purpose of the universe, and worth elaborating upon ad infinitum. Yet space is so big and impersonal, terrifying the animal hindbrain beneath all our pretenses, that our reaction is highly emotional when danger in theory becomes catastrophe in fact. Something in us quails at the notion of death in space above and beyond death itself, and has in ways both subtle and overt held back progress on this most important frontier. I would like to argue for a fundamental change in emphasis in our approach to these risks, and raise some red flags about how space is being sold by our most promising entrepreneurs.
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As It Stands
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Advocates of cheap and affordable commercial manned space transportation will often speak of NACA - the predecessor to NASA, that promoted research and development in aviation - and of 1960s Air Force projects such as the X-15, in addition to more obscure programs. Their experimental, ongoing development approach to technology and willingness to explore diverse alternatives are usually cited as examples of what NASA should do in the near to mid-term future to restore its relevance. But is that the end of the story of why these programs yielded a sky knee-deep in aircraft, while our semi-centennial space program has given us a 3-person Erector Set space station in LEO?
I would argue that the litany of test pilots lost in the first 60-70 years of aviation development speaks of a more profound difference: Their very purpose was to gamble so that precious information could be gathered for future generations of aircraft, and even a fatal crash would not be a complete waste. In other words, there was recognition that the mission transcended their lives, and did not entirely require their survival. They were not cannon fodder either - these pilots were strong, driven people who accepted little compensation and ridiculous odds simply because it was in their nature to "push the envelope." To "man-rate" an experimental craft meant to put a man in it and let him fly it - if he lived, his data would be used to refine the system, and the process would repeat itself until the concept was brought to fruition or shelved.
Contrast that with where NASA has gone. From practically the very beginning, the image and scientific subject of the astronaut became more important than the actual pilot function being performed. Since it already costs so much to reach space, the natural conclusion is that it would be a waste to get there and then focus on the transportation system itself - i.e., better to get a little science done in space and make no progress on the vehicle than appear to suggest that (gasp) getting there faster, cheaper, and in larger volumes is in fact the purpose of our national space program. While this seems obvious to most advocates of manned space, it is and has always been a radical, avant-garde proposition to virtually everyone else, regardless of NASA's rhetoric.
So, because the astronaut is not there to explore the functionality of the vehicle, and the vehicle is incapable of exploring space, their purpose is to "tend" the vehicle while it happens to be in space, perform experiments ranging from tangential to utterly irrelevant, and then come back in one piece mainly to avoid embarrassing the agency or costing it money. If any issues happen to come up during the mission that require a change in the vehicle, one might be provided if absolutely necessary, but essentially zero effort is committed to pro-actively seeking improvements.
Meanwhile, from the public and political perspective, both the spacecraft and its occupants - though no longer household names - are symbols of national prestige that must be frozen in repetitive motion like a kinetic art sculpture. Realizing this, we see where the fallacy behind NASA's risk-aversion stems from: Somehow it would be more of a blow to national prestige to have a fatal catastrophe in pursuit of glory - as if "punished" for our "hubris" - than to have an equal catastrophe doing essentially nothing, and then attribute it to the intrinsic difficulties of merely being in space rather than trying to accomplish something worthy of the effort.
This is why the loss of a $1.7 billion Space Shuttle is considered an international disaster requiring the freezing of all manned space activity followed by years of investigations, while the loss of a $2.1 billion stealth bomber - a craft with no purpose whatsoever - is reported in a one-paragraph factoid on page 30, and has almost no repercussions for either its program or its agency. It is also why the deaths of 7 talented individuals inspire legions of deluded people and their political kindred to proclaim that space is just too dangerous, while our national highways claim tens of thousands from all walks of life every year in pursuit of mundane convenience.
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Weekend Warriors
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Still, there is much to hope for in space: NASA will not be the only game in town for very much longer, and diversity is the fuel of evolution. At least three credible, well-regarded commercial firms have manned space vehicles in middle to advanced stages of development - one of which (Virgin Galactic's SpaceShipTwo) is basically complete and awaiting flight testing, and another that has passed CDR (that's Critical Design Review, the engineering equivalent of a colonoscopy). There is no telling where this will lead or how history will be shaped by the developments of the next few years in this industry, so I can say without irony or grimness that we live in interesting times.
On the other hand, these firms - no matter how well-funded - do not have the resources to take on the "Right Stuff" role in pursuing fearless development. They are businesses, and eventually must, as a matter of survival, hew to a risk-minimizing and profit-maximizing strategy. While the latter of those includes the drive to reduce costs - a motive heretofore painfully lacking in manned space pursuits - the former may be driving some inauspicious marketing decisions that threaten to repeat NASA's mistakes in microcosm.
Picture it: Techno soundtrack. Lithe, spindly superhumans in improbably revealing spacesuits floating around the cabin in weightless ballet. A CGI scene played out in almost Gattaca-esque smoothness, with barely a jolt marring the effect by reminding the viewer of the incredible violence of what is happening. This is how Virgin Galactic has decided to portray human spaceflight, as its eventual competitors will more than likely do as well. Space as a music video; space as a nightclub hot spot; space as the logical extension of bungee jumping, etc. Of course it's a risky endeavor, they reason, but then so are many other vacation and entertainment activities - so surely if it's made safe enough it can be marketed like scuba diving and people won't respond hysterically if disaster occurs and 6 wealthy celebrities end their careers messily.
