Baking such a large cake was no small feat. It was made in sections and assembled in a rented truck so it could be easily transported to its destination; to get the giant confection out of the truck – it weighed around 900 pounds – they planned to use a lift. (Right, Landwirth’s staff and the commemorative cake.)

A cake that size also takes time to bake, and since Glenn’s flight only lasted a matter of hours, Landwirth had the cake made before launch day. But he had it baked before Glenn’s original planned launch date – January 16, 1962. The flight was delayed because of a problem with the Atlas’ fuel tanks. The next launch date, January 23, came and went as bad weather settled at the cape.

A mix of bad weather and problems with the Atlas pushed Glenn’s launch back to February 20. All the while, Landwirth had a giant cake in a truck that was starting to spoil.

The hotelier came up with a simple, if taxing, solution to keep the cake fresh. He fitted the truck with air conditioners hooked up to generators, turning it into a fridge on wheels. (Left, the cake at Cape Canaveral after Glenn’s historic flight. February 22, 1962.)

On February 23, three days after Friendship 7 finally launched, Glenn arrived back at Cape Canaveral. Landwirth had brought the cake from his motel to the cape, and, after agreeing to have a dietitian test it to make sure it was only stale and not poisonous, it was served to 2,000 people at a reception.

At one point, Landwith pulled Glenn aside. “How does it taste?” he asked.

“It tastes fine, Henri, why?” Glenn asked. The astronaut later described the look that crossed Landwith’s face at this point in their conversation as a mix between mischief and relief.

Landwith admitted that he’d baked it a month before in preparation for Glenn’s mid-January launch. “You wouldn’t believe what I had to keep it fresh,” he said.

To which Glenn replied, “I didn’t say it tasted fresh.” (Right, cutting the capsule cake.)

Thanks to J.L. at Retro Space Images for sending me these fantastic images.

America loved him, but he wasn’t the favourite among his fellow astronauts. He set himself apart as the one among them who wasn’t cool and laid back like a test pilot ought to be. He didn’t hide his eagerness to fly in space, and when he was passed over for the first launch, he fought to have the flight assignment changed. In the end, he was at the right place in the flight lineup at the right time to make the first orbital flight and secure his place in history. But it was never certain to be his flight, and it’s a very interesting story. Read the full article on Scientific American’s Guest Blog. 

This picture of the Mercury astronauts was taken after they were introduced to the country in a press conference 0n April 9, 1959. From the left, they are Wally Schirra, Al Shepard, Gus Grissom, Deke Slayton, John Glenn, Scott Carpenter, and Gordon Cooper. Look at the group dynamic. Glenn is the only one smiling; the rest look bored and uncomfortable being in the spotlight. On Glenn’s right, Slayton is visibly sizing him up.

During the press conference, Glenn emerged as excited and eager while the rest carried themselves like cool test pilots. Check out the press conference: part 1; part 2; part 3. You can watch the whole video and download a transcript of the press conference on NASA’s site commemorating the event. Here’s a great site that looks like it pulls early images of Glenn’s life from LIFE magazine.

Read my full article on Glenn’s struggle to make an historic flight on Scientific American’s Guest Blog. And here are some fun facts and strange finds about Glenn.

My article commemorating the mission will appear tomorrow on Scientific American’s Guest Blog, but I thought it might be fun to share some of the interesting facts and bizarre finds I came across during my research. (Left, Glenn trains in a simulator. 1959.)

When NASA announced the Friendship 7 flight the launch date was set for January 16, 1962. But problems with the Atlas’ fuel tanks and adverse weather pushed the launch back over a month. By the time launch day came — finally with clear skies — some worried that Glenn was overtrained. He wasn’t. The formal ruling on his preparedness in the post mission report said that the extra time had given him a greater familiarity with the spacecraft’s systems and vital training in launch abort procedures. During Mercury, an escape tower would pull the capsule free from an exploding rocket. The resulting hard land landing was something Glenn and the other Mercury astronauts were very happy to never experience. (Right, Glenn studies a globe at the aeromedical laboratory.)

