Earth Orbit
– Oct. 4, 2044 …
The Lockheed SpacePlane Isaac Asimov shuddered as it docked
inside the hub of the Hilton Orbital Hotel
– a celestial wagon wheel 2,500 miles over South Valley.
This newspaper sent me to the famous space resort to report
first-hand on the 40th anniversary commemoration of SpaceShipOne’s
pioneering flight.
Earth Orbit – Oct. 4, 2044 …
The Lockheed SpacePlane Isaac Asimov shuddered as it docked inside the hub of the Hilton Orbital Hotel – a celestial wagon wheel 2,500 miles over South Valley.
This newspaper sent me to the famous space resort to report first-hand on the 40th anniversary commemoration of SpaceShipOne’s pioneering flight. As the world well knows, SpaceShipOne ushered in a revolutionary era of private rocketship development by winning the Ansari X Prize on Oct. 4, 2004. It started a boom in industrial and tourism development of space that continues to expand throughout the solar system.
Exhausted after the 12-hour SpacePlane flight – launched from the San Martin International Spaceport – I peered out my coach-class window as a flight attendant cheerfully lectured about zero-gravity safety.
I observed South Valley now in Earth’s shadow. The street lights created a brilliant patch of the multi-million person megapolis of Morgan Hill, Gilroy, San Juan Bautista and Hollister. Ironically, I pondered, most homes down below now cost far more than the Ansari X Prize’s $10 million. What a difference 40 years can make, I thought as I drifted out of my seat to get my carry-on from the overhead storage compartment.
Floating through the passenger tube into the Hilton’s spacious docking-bay lobby, I gazed out the glass at the crescent Moon hanging in blackness. I easily made out the domed Clarke City – named after science-fiction author Arthur C. Clarke who introduced us to a mysterious monolith hidden in a lunar crater in his classic novel “2001.”
No time for sight-seeing. Late for the ceremony, I hastily stepped into an lobby elevator to journey down one of the hotel’s eight spokes to the rim’s auditorium sector.
“Hold the door!” boomed a man’s gruff voice. Ray Bradbury jetted toward the closing doors. The “world’s greatest still-living science fiction writer” (according to his book covers) wouldn’t make it. Despite my doubt, Bradbury somehow bolted into the elevator cab a split-second before the doors shut.
The calendar might claim he was 124 years old. But he didn’t look a day over 30 – thanks to the cellular regenerative therapy he’d undergone at Dr. Dorian Grey’s “Fountain of Youth Clinic” in Florida.
“Mr. Bradbury? You here for the anniversary ceremony?” I asked. The elevator jerked as it started on its slow descent.
“You betcha!” he exclaimed. “Wouldn’t miss it for the world. I’m speaking about the wonders of space tourism.” He beamed his famous boyish smile. “And immediately afterwards, I’m taking a voyage – the maiden voyage – to Mars on that beautiful new cruise ship they named after me. I hope to see some Martians – those spectacular fossils they just discovered in the Valles Marineres.”
Knowing he wouldn’t remember, I told him we’d met on two occasions in the 20th century. I was 18 when he lectured at Gavilan Community College’s theater. I chatted with him briefly afterwards at a reception in the college’s library. We also briefly chatted at his San Jose State University book signing when I was a journalism student.
“You surprised how quickly the space tourism industry, er, sky-rocketed after SpaceShipOne’s flight?” I asked. “It’s amazing how far we’ve come in 40 years.”
“Amazing, yes,” he said. “But I’m not surprised. It happened before, you know.” Bradbury nodded at my puzzled look. “Fellow named Charles A. Lindbergh. Ever hear of him?”
“Of course. Lindbergh flew solo across the Atlantic in 1927 in the –”
“In The Spirit of St. Louis!” Bradbury hollered joyfully. “That wonderful flying machine started something marvelous! Truly! And the grand adventure began when a wealthy hotel owner named Raymond Orteig offered cash to the first person to fly non-stop from New York to Paris.”
“The Orteig Prize?”
“At $25,000 way back then, it’d barely pay for your SpacePlane flight up here today,” Bradbury said. “Lindbergh’s winning it sparked the human imagination to consider the possibilities of commercial aviation. Forty years after Lindbergh, folks thought nothing about crossing the big old Atlantic in jumbo jets.”
“But space travel is far more risky than –”
“Bah!” Bradbury interrupted. “You think Lindbergh’s flight was a cake walk? He risked his life. But Lucky Lindy imagined he could do it – and that’s how he did it.” Bradbury eyed me sternly. “Never ever underestimate the power of imagination. ‘Everything you can imagine is real,’ as the artist Pablo Picasso once said. Believe those words!”
I gazed out the elevator glass at the panorama of Earth below. The thin envelope of atmosphere hung along the horizon – a blue veil where the brilliant Sun started to climb. Sun-rays glinted off the antique Hubble Space Telescope floating a kilometer from the hotel.
“I believe, Ray!” I whooped. “I believe!”
We chatted on about SpaceShipOne now displayed next to The Spirit of St. Louis in the Smithsonian’s Air and Space Museum in Washington, D.C.
From its Oct. 4, 2004 launch in California’s Mojave Dessert, the privately built craft reached an altitude of 69.7 miles. Test pilots Mike Melvill and Brian Binnie would be honored by President Arnold Schwarzenegger at today’s anniversary ceremony for their ride into history.
Our elevator ride ended. Bradbury and I stepped out and located the Hilton’s Jules Verne Auditorium. As a guest speaker, Bradbury walked in easily.
Unfortunately, I learned, the room was packed with dignitaries. Despite my waving a press pass, the polite robot usher refused my entry. So, not 100 feet away, I watched the event on the holovision set at the Hilton’s Robert Heinlein Cafe. I listened to Bradbury’s live televised remarks while nursing a lager from Morgan Hill’s El Toro Brewery.
A few hours later, I stood at a Hilton gallery window watching the cruise-liner with Ray Bradbury aboard embark on its maiden voyage to the red planet.
I chanced to see the famous author himself looking at me from the ship’s observation deck. He grinned and waved.
“Bon voyage, Mr. Bradbury!” I whispered, waving back. “Say hello to all the Martians for me.”
