Space For Sale Read online

  “So the industry is corrupt, or at the very least, has undue influence. But how are you going to reduce the costs as much as you claim. For example, the Delta IV Heavy from ULA costs 350 million dollars. You say that your Eagle Heavy, which supposedly has double the payload of the Delta IV Heavy, will cost only 120 million dollars. So one-third the price, double the payload. How are you going to make something six-times more cost-effective? Is this just a 'pipe'-dream?”

  “I swear to god Tim, if you say pipe-dream, or what were you smoking, or make another dismissive stoner joke about me, I'm going to accidentally crash a rocket on your house.” Tim recoils, shocked. The crew goes completely silent. Hammersmith looks like she's going to have a stroke. “I'm sorry, did I say that out loud?”

  “So...umm,” Tim stammers, trying to get the interview back on the rails, “Is this another one of those instances where a program is supposed to cost this much, but it ends up years behind schedule, billions of dollars over budget? Or are you really going to do it?”

  “Well Tim, when you came here, you flew on a commercial jet, right?”

  “Right.”

  “Does the airline throw the plane away after each use?”

  “No, they certainly don't.”

  “But that's how we go to space. Every trip we take, every satellite we put up, we build a brand new airliner, then use it once and throw it away. That's not the way to do it.”

  “Well, what about the Space Shuttle? It was reusable, yet was still very expensive,” Tim interjects.

  “The shuttle is an entirely different thing. That's an example of NASA taking a good idea and completely missing the point. Long-story short, the shuttle wasn't all that reusable. The external tank was thrown away each time, the solid rocket boosters basically had to be rebuilt each time, the orbiter itself had to be refurbished and repaired much more than they anticipated, and the cost of maintaining all the employees and infrastructure to make the shuttle work was enormous. When they set out to make the shuttle, they took all the costs associated with running it and divided them by the number of missions they were going to fly. They estimated that in the first twelve years of the shuttle program, they would fly 725 missions. So the cost per mission was very low. Turns out they couldn't fly it that often, in fact, in the thirty years of the shuttle program, they flew 130 or so missions, not 725. Basically, they tried to make something reusable and cost-effective, but they went about it all wrong, made something that was heavy, extremely expensive to maintain, not very flexible for different missions, unsafe, and ultimately barely reusable because it had to be practically rebuilt every time. The shuttle ended up costing four times as much as expendable rockets with equivalent capacity. We're not going to make those mistakes.”

  “So how are you going to do it? What's the SpacEx rocket going to look like? How will it be different?”

  “Well, first of all, we're not beholden to taxpayers, so we have one factory. Trucks come in with raw materials like titanium and aluminum, and finished rockets and spacecraft come out of it. We do everything on site, right here. Engineering, manufacturing, research, customer service, all in one facility. The only thing we don't do here is launch the rocket. That means that we have an extremely efficient system. For ULA or NASA, when they finish a part, they ship it across the country to a different facility with a full staff to put it together with other parts. If they find a flaw, they ship it back across the country. It's expensive, slow, and leads to redundancies all over the place. If we find a flaw, we just roll it a hundred yards down the line and fix it. So right there we have cut many many costs. But that's not what you're interested in, you want the money shot of the big ass thing shooting fire and going to space.”

  “I wouldn't have put it like that, but yeah.”

  “We've developed a rocket engine called the Arthur. Our first rocket, The Eagle 1, has one Arthur engine. Eagle 5 has five Arthurs, Eagle 9 has nine, you get the idea.”

  “And what's the track record of the Arthur?”

  “We're oh-for-two. First two launches were failures,” K says.

  “What went wrong?”

  “Nothing, just ironing out kinks.”

  “Didn't the first Eagle 1 explode a few moments into the flight?” Tim asks.

  “No it didn't explode,” K laughs it off, “it may have experienced rapid unplanned disassembly, which to the layman may appear worse than it is.”

  “Rapid unplanned disassembly?” Tim asks. “So it unexpectedly fell apart?”

  “Something like that.”

  “Why's it called Arthur?”

  “When I was a kid, I loved both Arthur C. Clarke and King Arthur.”

  “What's special about the Arthur, you're betting your space program on this rocket, what makes it so great?”

  “Well, as you said, I'm betting it all on one engine. That's precisely the point. Just one engine. The majority of costs for rocket launches are really the factories and assembly lines and maintenance and the crews that service them. Something like the shuttle has different kinds of rockets, solid-fuel boosters and liquid-fuel engines. Even things like the Delta has strapped on boosters that are different, and upper stages that use even more different engines. We're doing it all with one engine. That way, we don't need separate assembly lines, we don't have to test and develop two or three engines and all the other stuff that goes along with it like plumbing and maintenance and fuel. So by using the same engine we do it safer, cheaper, simpler, with more flexibility in terms of maintenance and inventory.”

  “But so far, the Arthur engine is oh-for-two. When does it go up a third time?”

  “Tomorrow is our third all-up test,” K replies.

  “What happens if it fails? How many failures can you sustain until you run out of money or will?”