When it came to naming the capsule, Glenn got his children involved. He asked them to consider some names on one condition: it had to represent the country and the way we feel about the rest of the world. His son Dave and daughter Lyn wrote down what they thought were appropriate words from a thesaurus: Columbia, endeavour, America, Magellan, we, hope, harmony, and kindness. Friendship was on top of the list, and Glenn loved it. He had the artist at Cape Canaveral paint the name in script to set it apart from the block letters that decorated his predecessors’ spacecraft. (Left, Glenn okays the artwork for his Friendship 7 spacecraft.)

Four hours and 55 minutes after launch, Glenn splashed down in the Atlantic Ocean. In a previous post about splashdowns — regular readers know that landing methods are a favourite topic of mine — I estimated that over 8,000 men were on hand to assist in Glenn’s recovery. It turns out that my estimate was far too conservative. There were 15,600 men involved in the recovery operations for Glenn’s flight. 15,600!

Moving from the past to the present, it’s been interesting to read the articles celebrating Glenn and Friendship 7 this past week. Most chronicle the historic flight or else sing the praises of this national treasure, but few put Glenn within the context of the Mercury program or NASA as a whole.Though this might only seem like an oversight to an historian. I won’t cover that here (that would give away tomorrow’s aritcle), but the theme of heroics without context did make me think about what John Glenn means to the average American (and Canadian) today. (Right, the Mercury astronauts pose with a model rocket in 1959. This picture will be relevant further down.)

Informal polls yielded interesting results. Glenn made people think of: elementary schools, bravery, The Right Stuff, Ed Harris, the Moon, Apollo 13, astronauts, Neil Armstrong, spaceflight, role models, Buzz Aldrin, NASA, the space program, and being awesome.

‘Hero’ was, by far, the most common response.

And like any national hero, Glenn has been immortalized in more than just books and movies. There are some really interesting renditions of the astronaut in museums and collections.

The image on the left shows wax figures of the seven Mercury astronauts inspecting a rocket with an interesting paint scheme. The manic smiles and wide eyes on their faces are frightening to say the least. Particularly Grissom who looks far too excited by a model rocket and Carpenter whose eyes are focused off into the distance. This is, I assume, modeled after the previous image, though none were smiling like this in the original.

Another wax tribute to NASA’s first astronaut corps in the Denver Wax Museum captures the spirit of the program. All seven astronauts are in some kind of space station. Glenn floats above the rest while Slayton is unsmiling; perhaps because he never got to fly a Mercury mission. Carpenter, depicted climbing out of a hatch, seems to be looking longingly into the eyes of a colleague. In all cases, they’re virtually unrecognizable. (Right, the wax Carpenter.)

John Glenn action figures are not uncommon either. Custom figurines are available online, like this model. The detail is exquisite, but the face looks like the stuff of nightmares. To be fair, few people look good on a 1:6 scale and sculpting a face that small is not easy.

I’m sure there are thousands more instances of strange memorabilia, old and new, depicting the Mercury astronauts. The culture surrounding the first manned spaceflight program goes well beyond men on the covers of magazines. Shampoo came in mini Apollo command module and space food sticks were available in grocery stores. And if the 50th anniversary of Glenn’s flight is any indication, there’s no shortage of reverence for the nation’s first astronauts a half century later.

Now, a new piece of Venus’ mysterious puzzle has come to light. The planet’s rotation is slowing down. Its day has gotten 6.5 minutes longer in the last 16 years. The rate of a planet’s rotation varies, but this is a significant change for so short a time. So what exactly is going on with Venus? Check out my full article on Motherboard.

