In a spectacle that would make Icarus blush, Jeff Bezos’s Blue Origin has managed to turn a routine rocket launch into a rather expensive fireworks display. The New Shepard rocket, in a fit of existential crisis, decided that space exploration was overrated and opted for a more immediate reunion with the Earth’s surface. The mishap, which occurred during an uncrewed test flight, has sent shockwaves through the corridors of power, particularly those in Whitehall where our esteemed leaders had pinned their lunar hopes on this very rocket like a hopeful teenager with a poster of a rock star.
Let us pause to consider the sheer poetry of the situation. Britain, a nation whose contributions to space travel have largely been limited to naming craters after eccentric astronomers and producing the odd astronaut who forgets to pack enough Marmite, has decided to hitch its wagon to a rocket that can’t even make it past the Kármán line without throwing a tantrum. The UK Space Agency, in its infinite wisdom, had signed a deal with Blue Origin to use the New Shepard for scientific experiments and, presumably, to give our boffins a chance to feel important. Now, with the rocket scattered across the Texas desert like a jigsaw puzzle made by a blindfolded chimpanzee, those ambitions have a rather singed look.
But let us not be too hasty in our mockery. After all, failure is the first step towards success, or so they tell me as I nurse my fourth gin and tonic. The question is: how many failures can we afford before the only thing left of our space programme is a collection of witty T-shirts? The government’s response, as ever, has been a masterclass in obfuscation. Minister for Space, if such a position exists and isn’t just a figment of my imagination, is said to be ‘reviewing options.’ I suspect those options include launching a committee, commissioning a report, and then promptly forgetting about the whole thing until the next crisis.
Meanwhile, NASA, which had been relying on Blue Origin for its lunar ambitions, must be feeling a bit like a jilted bride at the altar. The Artemis programme, which aims to return humans to the Moon, now has a gaping hole where the landing system should be. But fear not, for Elon Musk’s SpaceX is ready to step in with a rocket that looks like a giant phallus and has a success rate that is marginally better than a coin flip. Indeed, the future of space exploration is safe in the hands of billionaires with more money than sense and a penchant for dramatic public relations stunts.
As I sit here, contemplating the cosmic irony of it all, I am struck by the realisation that perhaps we are aiming too high. Instead of reaching for the stars, maybe we should focus on fixing the potholes in our roads, or ensuring that the trains run on time. But that would be far too sensible, and where’s the fun in that? No, let us continue to pour billions into rockets that are as reliable as a politician’s promise. After all, if at first you don’t succeed, try, try again. And if you still fail, just change the criteria for success. That’s the British way.
