Editorial License

Rob Hammerton, music educator etc.

Boldly Go

The boy stopped in at his dorm room briefly, after his mid-morning class. A couple things to fetch before the afternoon’s slate of activities kicked in. He flicked on the radio, set to the very local AM station, and noted his good fortune: a news update.

The report had begun already. The boy tried to discern what was going on in the story being reported, but without the introductory remarks to help him, he was a little at-sea. The reporter was hushed, speculative, without a bit of the usual “hey I’m on the radio” news-but-nearly-entertainment spark in his voice. Occasionally another voice emerged from the audio background, and the boy instantly recognized it.

Mission Control.

The boy had been greatly interested in the American space program ever since he could remember. He’d lie on the living room floor with a map, taken from the centerfold of an issue of National Geographic, of The Solar System, and study it for great long periods of time (as was befitting of a universe that was very old indeed). His imagination had been fired by episodes of original-series Star Trek, and by dim memories of the Apollo moon landings. Any time there was mention of the space program, or of space exploration, the little kid in him dropped everything and listened.

And so, he listened.

It was bad.

Well, something was bad, at least, but the boy was still having trouble taking the radio-reported puzzle pieces and assembling them into a completed mosaic.

Downrange” … “obviously we have a major malfunction” … “there is no downlink” …

Rockets had gone up and then come down, unceremoniously, before. Film clips of that sort of thing were common in video montages of “the agony of defeat” – especially the attempts by the Soviet space program, oddly-shaped projectiles that leapt briefly into the air before coming straight back down and setting their own launch pad on fire. Nothing like the majestic Saturn V rockets thundering off the pad at Cape Canaveral …

Oh wait. Oh hell. That was happening today, wasn’t it. That was supposed to be this morning.

The teacher going into space.

And something went wrong. But they still won’t tell me what it is. Because maybe they don’t know.

The boy had to get to lunch, on his way to afternoon classes. He picked up his things, shut off the radio, and headed out, with that awful sense that something is very wrong in the world but without the proper details to suggest just what.

On a whim, the boy detoured from his usual dorm-to-dining-hall path and headed for the campus center. Something suggested to him that there might be more information there.

Sure enough. There were at least sixty students crowded around a television mounted on a tall metal cart just outside a campus center convenience store, staring, shaking their heads, not saying very much. Dan Rather was the talking head, and next to him was a scale model of a Space Shuttle, mounted on its maroon fuel tank, flanked by its two solid-rocket-boosters. The boy instantly knew exactly what he was going to hear, as he tried to get closer to the TV.

There was no announcement on the fate of the crew, but it appeared … there was no way they could survive …”

He stood and watched for another few minutes. Then he turned and headed back to the dining hall. Such a cliché to say that while the world looked exactly as it had for days and months and years before, there was now something completely different. But it was true.

Hi all,” the boy said to a table full of his friends. One of them pulled out a chair and pointed to it, and the boy sat down, with a small smile of thanks. “Ready for this?”

What?”

Challenger just went down.”

What?”

Space Shuttle. They think it crashed just after lifting off, just now.”

The boy had to do quite a bit of work to convince his friends that he wasn’t pulling their legs. “Would I make a joke about that sort of thing?” Not merely because he wasn’t heavily into pulling practical jokes that had to do with seven astronauts reportedly dying horribly; but because people knew he was something of a Trek nerd, and therefore probably was a space program nerd too.

Since the Internet and smartphones were decades away, they had to take his word for it until they could get to a TV or a radio and see for themselves.

Meanwhile, the boy thought, for the first time in his life, manned space flight was not certain to end in triumph, like all those TV episodes. Really, it was just as dangerous as it always had been. For heaven’s sake (pun?), for years we’d been parking humans on top of a container full of many tons of intensely flammable fuel and lighting the stuff on fire, in the hopes that the humans could be launched into orbit, and then somehow those humans could make their way to the moon or somewhere, and then could actually make it home. (And usually, those efforts were supported by a roomful of computers, the equivalent of whose computing power now resides in the single iMac sitting on my desk here, from which I am blogging.)