It starts with Charles William “C. W.” Post who was introduced to corn flakes before the rest of the world. He visited the Battle Creek Sanitarium, run by John Harvey Kellogg with his brother William Keith, for his failing in the early 1890s. The Kellogg brothers had developed the dry cereal for their patients as well as Postum, a cereal beverage Post preferred to coffee since he shied away from caffein. Taken by these prepared foods, Post founded the Postum Cereal Co. in 1895. After its creator’s suicide and a series of corporate deals, Postum became General Foods Corporation in 1929. In 1941, Dr. William A. Mitchell joined the company.

Mitchell was a food chemist who received over 70 patents in his 35 years with the company. He is the man behind Pop Rocks, Jell-O, Cool Whip, powdered eggs whites, and Tang. (Right, Mitchell. Image credit: poprockscandy.com)

Tang first appeared on the market as an orange-flavoured breakfast drink in 1957. In 1959, its more recognizable powdered form arrived on shelves. It was mostly sugar — 9 grams in each 8 ounce serving — but it was also packed with vitamin C, vitamin A, calcium, and vitamin E.

Sales were poor until 1962 when John Glenn drank Tang in orbit. His Friendship 7 flight was the first time an astronaut would be in space long enough to need food and drink — Shepard’s and Grissom’s suborbital flights were too short. Millions watching the mission saw Glenn eat applesauce and drink Tang out of a bag. It was a space age treat moms could bring home for their children from the supermarket. Sales skyrocketed. (Left, another space-age ad for Tang.)

NASA gave Tang another boost during the Gemini program when it chose the drink to accompany astronauts during increasingly long duration missions. Footage from the missions was even used in a commercial. Tang is also rumoured to have accompanied Apollo astronauts to the Moon, though there’s some speculation as to whether it was Tang or a similar powdered orange drink. There was some question about astronauts needing nutrient-heavy drinks on longer mission, low potassium was a possible problem, so it could be that the drink of choice was a Tang-like NASA creation.

Tang has since been synonymous with the space program; General Foods Corporation used Tang’s inclusion in spaceflight as a sales tool. Commercials portrayed Tang as the drink of champions, comparing children to astronauts with the message that giving a child Tang would launch him on a path to success.

General Foods Corporation went defunct in 1990 when the company was absorbed by Kraft. But Tang is still around. The powdered drink is available on Amazon and the International Space Station where it comes in mylar bags with special valves that allow it to be rehydrated without leaking. (Right, a Tang ad featuring a futuristic looking space shuttle concept.)

Suggested viewing:

1970s Tang Commercial - “Tang is for Earthmen who don’t want to be Earthbound.”

1983 Tang Commercial - “Launch your day with the goodness of Tang.”

1985 Tang Commercial - “I start him on his way with Tang.”

1966 Tang Commercial – “Have a blast. Have some Tang.”

1969 Tang Commercial - “As long as he gets his nourishment.”

1950s/1960s Tang Commercial for kids that wanted to be cowboys rather than astronauts – “Drink Tang, gang. It’s Tangeriffic.”

In the movie, a couple is killed in an auto accident and their bodies are immediately inhabited by extraterrestrial beings; without bodies they look like to humans like balls of light. Taking refuge in an underground cave, the aliens attempt to sabotage the U.S. space program using giant ray guns. For some reason, delaying humans’ mastery of spaceflight is paramount.

There’s a minute fraction of truth in the movie. Though unrelated to alien intervention, the Atlas launch vehicles did have a really nasty habit of blowing up. I’m sure someone out there will disagree with me — if you’ve got a conspiracy theory that supports alien involvement I’d love to hear it. (Right, the aliens in their borrowed human bodies.)

The Atlas program began in 1951 as a US Air Force program to study ballistic missiles. Announced in 1954, Atlas was given top priority in 1955 when information of Soviet Intercontinental Ballistic Missiles (ICBMs) reached the US.

