Up and Down (8 page)

“Ms. Bradstreet, I can understand why you would think we were finished with the major program elements. I should have explained our somewhat unorthodox approach before we started. I apologize, but bear with me please. What we’ve just finished presenting is merely what we have come to call the
PR
infrastructure of our
NASA
plan. We need to sustain and increase the earned media coverage opportunities so that
NASA
’
S
profile doesn’t dip. But we certainly agree that more is needed to reignite the public’s passion for space exploration. We need a big idea to complement the more traditional media relations approach we’ve
already
presented.”

She leaned over her laptop, but kept talking.

“So thanks for your patience. Now let’s skip ahead and unveil the creative centrepiece of our
NASA
plan. David, over to you,” she concluded before sitting back down.

For an instant, I thought she’d said “David, over to you.” Surely I was wrong. I looked at Amanda. She gently tilted her head towards the screen while her eyes gripped me in a chokehold.
I broke free from her stare long enough to glance at the screen. It seemed I had heard her correctly. The room was looking at the first background slide in my Citizen Astronaut presentation, minus the title. After an awkward fifteen-second silence, I instantly understood what she intended. And in that moment, something clicked. It might have been Kelly’s pen, but I don’t think so. Suddenly, I felt calm. This was my idea. I started to get to my feet. I could do this.

I was so focused I barely noticed the pain of smashing my kneecap on the leg of the boardroom table as I stood up, although the noise it made was fearsome. I looked again at Amanda. She nodded encouragement with her acid-reflux smile. Crawford was still sulking, looking at nothing in particular. Diane gave off a serene look with a “Don’t blow it” overlay. I turned to the
NASA
panel and noticed that the one eye moonwalker Scott Chandler had opened earlier had closed again. So I concentrated on Kelly, who seemed to be the decision-maker anyway. She put down her pen and I picked up the remote slide advancer. Breathe.

“A very special breed of men and women has been travelling into space for over half a century. In the early years of the space program, indeed into the late eighties, average Canadians and Americans were transfixed by the human drama of the launch and safe return of Mercury, Gemini, Apollo, Skylab, and space shuttle missions. It was so far removed from the experience of our daily lives that we could only watch in wonder.

“But after more than a hundred space shuttle missions over the last thirty years, slowly but inexorably, the extraordinary has become ordinary. It’s still the same highly skilled, heavily trained group of overachievers who get to fly, but the public has lost interest. We’ve seen too many launches and too many landings. The average citizen has almost nothing in common with the brave test pilots, aerospace engineers, scientists, doctors, and other very special men and women who ride the shuttle into orbit and stay for weeks, sometimes months, on the International Space Station. We can’t relate to them or to what they do. The thrill wanes. It’s become routine.”

I paused for a moment, plotting my next move.

“We agree with you, Kelly, that landing more articles in newspapers and more stories on
TV
are unlikely to convince the public to leap back on
NASA
’
S
bandwag … er … bandrocket. We need something more to re-animate average Canadians and Americans.”

I paused again.

“We actually need to give average citizens the chance to ride the shuttle into space, sitting next to the test pilot and nuclear physicist.”

I punched the remote and the
Citizen Astronaut
title morphed to life on the slide in a very modest and restrained animation, free of sound effects.

“We want to launch the Citizen Astronaut contest here in the United States and in Canada. It’s kind of like Willy Wonka’s
golden ticket but the prize is not touring a chocolate factory on foot, but orbiting the Earth in the International Space Station.”

Kelly was still listening and even nodded a few times as I walked the group through the still hazy details.

Kelly sat perfectly still with her hands clasped on the table in front her. I was nearly finished. I’d described the idea and how we would make it happen in as much detail as I knew at that moment. It was time to wrap up.

“In the end, we seek to rekindle the public’s support for
NASA
and excitement about space exploration by actually giving the public a chance to leave this Earth and experience space travel. And we’re not talking about some eccentric billionaire businessman who bought his way onto a Soyuz flight after training for six months in Russia. We’re talking about opening the possibility of space travel for a farmer in Saskatchewan, a secretary in Halifax, a convenience store owner in Wichita, or a crossing guard in Savannah. It gives every American and Canadian citizen a stake in the space program, and a stake in
NASA
. It’s their chance to do what they’ve only ever watched and dreamed about. That is how you return space exploration to the top of the public’s agenda and keep it there.”

I sat down slowly, keeping my eyes on Kelly. I felt my knees knocking together under the table. I didn’t look at anyone else. Kelly was nodding very slowly while keeping her eyes on me. I took it as a good sign. But for all I knew, she was deciding which expletive to employ when blowing our plan out of the water.

“So let me see if I understand your idea,” Kelly began, speaking very deliberately. “You want to invite any American or Canadian citizen to enter a contest where two winners would actually fly on a shuttle to the International Space Station, conduct experiments or complete other mission-related tasks, and then fly back to Earth before returning to their regularly scheduled lives? Is that really your idea?”

“Um … yes, that’s it in a nutshell,” I replied.

She just looked at me as she thought it through. She raised her right hand, palm facing forward.

“Gentlemen, questions?”

A ripple of energy passed through the panel – a very small ripple.

