I was a space enthusiast as a young boy. I drew pictures of rockets and Gemini capsules; I fired Estes model rockets into the North Dakota sky. Once I launched a payload of ants I shanghaied from the backyard and watched the rocket streak up and pop the chute. The ants were returned to their colony. No one believed them, I’m sure. You went up in the air on a spaceship, and you saw glimpses of a vast world beyond our imagining. Sure. You’re late for your shift. Get downstairs and start milking the aphids.
Those of us who grew up with the thrills and victories of the American space program never understood the people who were unmoved by the effort. This is what mankind is supposed to do. Earth is just the start. Once we invent the Hyperdrive or the Cosmic Overthruster, we’ll get way out there and meet other species and form an organization and drive around learning things and having cool battles. What — we’re just supposed to sit here on this wet rock until the sun gutters out?






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