The Atlas began testing, in pieces, in 1957. After the first and second tests flights ended with booster failures, the third test was the first success in December of that year. The rocket flew 600 miles. In July 1958, the first test of the full rocket was labeled “marginally successful;” aside from a failure of control in flight, everything worked. Propulsion failures dogged the next few tests, and it was right around this time that the two week old NASA began discussing applications of the Atlas rocket to the Mercury program. (Left, the reconstructed Mercury capsule after the first Mercury-Atlas launch failed and exploded.)

There were a number of successful flight in 1959, but the year was marked with propellant feed failures, propulsions failures, electrical failures, hydraulic systems failures and overall launch systems failures. The mix of successes and failures continued in 1960 and 1961 with a success rate a little over 50 percent.

The Atlas Ds faired slightly better. The first rocket succumbed to structural failures. The rocket’s skin was so thin it would collapse under its own weight; even unfueled it had to be pressurized with nitrogen gas. It had to be strengthened further since the manned Mercury capsule was much heavier than warheads they were designed to carry. The second (with the chimpanzee Ham on board) and third made successful suborbital flights, the fourth and fifth achieved orbit (the latter with chimpanzee Enos on board). The sixth carried John Glenn into orbit.

The Atlas program is still alive, and quite successful. Currently, the Atlas V is NASA’s most powerful launch vehicle. It launched the Mars Science Laboratory to the red planet last November. (Right: MA-9, the rocket that carried Gordon Cooper into orbit, before launch. This shot also shows the naked rocket is silver and not white, a correction I’ve made to my previous post on painting rockets.)

Problematic as the Atlas’ early development was, it didn’t progress like the movie portrays. NASA didn’t have a store of Atlases large enough to launch one a day without troubleshooting after each failure. The agency had just nine Atlas rockets to work with. That said, if you’ve got 70 minutes to kill, Cape Canaveral Monsters is worth watching for all the bad effects, wrong science, and footage of Atlas and V-2 launches spliced together as though they are the same rocket. And if you figure out what happens at the end, let me know.

The Saturn V’s iconic black and white paint scheme is a remnant of its German roots.  When Wernher von Braun and his rocket engineer colleagues tested early prototypes of the Vergentungswaffe Zwei or V2, they painted a large black and white checkered pattern on its skin. This helped them see any roll the rocket gained around its vertical axis during launch. Armed V2s that fell on London towards the end of the Second World War were painted with a camouflage so the Allies would a harder time finding them. (The V2).

The black and white pattern became a standard feature on subsequent rockets built by von Braun’s team. After the German rocketeers surrendered to American solders in 1944, von Braun and 110 colleagues were brought into the United States. The majority went to White Sands, New Mexico, and became the core of the Army Ballistic Missile Association (ABMA) where they developed rockets for the US army.

One of the early products from the ABMA was the Redstone family of rockets. The first iteration, PGM-11 Redstone, a short range surface-to-surface ballistic missile. It’s direct descendant was the first mid-range ballistic missile, Jupiter A. The Jupiter C built on the Jupiter A and was designed to put payload into orbit. A variant of the Jupiter C, Juno I, launched the first US satellite Explorer 1 into orbit on January 31, 1958. They shared a paint scheme. All were painted white and had a pattern of black stripes on the midsection. (Left, Redstone research and development missile number CC-56 launches at the Atlantic Missile Range in Cape Canaveral, Florida on September 17, 1958.)

The Redstone was the first rocket NASA used to launch astronauts. The Mercury-Redstone version was similar to the elongated Jupiter C and Juno I with a different paint scheme. Unlike its predecessors, the Mercury-Redstones had a pattern of alternating black and white stripes on its upper stage for ground tracking purposes. Fifteen fixed cameras followed the rocket during launch; its azimuth and elevation could be determine by measuring the vehicle’s paint pattern, as well as its light source and exhaust, against reference targets.

The Mercury launches. The two on the left are the suborbital flights on Redstones; the four on the left are the orbital flights on Atlases.

