Chapter 4 – Gustav Raines

Under any other circumstances, Gustav Raines’ death would have been fortunate for the crew of George W. Bush: I haven’t a clue how such a fool was placed on the crew of such a complicated machine as the space shuttle. His knowledge of physics might have been useful — extensive, even — but not exactly necessary on the shuttle.

The A.S.E.A. had plenty of physics experts on the ground, each of which was just a radio call away. No, like the government which funded it, the American Space Exploration Association had become a machine based on seniority and popularity rather than one of merit. Gustav was no exception, and his presence in the world only served as a nagging reminder of how commonplace the A.S.E.A.’s habit of choosing favor over qualification was.

Of course, this practice was ruinous for the space program. The ‘60s through the ‘80s was the golden age in space development and exploration for two reasons: competition with the Russians, and the astronauts chosen were deserving of their jobs. We’ve neither, now, and we’re all made to suffer for it. We could have a colony on the Moon by now and instead the GWB is going to orbit the Earth to determine whether or not going to the Moon in one of these outdated shuttles is even feasible. People like Gustav and the oligarchy down at Mission Control were the reason we haven’t gotten anywhere in the last ten years. Meanwhile, people like me have one or two ‘disagreements’ with Jim and the rest of the crew and we’re destined to bottom-feed for the rest of our careers. The only person at the A.S.E.A. worth a damn anymore was John Gunther.

If you don’t break a few eggs, you can’t make an omelet.

No one reforms without a reason. Generally speaking, that reason needs to be catastrophic in nature. When your dog dies, you get weepy for a while, but you get a new one. When your entire household gets wiped out when your gas stove gets left on and the candle on the kitchen table incinerates a quarter of your block, you start to think about things a little differently. Especially when your house is a $1.7 billion dollar space shuttle and a full crew of highly-trained astronauts who cost millions of dollars to train. Especially when a disgustingly under-qualified astronaut was chosen over his highly qualified brother. And especially when that lack of expertise contributed to the house going up like the Fourth. I hope you understand me.

It’s everyone’s responsibility to ensure that what we hand off to our children isn’t a worthless, bureaucratic mess. If we fail in that capacity, we might as well have never existed. It’s the people who make a difference that are remembered. Everything else is just paperwork rammed down our throats. Today, I’m done with paperwork.

I slowly buttoned Gustav’s suit jacket: it fit perfectly. I look good in a suit. Gustav and I have always been roughly the same size. Being identical twins does confer one or two benefits besides fooling people.

At 5:15 A.M. his — my — house phone rang. I picked up the receiver and an official-sounding man spoke through the line.

“Gustav?”

“This is Daniel. Gustav’s in the shower.”

“Tell Gustav he should have been here fifteen minutes ago.”

“Thanks. I’ll let him know.” I placed the handset back into its cradle. “Did you hear that, Gustav?”

I had forgotten: Gustav was dead. I stabbed him thirteen times through the throat with a penknife in his kitchen two nights before the shuttle launch. He was curious: he didn’t scream, didn’t cry out, didn’t struggle. He just died. Anticipating the actions of others was never Gustav’s strong point.

The night before the launch, I sat up until three A.M. watching tapes of Jeopardy with his corpse. He was usually quicker to the question than I but, oddly enough, couldn’t seem to come up with many points that night.

My name is Daniel Raines. If you want change, you have to be willing to deal with a catastrophe.

I hope you’ll excuse me: I have a space shuttle to fly.

Advertisement