Is that even close to being the case? Is there not, in fact, every reason to believe that Virgin Galactic may have set itself up for a crippling "failure is not an option" scenario? It makes perfect sense to target wealthy adventurers as the initial market, and I have never put much stock in the intelligence of people who have criticized the effort on that basis, but while I greatly respect those whose vision is behind these strategies I feel they may be overlooking a crucial subtlety: Rich people as a culture, even when they fancy themselves "adventurers," do not actually tolerate risk, and are especially averse to risks that detract from their image.
To die skippering a personal sailboat, or piloting an experimental aircraft, or trying to fly a balloon around the world - these risks are ego-enhancing - but to die as a passenger with six other people and looking to most of the world like a lemming invokes a different set of impulses. As an adventurer charting their own course, they may be willing to take even the stupidest risks and feel enlivened by the exercise, but as a passenger their priorities are quite different. They demand comfort and safety at all costs - because they can afford "all costs" - regardless of the impact on scalability.
Suppose a fatal crash occurs in the early years of Virgin Galactic. Given its extreme public exposure, the high cost of tickets, and the self-importance of its early clientele, what will have to follow to placate them? Naturally flights will have to be suspended, and a thorough, in-depth investigation begun. Does this sound familiar? Now let's suppose the investigation reveals that a certain system has a nontrivial (call it 1-in-200) chance of failure, but the only currently available alternative doubles the ticket price and makes scaling much slower and more difficult. Would they step up to their customers, explain the danger, and continue having flights with that system while developing safer and cheaper technologies, or would they switch to the expensive system to keep jittery rich people on board? Would they say "There may be more fatal crashes, but you will have the chance to go to space NOW, and countless more will get that chance far sooner because you take the risk"? If they did have such uncharacteristic courage, would their customers respond to that courage with their own?
Maybe, and maybe not. But it's certain that their advertising has not done them any favors in this respect, leading their clients to believe spaceflight can have a mature risk profile right out the starting gate - a risk profile like other, far more developed forms of "adventure travel." This is an absurd proposition no matter how talented, well-funded, and determined the team that built the vehicle is. If it weren't for being a legal minefield, I would say Burt Rutan should speak before every single person remotely interested in flying with VG in a conference hall, and say right off the bat "We need to confront a solemn truth: Some of you are going to die in my ship." If VG responds properly to disaster, and the right attitude is cultivated, then progress will be much more rapid than some of us believe possible.
But what is the path that leads from the other option - from going with the more expensive, balkier, supposedly safer system? The fact is such a path leads back on itself, turning otherwise foolish complaints about "playground for the rich" into realities, because scalability is sacrificed for profit as a luxury niche market. To digress for a moment, there was nothing inevitable about the Ford Motor Company - nothing preordained in the notion of automobiles designed specifically for the common man, with cost reduction as its primary organizing principle. Ordinary people were perfectly happy with cable cars and trains, and the wealthy were perfectly happy with their precision-machined English and German marvels. Likewise, it's perfectly possible that commercial spaceflight, if not handled with care, could make a long and disastrous detour into perfecting service for what is supposed to be its initial clientele at the expense of what is supposed to be its ultimate target.
Think of Orlando, Florida. Think of Las Vegas. Think of every moribund fantasy yielding to decay, self-parody, and social irrelevance because it was sold originally as a vacation rather than a place to live. To really get where we want to go, space must be sold in blindingly realistic, gritty terms, not as a gilded playground. If the risks are made a selling point rather than a glossed-over term in the fine print, the wealthy clientele will feel that it's a risk that enhances their ego and image, and will feel only more strongly if they are confronted with the reality of the danger. If, however, it is glossed over and they're made to believe it's a "vacation option," either they'll flee in droves when the real risks confront them, or their extravagance will obviate the business motivation for large-scale commercial spaceflight.
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Spore
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In ships smaller than some motor homes, the Greeks colonized the ancient Mediterranean world. We'll never know how many Hellenes fed the fish with their corpses before their ship technology became capable of that, nor how many died in the process of establishing those colonies. They themselves never knew, because failure simply wasn't relevant. Rather, they sent people out in all directions, in ships the crew could literally carry on their backs drag over isthmuses, and new cities took hold where they may.
Space colonization will obviously be a lot more involved and expensive than that, but the same principle ultimately applies - the same principle illustrated above with respect to test pilots. It is the realization and application of the fact that the purpose is bigger than the lives of those pursuing it, and that protecting those lives is not necessarily the primary or even a primary consideration at all.
Ultimate point: We can send probes, do CFD modeling, and ground-test technologies until we're blue in the face and not learn a fraction of what could be learned watching a handful of willing, talented, dedicated people try and fail to survive out there, let alone succeed, and I don't believe if the opportunity arose that there would be any dearth of perfectly rational volunteers to take a shot at it. Mars, the Moon, orbit, even suborbit - hell, even just sailing along the Mediterranean coast - people want this, and have always wanted it.
Why do we waste lives for nothing in wars, but people who would accept great risks to themselves for the future of us all have no opportunity to do so? It's almost as if we, ironically like the Greeks, see noble purpose beyond ourselves as a form of hubris, and fear the wrath of the heavens. Hopefully we can overcome the piety of fear and learn the self-selective nature of destiny.