The stripes disappeared when Mercury proceeded to orbital flights and the Atlas launch vehicle took over. Built by Convair, it didn’t have the German origins. The rockets that launched Glenn, Carpenter, Schirra, and Cooper were unpainted so looked like a silver tube with a black capsule on top. The ice from the propellant inside made them look white.

The Gemini program also used American-designed rocket. The Gemini-Titan II launch vehicles all had the same look: black and white stripes on the midsection for optical tracking and an otherwise silver body.

The Gemini launches all looked the same.

The German rockets resurfaced with Apollo. The followup to the Redstone and Jupiter family was the Saturn family. It was so named because Saturn is the next planet after Jupiter. The first version, the Saturn I, was NASA’s first heavy lift vehicle. It was painted with a zinc chromate primer covered with white paint, but its colour scheme changed throughout its lifetime.

The first four Saturn I flights — Saturn-Apoll0 1 or SA-1 through SA-4 — featured alternating black and white stripes on the first stage, a small checkered pattern on the interstage, and an all-white second stage. On these flights, the second stage was a dummy filled with water as ballast. But the first stage was loaded with fuel, and heat spikes registered on its skin before launch were a cause for concern. On some missions, the rocket was up to 12 percent hotter than anticipated With spikes on intense heating from time to time.

The Saturn I launches.

But the black stripes on the first stage remained despite heating issues. SA-5 was the first Saturn I flight with a live S-IV second stage and an aerodynamic Jupiter nose cone painted black. SA-6 and SA-7 carried boilerplate Apollo hardware into orbit and both featured a black forward interstage. The small checkered patterned section was dropped for more white.

After the successful launch of SA-7, NASA embarked on a series of three qualification tests of the rocket with Pegasus micrometeoroid satellites as the payload. The black and white stripes on the first stage and aft interstage remained, but the rest of the rocket was painted white with a special paint to reduce the heating factor on SA-8 through SA-10. Heat absorbed by the black paint risked upsetting the satellite’s thermal balance.

The Saturn IB was the next big rocket and it featured the more powerful S-IVB second stage. It also marked the beginning of Apollo missions. AS-201 — the AS stands for Apollo Saturn — was the first unmanned flight of a Saturn IB in February 1966. The rocket, which carried a block I Apollo command and service module (CSM), was painted white save for the vertical black stripes on the first stage. AS-202 duplicated the flight and paint scheme but added the Apollo guidance and navigation control system and fuel cells to the payload.

The Saturn IB launches.

AS-203 launched in July 1966 without payload to test the power of the second stage. AS-204, which launched on the rocket that was meant to carry the Apollo 1 crew aloft, took an unmanned lunar module into orbit for Apollo 5. Both rockets looked identical. They were the first to have the instrument ring painted black and are distinctively without a CSM or escape tower. The fifth Saturn IB, AS-205, carried the Apollo 7 crew into orbit in October 1967 and followed the paint scheme of its predecessor.

Subsequent Saturn IBs launched after the Apollo program ended. AS-206, AS-207, and AS-208 carried Skylab crews into orbit and AS-210 carried the American half of the Apollo-Soyuz Test Project aloft. Heating problems on the first stage changed the appearance. The first stage was painted entirely white on these flights.

The Saturn V was the last and largest rocket in the Saturn family. It’s first flight was the Apollo 4 mission that launched in November of 1967 (left). This rocket, and all subsequent Saturn V’s that flew as part of the Apollo program, had the same paint scheme. The body was white. Black stripes went about a third of the way up the first stage and continued on the upper part of the stage and the aft interstage ending at a black ring. An uneven black and white checkered pattern was painted on the forward interstage, and the instrument unit was painted black. The CSM was a tiny flask of silver at the top. The last Saturn V that took Skylab I into orbit had an all black upper section.

But this isn’t the paint scheme that came with my model Saturn V kit. The first stage is different, with longer black lines and a black band around its middle. So where did this come from if not from any of the Saturn Vs that launched?

The Saturn V launches.