“Do you know how much it would cost to train complete neophytes to fly safely in space?” asked the
CFO
, who must have finally tuned in while I was presenting.

None of my colleagues was rushing to respond so I felt compelled to say something that in the most optimistic light might approach an answer. But I really don’t think light comes in such an optimistic variety.

“No, I confess I have no idea. None whatsoever. But wouldn’t it be considered a good investment if the contest reinvigorated public support for
NASA
, and then Congress felt compelled to open up the funding tap again? That’s the outcome we’re aiming for.”

The
CFO
said nothing. Kelly nodded again. Then Scott Chandler roused himself.

“Son, do you know what a 20G Centrifuge is?”

I was actually being asked a question by an astronaut who had set foot on the moon. Had I known I was to be in the presence of a lunar explorer, I would have worn my “Apollo astronauts do it in one-sixth gravity!” T-shirt. My heart was pounding.

“Yes, sir. I’ve visited the one you have at the Ames Research Center in California,” I replied. I snatched a look at Amanda and
I could tell she was impressed. “It’s used to train astronauts and fighter pilots to withstand the g-forces experienced when flying in high-performance fighter jets and spacecraft.”

“Very good.” He nodded and smiled. “Well, that centrifuge at Ames is always well-stocked with barf bags for those with weaker constitutions who can’t hold their lunch past five Gs. I think your idea belongs in one of those barf bags.”

“I see,” I said, still not quite clear. “I don’t suppose you mean that in a good way.”

“Putting housewives and shopkeepers in space alongside astronauts who have trained their entire careers for a single shuttle mission diminishes all of us and the legacy of the original seven astronauts, who, by the way, were all friends of mine.”

Crash and burn. I was dead.

Well, it was clear we’d lost the astronaut vote on the panel. The role of astronauts has been a topic of much debate right from the earliest stages of the space program. During the Mercury program, the original seven astronauts mentioned by Chandler had felt that they were just human ballast being shot into space in a tin can and that their considerable aeronautical skills were being ignored. They wanted more of a role in the mission. They wanted to “fly” the rocket, not just strap in for the ride. So suggesting that inexperienced civilians should “tag along” for a mission made space flight seem just too pedestrian for the likes of the former Apollo commander. Even in the shuttle era, this remained an issue. On-board computers had the power to guide
the shuttle through re-entry and land the shuttle safely without an astronaut ever touching the stick. Yet
every single mission
has ended with the commander actually “flying” the shuttle to a dead stick landing. Screw the computers.

“Thank you, Mr. Chandler.” Kelly intervened to put me out of my misery. “Further questions?”

The
NASA
Administrator piped up next.

“I understand how my colleague feels, but the unfortunate reality is that Congress is squeezing us so goddamned tightly now that I’m looking for spare change in my office couch. Right now, it is not a good scene. It is downright ugly. To make matters worse, Congress has access to all the polling we’ve ever done, so they know the public has drifted away. So the slashing and burning continues. Do you really think we can bring citizens back to us simply by holding out to them the slim prospect of a trip to the space station?”

“Yes, sir, I truly believe we can.” I hoped I sounded more convinced than I felt.

Kelly asked many more questions about how it would all work and I skated my way through them with a little help from Amanda, Diane, and Michael. Crawford Blake was no help. He was still fuming, with arms folded, and wanted out of there. He had gathered up what little he’d brought and seemed to be leaning towards the door.

“Well, thank you for your presentation,” Kelly said as she stood up. “Do you have hard copies for the panel?”

Diane jumped in fast as Amanda reached for the copies in her bag.

“Um, no, unfortunately we don’t have them with us. Our printer blew a gasket just as we were printing your hard copies this morning. But I received a text during the presentation that they have fixed the problem and the copies have been couriered to you to arrive by the end of the day,” improvised Diane.

Very smooth. I realized that the printed decks in Amanda’s bag did not include the big idea – my big idea.

“Thank you,” Kelly said. “I know you’ll be wondering about next steps. Yours was the final pitch, so we now have some thinking to do, and we’ll be back to you one way or another soon. Likely within the week.”

She paused before continuing.

“And I’m sorry I prematurely cut off the presentation earlier.
NASA
can only succeed in this if we try bold and creative approaches. The run-of-the-mill media relations program that I thought was the extent of your proposal is something we can do internally, in our sleep. So let me close the meeting with some friendly advice. Don’t bury the lead next time. Start with your big idea.”

“What an unholy bitch she was!” shouted Crawford Blake after the team had reconvened in the
TK
boardroom an hour later. “I very nearly pulled the plug and took us out of the running.
What a bitch! And where did she come from anyway? Didn’t we do a recce on who’s running the show over there?”

Diane, Amanda, and I stole a glance at one another. Crawford was the one with the contact inside
NASA
. Why didn’t he know? I decided not to ask. He stomped around the boardroom spitting Mississippi vitriol. Diane, Amanda, and I were getting ready to head for the airport to return to Toronto. With Crawford hovering on the border between livid and apoplectic, the sooner we bolted the better. Amanda had already integrated my slides into the presentation and the printers were spitting out copies ready for binding and rush delivery. So I figured we were free and clear to evacuate. Not yet. Crawford stopped, turned, and faced us, with his hands flat on the table.