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224 pages, Paperback
First published April 24, 2012







• Real people began to flood the farm, mostly weekend warriors with good tools and a tendency to injure themselves. They’d heard about it online, they’d seen stories about it on the news, usually buried way back in the human-interest section right before stories about puppies who could bark “God Bless America” and newts who did geometry. Their numbers grew outcast by weirdo by outcast: six kids from a Boy Scout troop who’d been suspended from school after their homebrewed nitro-burning funny car had exploded and put two teachers in the hospital, a one-eyed amateur astronomer from Hawaii who couldn’t find work anyplace, a little person named Grekky who seemed to know an awful lot about wiring, a pair of registered nurses from Cleveland who were relentlessly upbeat no matter how many broken fingers, torn rotator cuffs, and burns they treated.
• Paul had a crew up all night making rollers out of wood, scrap steel, anything they could get their hands on, and these were placed underneath each of the massive rockets which were laid horizontal, then they began to move them. They moved them the way the Israelites built the pyramids: almost one thousand Rocket Zombies pressed close, pushing hard, using nothing more than human muscle. The Father went first, and as it left rollers behind, Rocket Zombies raced them to the front just in time to catch the Father’s nose, like moving a Viking ship from dry dock to the sea. News crews were tripping over each other’s cables as they walked backwards, filming the most primitive rocket rollout in the history of man. It was one part NASA, two parts caveman. There was something intoxicating about this exercise in brute force, and the few people not in the horde began to clap and cheer and the cheers turned to chants and the clapping became rhythmic and it took on the qualities of a pagan ritual.
Extracto de la introducción:
• Nothing depresses me more than footage of Jeff Bezos and Richard Branson shooting themselves into space. Nothing leaves me colder than a bunch of billionaires measuring their dicks. But it’s only a matter of time before people start looking up at the stars and thinking, “Why not me?” And then they’ll start tinkering in their backyards and their basements, they’ll start crunching the calculations and reaching out to other people who feel the same way. They’ll start pooling their spare time and their resources, matching their skills, sparking their torches, putting on their welding goggles, and when that happens it’ll only be a matter of time. After all, going into space is just a problem and the thing about problems is they all come with solutions as long as we’re willing to do the work. Why wait for someone else to take us to the stars? Why let someone else have all the fun? Why not do it ourselves?
After all, the sky belongs to everyone.
"A rocket's nothing but an explosion with a hole at one end and a man at the other. We're not building a rocket to the moon. We're going into low Earth orbit, which is about a hundred miles straight up.
Now, I hate the Commies more than anyone, but they built their rockets right. Rockets, not space shuttles, not Branson space planes. Worst thing NASA ever did was build the space shuttle. Getting out of the gravity well puts forces on a machine so demonic, it twists their engines into pretzels and stresses steel until it's as brittle as glass. That's why the Apollo Program sent hundred-ton rockets up and only got seven-ton space capsules back. By the time them things reached orbit, ninety-three tons of them were about as usable as Great-Grandaddy Avery's dick.
While our government was farting around building the space shuttle, the Commies were shooting ten times more rockets into space than we ever did. NASA spent all its time optimizing weight to payload, trying to get maximum efficiency. The Commies went for overkill: big fucking explosions that shot shit into the sky. It weren't pretty, but it worked.
NASA built a space shuttle that you got to fly and land like a damn airplane. The Commies just let their shit fall back to Earth. Ballistics is the science of shit falling down, and we know a fuckton more about that than we do about flying. Crap's been falling down for millions of years, but we've only been flying for about a hundred. Figuring out where something's gonna land is a calculation even the most ass-backwards math student in the most underfunded shitstain of a high school can manage. But flying? You need a damn degree to figure that out.
The Commies don't value human life the way we do. NASA got backups and backups and then some backups on the backups for their systems. They got redundancies for every eventuality. But the Commies? They just shoot fuckers up into space and they either live or they don't. They're the original orbital badasses. You know what they use as life pods on the international space station? The Soyuz. Not the goddamn space shuttle. Because the systems our country builds, God bless America, are fragile and neurotic compared to the pig-iron Commie death machines that come out of the USSR. So we're going up into space the Commie way, not the Cape Canaveral way.
So, we're going to build two different machines. We're gonna build a big-ass launch vehicle that'll get to escape velocity and put us into orbit. That's the rocket. Then we're gonna build a little bitty spacecraft that'll be strapped to its tip. When the launch vehicle's burned up all its fuel, it'll separate and fall back down to Earth, burning up in the atmosphere, while the space craft'll intercept the ISS's orbital trajectory, and the two of them'll nuzzle up like lovebirds. That's when we'll snag Bobby Junior, pull him on board, and then let our orbit decay until we drop back down to Earth, and return him to the tender ministrations of Gail. Any questions?"