(Shuttle Discovery flies down the National Mall 17 April 2012 in a last pass of glory. Photo CBS News.)
My knee feels better today but my back is killing me. One step forward and half a step back, I guess. But life is good. I was thinking that, among other things, when the Shuttle Discovery was touring the capital, perched on the custom Boeing 747 that was bringing the spaceship to its final destination at the Smithsonian’s Udvar-Hazy Really Big Ass Airplane Annex at Dulles International.
The Porters were in the unit at that precise moment, doing the semi-annual inspection to make the cut-over from heating to cooling seasons. I had the furniture all pulled away from the convector units for their convenience as I heard the sound of jet engines roaring on the other side of the building. I hobbled out to the balcony and peered toward the roar.
“Did you see it?” I asked Old Jim later at Willow.
He nodded. “I just looked up from my computer and out the window and there it was, just over the trees.”
John-with-an-H had captured a tiny image on his phone and he passed it down the bar. “I missed the first shot since the airplane was actually below the tree-line,” he said. “It was low. They say under 1,500 feet.”
“Amazing,” I said. “I missed it, but I did hear the sound of the jet engines. Pretty cool, and makes you proud of NASA.”
“That is sort of like being proud of the British Empire as they lower the flag on a former colony,” growled Jim. “There is nothing to replace it. We are done.”
“Oh hell,” I said. “Remember, the Shuttle was never anything except a space truck for low-earth orbit. Plus, the SpaceX guys are going to launch an unmanned Dragon capsule to rendezvous with the International Space Station in just two weeks. Maybe it was time for the Government to get out of space.”
Jim and John-with looked dubious, and I decided to have another glass of wine, just for a change. Liz-with-an-S topped me up and I asked if she had heard back from the Inspector General’s office of the agency down the block. She shrugged. “I sent them a nice note thanking them for interviewing me. I told them I found their office engaging.”
“That is a polite way to talk about the IG,” said John-with.
“Nothing since?” I asked, looking a the late afternoon light through the amber color of the Australian Hay-Burner White in my glass.
She shook her head, and her chestnut ponytail danced on her lithe shoulders. “Nope. But I have hope.” She walked back along the bar as Jim said something rude but appreciative about her beauty.
“Where there is life…” I said. “But we seem to be out of the hope business, even though we keep trying.”
“Bill Clinton was from Hope, Arkansas,” said John-with, owlishly. “I think I am going to change from red to white wine in honor of the season. I hope that is acceptable.”
“And of course Mr. Obama was about Hope and Change,” said Jim.
“We read a book by General Gordon Sullivan at the War College called “Hope is Not a Method,”” I said. “The General said that hope by itself is no substitute for planning. He was Colin Powell’s Army Chief of Staff. That was the last time we took a big whack in the dense establishment. It sucked.”
“You are going to have to be doing a lot of hoping, then, if you are going to try to stay on the gravy train,” said Jim.
“You know,” I said, “Unless something else happens- Korea or China or Iran- we are going straight down the tubes in terms of force structure. I don’t see hope saving much. It is like the Shuttle- a grand last hurrah and then off to static display.”
“Can’t abandon hope,” said John-with. “It is a question of what you hope for.”
“That is what Pascal Bruckner said.”
“Who?”
“Bruckner. He is a crazy Frenchman who thinks that a paradigm shift in our thinking happened around Y2K. The era of revolution ended, and the Age of Catastrophe began.”
“You mean like the Global Warming thing?”
“He says it’s everything. Science, demographics, global warming, sea level, food. The whole nine yards. In five years or in ten years, temperatures will rise, Earth will be uninhabitable, natural disasters will multiply, the climate will bring us to war, and nuclear plants will explode.”
“Well, it might, right? Look at the Tsunami and the Fukashima reactors.”
“That is exactly the point. They just keep moving the goal posts. That is why people are losing interest. But the West has adopted a basic philosophy that we have despoiled the planet, ravaged the habitat and we must act immediately to change everything. Or else.”
“I certainly agree with that,” said John-with. “The Europeans have taken leave of their senses, and they seem to have convinced everyone here, too. Even NASA says so.”
“Not all of it. Mostly that idiot James Hansen. Did you see the letter from the 49 Astronauts telling Director Bolden that his chief of the Goddard Institute for Space Studies is becoming a public embarrassment.”
“Doesn’t he want an immediate international carbon tax? Isn’t that what Vice President Biden was calling for the other day? I say the hell with it. Apres moi, les deluge,” growled Jim.
“There are people who think the world would be better off without us,” said Liz-S, topping up my tulip glass.
“Apres nous, le deluge,” I said taking a satisfying sip. “Just don’t go on without us.”
“There is some question of whether Louie XV said that, or his mistress Madame Pompadour,” said John-with. “It is a matter of some controversy.”
“Whether he did or didn’t say it, his attitude managed to weaken the power of the state, gut the treasury, discredit the monarchy and set the stage for the French Revolution.”
“Not bad for a dilettante at government,” I said. “Every Age has its little challenges.”
“That Bruckner guy might be on to something,” said John-with.
“Fuck that,” growled Old Jim.
Copyright 2012 Vic Socotra