Turns out, one of the less common Saturn Vs is the inspiration behind this design. The first Saturn V that rolled out of the Vehicle Assembly Building in 1966 was a dummy rocket never intended to fly. Designated Apollo-Saturn 500F, it was used to verify the Apollo launch facilities, train launch crews, and develop test and checkout procedures. This was the rocket that men physically shook to see how the structure would hold up in the event of strong winds on the launch pad. This original Saturn V paint scheme, it seems, has been the inspiration for model kits ever since.

The change from Saturn 500F to the flight versions was  because of heating. The black paint absorbed heat while the rocket sat on the launch pad and the fuel tank inside got dangerously hot. The upper part of the black stripes and the band on the first stage was painted over in white on all subsequent Saturn Vs. The light was reflected and the heat problem solved. (Left, the Saturn 500F outside the VAB. 1966.)

Searching through mission reports from the early Redstone flights, the Saturn I flights, and the Saturn IB flights, the changing paint scheme becomes clear. But the reason behind the changes is only mentioned in some of the reports, and there is hardly a mention of why a scheme was chosen for a rocket family in the first place. It’s possible it’s purely stylistic; the first Shuttle was painted all white because it was attractive, but the weight of the paint on the large external tank was substantial. Eventually the tank was left unpainted and orange, freeing up over 2,000 pounds for cargo.

Maybe it is a stylistic reason. No one can deny that the Saturn V looks awesome, though I’ve always had a soft spot for the sleek lines of the Gemini-Titan launch.

The stylish but heavy STS-1 launches on April 12, 1981.

Suggested Reading

The Apollo Saturn Reference Page

Stages to Saturn: A Technological History of the Apollo/Saturn Launch Vehicle By Roger E. Bilstein. NASA History Series. 1996.

“Postlaunch Report for the Apollo Mission A-101.” MSC, Houston. NASA. 1964.

“Apollo Systems Descriptions Volume II.” Marshall Spaceflight Centre. NASA. 1964.

“The Mercury-Redstone Project.” Saturn/Apollo Systems Office. NASA. 1964.

On May 25, 1961, twenty days after Alan Shepard became the first American in space, Kennedy urged the nation to commit itself, “before this decade is out, to landing a man on the Moon and returning him safely to the Earth.” Lucky for Kennedy — but only as far as space is concerned — the Cold War was escalating and space was a fertile battlefield. By choosing the Moon, he picked a finish line neither nation could reach at the time. Each had a fair shot at winning the race, and technological dominance was the prize. (Kennedy in 1961.)

But the Cold War was more than just a backdrop. It gave the American people a reason to support a manned spaceflight program with such a lofty goal. The climate was perfect in the 1960s to undertake a moonshot. The same can’t be said of modern day America.

The Centre for Strategic and International Studies looked into the cost of a four-man lunar base and start-up colony. Published in 2009, the report determined that construction of a lunar base would cost around $35 billion; once built, it would cost $7.5 billion every year for operation and maintenance. There’s a little wiggle room in this figure. The operational cost would go down if oxygen and hydrogen could be mined for use directly on the Moon.

The cost of a lunar base soars with the inclusion of supporting technologies like rockets to reach the Moon and vehicles to transport materials and men to its surface. NASA’s Space Launch System (SLS), the rocket that promise to surpass the capability of the Saturn V, is scheduled to make its first launch sometime in 2017. The Orion Multipurpose Crew Vehicle is following a similar timeline; it should be ready for unmanned testing by 2017. A manned mission with Orion launched on an SLS rocket is unlikely before 2021, and the total cost of the combined programs is estimated to run between $29 and $38 billion. (An artist’s concept of the SLS rocket.)

So the total cost of the first lunar base could be in the area of $78 billion. But when you add the cost of research and development of the technology behind the lunar colony, the cost is likely to spiral into hundreds of billions of dollars. As a reference point, every piece of the Apollo program came together for about $170 billion by today’s standards.