What could possibly go wrong?

Apparently, the investigation eventually concluded, the effects of unusually cold Florida weather upon a tiny little O-shaped rubber ring inside a solid rocket booster. That’s what could go wrong.

Eight zillion little details, and not a one of them is allowed to go wrong. Otherwise … disaster.

The boy used to think it was ridiculous that, on every single Star Trek episode, something went wrong aboard the Starship Enterprise. What kind of rattle trap are they sending Captain Kirk out there on? That’s the flagship of Starfleet Command?

The boy didn’t think that, so much, anymore.

He even started to think about the eight zillion little details involved when cars started. Or when basement furnaces kicked in on a chilly morning. Or when band buses pulled out of the parking lot, headed for faraway places that were not, in fact, that far away really.

So he had even greater, even more firmly renewed respect for the people who were willing to climb on top of all that rocket fuel and agree to have someone light the fuse … and then spend a week surrounded by nothing but vacuum that you can’t breathe when your air hose snaps, and surrounded by no gravity to push against and nothing to grab hold of when you let go of your tether or your handhold.

Breathtaking, jaw-dropping, brain-freezing, heart-in-your-throat -grade peril … cheerfully accepted. That’s the reality of space exploration, and that’s okay with us, say our astronautical hero types. Or at least that’s what we’re showing the cameras, even if there’s a tiny sliver of terror hanging out in the back of our minds, since with Gemini and Apollo and Skylab behind us, we know full well what potential challenges we’re getting ourselves into.

Thirty years ago this morning, the Space Shuttle Challenger made its final launch, Mission STS-51-L. Commander Francis R. Scobee, Pilot Michael J. Smith, Mission Specialists Ronald McNair, Ellison Onizuka, and Judith Resnick, and Payload Specialists Gregory Jarvis and Christa McAuliffe went out to explore, and didn’t come home. Doubtless they had some idea that there was risk involved; but that didn’t keep them from going. There was work to be done; there were things to be learned.

And now, there are folks in orbit, as we speak, aboard the International Space Station, and it doesn’t ever make the news. They’re up there, quietly doing great work, in their little tiny bubble of hospitable environment, surrounded by the great beyond. They have to get up there, somehow, and they do. They have to get back to Earth somehow, and they do that too. In part, they do all that thanks to the people who were charged with figuring out what (and who) went wrong, thirty years ago, so that humans might continue to focus on more lofty goals than just getting up there and getting back down.

As it turns out, the folks who first wrote the words “to boldly go where no man has gone before” either were strikingly prescient … or they didn’t know the half of it.

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January 28, 2016 Posted by | heroes, news, science, technology | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | Leave a comment

Detail!

If you ever saw my (um) cluttered house, you might doubt this next statement, but: I try to be a detail-oriented fella.

In fact, because of the confluence of three of my interests, it’s conceivable that I could be classified as a Major League Detail Guy. (If only I really did live up to the standards of such a title all the time; but that’s another lament for another time.)

 

First Life Interest: I used to be a journalism guy, officially. Now I’m just an observer of the profession; but the training never really leaves you. As I pursued an undergraduate degree in journalistic studies, the emphasis was on accurate reportage, getting the facts straight, avoiding the misquoting of sources, double- and triple-checking multiple sources so as to report actual confirmed facts. Who what where when how, with a big side order of why.

Out in the big bad real world of journalistic endeavor, my first and only job was as an editorial assistant for a microwave-engineering technical journal. My life there was dominated by two activities:

[1] Making red marks on papers, indicating MISTAKES! in spelling, grammar, syntax and such; and making sure that magazine pages being readied for publication followed our established stylistic guidelines. There should be THIS much space between headline and body copy; the line dividing text columns should be THIS thick; THIS item should be in boldface but THIS item should not.