  “If this one doesn't work, there won't be enough money for a fourth test.”

  “So this is it, make or break, tomorrow at Cape Canaveral, either the Eagle works and you're in business, or it fails and you're bankrupt, is that what you're saying?”

  “Pretty much,” K says.

  “I wish you good luck with your launch tomorrow,” Tim says.

  “We're out,” the producer shouts.

  Kingsley stands up, stretching. Brittany Hammersmith immediately walks up to him. “So that went well,” she says sarcastically.

  “I thought so too,” K replies.

  “I was being sarcastic,” Hammersmith says through gritted teeth.

  “Are you sure? I'm not a rocket scientist, but that sounded more like malaise to me.”

  “Good job not insulting anyone. Oh except for, let's see, NASA, the DOD, anyone who works for Boeing or Lockheed-Martin, oil companies, car companies, Pittsburgh, and anyone who went to college.”

  “So I didn't insult 65% of the country, that's like a C minus,” K replies. “Besides, it's not my fault this dude can't keep his wife happy. . . So what's on the agenda for tonight?” K asks, rubbing his palms together.

  “Oh no mister,” Hannah says.

  “What?” K asks.

  “I know that look,” Hannah says.

  “Kingsley,” Hammersmith says sternly, “you're flying to Cape Canaveral in the morning for the launch. You are not to be hungover tomorrow. You get me?”

  “Last I checked,” K says, “I'm your boss, not the other way around. And besides, what harm is there in having a little fun? You remember fun right?”

  “I have work for you tonight,” Hammersmith replies.

  “You're giving me homework?” K asks.

  “I set up a meeting for you with Peter Wilke,” Hammersmith replies.

  “Who the hell is that?” K asks.

  “He's worth three billion dollars and you're meeting with him at the Staples Center tonight.”

  “Laker game?” K asks. “I hate basketball.”

  “No it's not sports, what was it?” Hammersmith turns to Hannah.

  “Some kind of stereo-skull something,” Hannah replies.

/>   “Stereo-skull?” K asks. “What the hell did you get me into?”

  Kingsley Pretorius walks up to the Staples Center in downtown Los Angeles. Chief SpacEx test-pilot Dexter Houston and Travis Clayton, SpacEx's chief flight engineer, stand in front of the arena, waiting for Kingsley.

  “Where you been?” Dexter asks.

  “I can't valet park the K, nobody knows how to drive it,” K replies. K looks at the marquee in front of the Staples Center. “Radiohead. Not stereo-skull.”

  “I think Hammerballs is inside already,” Dexter says.

  “Why are you guys waiting for me?” K asks.

  “We're your wingmen, we got you,” Travis Clayton replies. Travis is a 45 and balding, another former astronaut. He's wearing a sport coat that's three sizes too big and khaki pants he purchased during the Clinton Administration. K suspiciously analyzes Travis and Dexter's feeble attempts to dress cool. Astronauts aren't what they used to be.

  “You guys don't really think you're my wingmen do you?” K asks as they walk toward the VIP entrance.

  “Bitch, two of the three of us have been in space,” Dexter replies.

  “Yeah, we're god damn astronauts,” Clayton adds.

  “Astronauts are a dime-a-dozen,” K says as they're quickly waved inside. They look for the billionaire's suite, walking through the halls of the Staples Center. “You're not wingmen, you guys are those fish that follow Great White Sharks around, picking up scraps. You're vultures.”

  “Vultures aren't fish,” Dexter says as the three of them reach the private luxury box overlooking the Staples Center. There are two naked models covered in sushi and waiters serving Cristal. “Hey that's that one girl,” Clayton says.

  “What?” K asks.

  “I think it's Anna Farris,” Dexter adds.

  “You guys are like fifty, you have no idea who that is,” K adds.

  “There's Hammerdick,” Dexter says. “She's waving you over.”

  “Tell her I'm hungry,” K says, proceeding toward the models covered in sushi. The two girls are covered in delicately constructed flowers made of pickled ginger and leaves made of dried seaweed. The girls stare at the ceiling like lifeless mannequins while a fat businessman picks up pieces of raw fish with his fat stubby fingers. Most people pick sushi from the less risque places on the models, like the arm or the stomach. Kingsley doesn't beat around the bush. “What do we have here?” K asks, as picks up a piece of futomaki, a slice of a thick roll, from the leaf covering the model's privates. K sniffs the raw fish and says, “Mmm, tuna,” before chomping it down and going back for seconds.

  Hammersmith quickly joins him.

  “He's ready to invest, I need you to close the deal Kingsley,” Hammersmith says as K picks up a piece of yellowtail nigiri from the model's breast.

  “Kingsley?!” the model says excitedly, diverting her dead gaze from the ceiling and breaking rule number one of being a fish platter.

  “You know her?” Hammersmith asks accusingly.

  “No. She knows me,” K replies. “Why can't you close the deal?”

  “He wants to talk to you,” Hammersmith replies. “Go on, finish it.” K ignores her, instead, he tickles the bottom of the model's foot, making her giggle. “K!”