But Gingrich doesn’t want a four-man startup colony; he wants a colony of 13,000 Americans living and working on the Moon, enough citizens to petition for state status.

Building a lunar base — four-man or 13,000-man — would devastate NASA. It would take a huge fraction of the agency’s budget, which is already stretched, and effectively kill all science initiatives, like rovers on Mars, interplanetary probes, and orbiting telescopes. (An artist’s concept of a lunar base.)

So, to lessen the financial burden on NASA’s shoulders, Gingrich proposes heavy involvement from the private sector. X-Prize style programs would encourage entrepreneurs to solve the problems of getting to and landing on the Moon. But where would this money come from — NASA couldn’t foot this bill, and the market would need to recover really quickly and spectacularly for private companies to afford the resources to solve these technological challenges alone.

Gingrich has called on the private sector for near Earth orbital spaceflight as well — perhaps to free up NASA for this Moon base. As president, his secondary goal in space would be to increase commercial, tourist, and manufacturing activity in space, an industry explosion he hopes will mimic the developments in aviation in the 1930s. But the private sector is already taking the lead in this realm with companies like SpaceX working to launch to the International Space Station. It’s a trend likely to continue whether or not Gingrich moves into the White House. (Orion, NASA’s next manned spacecraft.)

The call for private spaceflight was a stronger point in Gingrich’s speech, but it was tainted by his qualification of why we need the ingenuity of our space faring citizens. “It is in our interest,” he said, “ to acquire so much experience in space that we clearly have a capacity that the Chinese and the Russians will never come anywhere close to matching.” That statement evoked cheers from the crowd and sent shivers down my spine. The way forward is cooperation in space, not competition; the research station at the South Pole should be our model.

Presidential hopefuls are notorious for making bold and unfulfillable promises that inspire citizens and sway voters. His speech last week was made in Florida, a state where space is the local business. The grand lunar ideas are unlikely to strike a chord with voters in Idaho or Wisconsin. It’s a big idea, but that doesn’t make it a good idea. There’s a big difference. (An artist’s concept of men exploring Mars.)

Kennedy’s big idea was a good one, though I’m sure there’s no shortage of people who would disagree. Subsequent presidents have tried to have their own Kennedy-Moon moment, making speeches and promises to inspire the nation to unite in support of a grand gesture.

In 1989, President George Bush Sr. challenged the nation to undertake a long-range program to land men on Mars. The report on the proposal, the “90-day study,” returned a figure of $500 billion for the program. It was a staggering figure, even if it was spread over 20 or 30 years. President George Bush Jr. followed in his father’s footsteps in 2004. He called for NASA to establish a permanent settlement on the Moon before moving on the Mars. (An artist’s concept of a greenhouse on Mars — a glimpse of our first colony?)

In these instances, part of the problem was the time frame for such an undertaking. Reaching the Moon was feasible when Kennedy set his goal — if it hadn’t been he would probably have set a different goal. The time frame is certainly one of Gingrich’s problems, but there’s one more central piece of the puzzle that’s missing in this audacious proposal: What’s the point?

Apollo was awesome, but it wasn’t sustainable. People lost interest after Apollo 11 and got nervous after Apollo 13. NASA’s budget was slashed. Apollos 18-20 were cancelled. The amazing and exciting plans that made up the Apollo Application Program were never realized save the short-lived Skylab program. We were left with the Shuttle, which failed to deliver on its promises. (Skylab in orbit.)

Anything this grand and long term in space has to be undertaken with more than political agenda at its root. It needs to have some return on investment and long-term payoff in more than just prestige. And it needs to not be tied up with the American election cycle.

But who knows. Maybe somehow Gingrich will win and the lunar base proposal will go through and he’s get his wish: to see an American flag waving in the magic space wind on the Moon.

Suggested Reading

Gingrich’s speech in Florida

Neil deGrasse Tyson on Gingrich on the Moon

Read the whole article on Scientific American’s Guest Blog.