And [2] opening the mail, reading the press releases that our advertiser companies sent us (and sent us, and sent us), and boiling them down into little publishable blurbs for the magazine’s “New Products” section. Each blurb needed to include all the important details of whatever product it was, shouldn’t include the extraneous ones, and hopefully interested readers enough that they would consider making a purchase or two. In this role, I was less a journalist and more of a marketing surrogate; but that, often as not, is life at a trade magazine. The rules were the same: get it right, down to the last little tiny detail. Because the tiniest mistake, paradoxically, almost always seems to get noticed immediately, and makes the whole magazine look bad.

Speaking of the question of “is anyone really going to notice a small error?”…

 

Second Life Interest: I’m a musician. Never mind the music-teacher aspect of it, which requires me to stay organized with regard to grading, materials, budgets and the like. That part is definitely more of a challenge for me. But I’m thinking of my life as a rehearsing and performing musician.

In baseball, if you get a base hit three times out of every ten trips to the plate, you have very nearly punched your ticket to the Hall of Fame. On a math test, three out of ten will not do it for you.

On a math test, for that matter, if you answer nine questions out of ten correctly, our current system of grading has you in the A range. (Barely, but it does.) But in a concert, if I play nine notes out of every ten correctly … if I screw up just one rhythm out of every ten … if I interpret 90 percent of the articulations correctly … it’s obviously not perfect. In the music world, it’s definitely not an A-minus performance. And at least with regard to the pitches and rhythms, if not the more expression-oriented details of music, audience members will notice the ten percent that ain’t right somehow (even if they don’t know why it ain’t).

In, say, a choir with twenty members, if two of the singers are singing a wrong note, wrong rhythm, wrong word … or if they’re not in the same place in the music as everyone else … it’s noticeable. If the chorus is 250 strong and ninety percent of them are nailing it … that’s still twenty-five people who are out to lunch, even if only for a moment.

So, paying attention to details – ALL the details! – in that world is vitally important if you want to convince people that you’re a decent musician and this is a quality performance.

 

Third Life Interest: I’m a sci-fi nerd and I always have been.

Sit me down with a snack and a TV tuned to Star Trek reruns and I’m good for the afternoon. Park me in front of any Star Wars film (except bits of Episode I, and most of Episode II) and I won’t bother you for a good long while. More to the point, I can tell you in rather exacting detail why I can’t watch parts of Episode I (almost any scene featuring Jar Jar Binks or the young Jake Lloyd, who might by now be a fine actor but wasn’t in 1999) and why Episode II is borderline unwatchable (too many details to include here; you’ll have to take my word).

From my days as a seventh-grade student who suddenly realized he was surrounded by several other people who were willing to breathe the words “Battlestar Galactica” in public, to my early college days having lunch with members of the science-fiction club who were without doubt the precursors to the “Big Bang Theory” cast … I’ve been associated with folks who are borderline obsessive about details. Dr. McCoy is a Lieutenant Commander so his uniform sleeves have one solid and one broken braid around them not two solid! Vipers don’t launch from the Battlestar’s outboard landing bays! And Doctor Who’s scarf as worn by Tom Baker was never shorter than 12 feet. Everybody knows THAT. (Come to think of it, his name isn’t “Doctor Who”, either.)

Taking it one step further, and allowing two of these Life Interests to collide: I can also speak in mind-numbing detail about certain science-fiction film scores. I had a moment of blog-posting on this subject once, and that should probably suffice. (To wit: there are no less than seven distinct leitmotifs in the Star Wars score, associated with characters, groups or concepts – in Episode IV alone. And that’s probably more than you cared to know.)

 

The question is, as always – how much attention to detail is too much?

Maybe the place where this is all allowed to fall apart, at least in my world, is the floors of my house, which tend to be filled with piles of papers, books and other fallout from a busy life. But, as my father used to say, at least they’re organized heaps…

March 21, 2013 Posted by | journalism, music, science fiction | , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , , | 3 Comments