  “What?” he asks.

  “Close the deal!” Hammersmith whispers insistently.

  “What's it look like I'm doing,” K says, the model giggles harder, causing sushi to fall off her stomach.

  “Not her, with Wilke.”

  “Alright, I'm going,” K says. He grabs a handful of sushi and saunters over to Wilke's table. “The Wilkster, how's it hanging,” K says sitting down next to him, hands full of sushi. Brittany Hammersmith stands over K's shoulder.

  “Mr. Wilke was just wondering if his ride into space was going to be safe,” Hammersmith says to K.

  “Oh yeah, that thing's gonna be real safe,” K adds, chomping on sushi and watching the concert out the window.

  “What's your track record?” Wilke asks.

  “We're oh-for-two,” K replies nonchalantly.

  “That doesn't sound safe,” Wilke replies.

  “Relax, it'll be safe. I know what I'm doing. It's got launch-abort-systems as well as engine-out capability. It's gonna be safe.”

  “And what are those?” Hammersmith asks, trying to get K to elaborate.

  “What do you care? I'm telling you it's gonna be safe. We don't put people on it until we get it right, and we're working on it. I'll be the first person to ride that thing. So trust me, I'm making it safe. So, you know, give us fifty million dollars and you can be on the the second flight, the very first passenger.”

  “You know, Richard Branson's got a spaceplane that will cost a fraction of that,” Wilke replies.

  “That's sub-orbital! How many times do I have to explain this? Do people not know what sub-orbital means?” K is getting irritated.

  “Why don't you explain it to him,” Hammersmith says through gritted teeth.

  “There's a reason it's called Virgin Galactic,” K says, “it only lasts forty seconds. I'm talking about a two week vacation in space. You'll be the first space-tourist to ride a commercial flight into orbit. That's not quite Neil Armstrong territory, but it's close. In the history books, under space-firsts, it's Yuri Gagarin, Neil Armstrong, and then whatever your name is. I'm gonna go get some more sushi.”

  K heads back to the sushi table to flirt with the other model. Hammersmith follows. “Wanna try that again with a little less sarcasm?”

  “Come on Britt, this isn't the way we stay in business. We can't be constantly trying to get some billionaire to give us money. We have to make it cool and then we'll have plenty of customers. Stop worrying about the bottom line, and start worrying about making it cool.”

  “Okay, that's hard for me because I'm the CFO,” Brittany replies as K starts ticking the feet of the other sushi-model. “Quit it!”

  “Quit what?” K asks.

  “You're bugging her while she's working.”

  “She likes it,” K replies.

  “It tickles,” the model says, giggling.

  “See,” K says. “I know what I'm doing.” Hammersmith stares him down with no real goal in mind. She finally gives up and walks back to Wilke's table. Dexter and Travis join Kingsley's side as he flirts with both sushi girls.

  “And the vultures swoop in,” Kingsley announces.

  “I'm an astronaut,” Travis says to a sushi girl. K just looks at him with disdain.

  “Too soon boys, they're not scraps yet,” K says. “Go talk to Anne Hathaway.”

  “Hathaway! Not Ferris,” Dexter says.

  “Whatever, Anne something,” Travis replies.

  “See if she cares if you're astronauts,” K says. Once the boys are gone, K turns to his sushi girls. “I'll see you two later.” He grabs another handful of sushi, a glass of Cristal, and proceeds to a large booth where five women are seated. Each woman is dressed in an expensive gown. These women are all either trophies belonging to a big shot, or are prospective trophies. K doesn't mind.

  “You ladies know if Radiohead is gonna be up here later?” K asks.

  “Who's Radiohead?” a trophy asks. K, with a mouthful of fish, simply points to the stage through the window.

  “They'll be here,” a voice says. This voice grabs K's attention. Most of the women here are LA trash. Wannabe actresses and models, the talentless girls who were the hottest pieces of ass in their small towns, so they all came here to be stars. But this voice, this belongs to someone with class. K locks eyes with the woman the voice belongs to. She's sitting off to one end of the booth, away from the trophies, sporting a smile that subtly says she hates everything about this place.

  “Do I know you?” K asks. “You look familiar to me.”

  “I was a dead hooker on an episode of the new Hawaii Fifty,” a trophy says.

  “Not you,” K says derisively without looking away from this cultured woman in his sights.

  �
�You might know of me. I don't believe we've met.”

  “We'll I'm Kingsley,” K says, not looking away from her blue eyes.

  “I know who you are,” she says.

  “What is that accent? Where are you from?”

  “I'm from Las Vegas,” another trophy interrupts. K completely ignores her.

  “Monaco.”

  “Monaco...” K suddenly realizes who he is talking to. He instinctively sits upright, a bit shocked by the realization. “Caroline,” he says tentatively.

  “What the hell dude?” Travis says, slapping K's shoulder. “That was not Anne Hathaway, that was just some girl!”

  “Why don't you introduce us to your new friends,” Dexter says, leering down the dress of a trophy. The trophy girls immediately get up and leave. Caroline stays put at the far end of the booth.