WHITBY FREE PRESS, WEDNESDAY, FEBRUARY 5, 1986 PAGE 5 "I have sworn upon the altar of God eternal hostility against every form of tyranny over the mind of man." - Thomas Jefferson THE CROW'S NEST * f by Michael Knell This week's column isn't about Whitby. It's not even about politics in Ontario or speculation about our national fate in any specific sense. It's about something I believe in deeply - something I used to dream of as a boy. These thoughts were stirred from a long sleep last Tuesday afternoon while attem- pting to recover from the flu. Lying on my couch, feeling sorry for myself, I witnessed the tragic destruc- tion of the space shuttle Challenger and the loss of her valiant crew. l'il be honest with you - that sight brought a tear to my eye and a knot to my throat. You see, I was on board. My spirit was soaring with theirs and they were living out my secret fantasy - to touch the face of God and to look down upon His creation to see it in its proper perspective. Ever since I was a boy, I have wanted to journey into space. It was a dream no different from that of any other boy. And like other boys, time forced me to put away childish things and assume the responsibilities of being a man, a husband and a father. But no matter how hard I tried, I have never been able to completely forget the dream. I rermember watching Neil Armstrong when he took his one small step for man and have seen the launch of every NASA probe whether it was Apollo or the Entreprise for the last 15 years. I watch every sci-fi movie that comes out and am something of an expert on the books of Robert Heinlein, Issac Assimov, Poul Anderson and Arthur C. Clarke. I'm a closet Trekkie who would trade' everything he has (within reason) for one chance to say: "Beam me up, Scot- tiel" for real. Despite the fantasy, I have come to realize - perhaps believe is a better word - that the conquest and exploration of space is more than just man's greatest ad- venture. I have become convinced that it may be our great hope as well. The race of man has not been able to find the solutions to his problerns here on the third planet from the Sun. Our earthly playground has far too often turned into a battlefield. When war has not ravaged us, famine, disease and civil disor- der took over. Canadians are Canadians because their forefathers did exactly- what Dick Scobee and his crew gave their lives for. To find the unknown. To seek new resources for a world that needs to support an ever increasing population. A population in need of new knowledge and of new wealth. As far as I'rn concerned, Dick Scobee, Mike Smith and the rest of Challenger 7 are the Jacques Cartier, Sir Francis Drake and Captain James Cook of 1985. The space program is more important than most people truly realize. The deployment and repair of satellites is becoming an ever more vital task for more than just business and telecommunications. So much of our security and intelligence is dependant on the space program. But it's the research that is really important. The knowledge that science is gaining will pave the way to the bright new world I am often tempted to speculate about in this space. It has to go on. The entire human race needs that program as yet another means to en- sure its survival. I suppose these notions - some romantic and some based in hard fact and logical deduction - explain my anger at the Mulroney government's hesitance to get involved in the project to develop a permanent space station. This is not something the government should be giving second thought to. The commercial consideration aside (let's face it there's lots of money to make from space flight) the potentials for research are too great to contemplate without a full fledged Royal Commission. I am enough of a believer in the future of space that I am even willing to say that Canada should develop its own manned space program. We have lots of room for facilities such as the Kennedy Space Centre. Canada has th technology. We have the trained and talented young people as well as the seasoned commanders. We have the ability to start and maintain a successful space program. Canada does not have to sit on the sidelines waiting to become a minor junior partner in some grandiose American-led venture. Many Canadian companies are already active in the American space program. One only has to think of Spar Aerospace and the Canadarm to realize that this country has already made a committment to the great adventure. The Mulroney government simply must agree to take a more active role in the space program. The space program belongs to the entute human race. I believe that the Americans are only its custodians. It probably'won't be that long before the Europeans are ready to send a man into space. Their unmanned programs have been very successful and the next step must be all too clear to them. Man must go into space for the same reasons Christopher Columbus had to find the passage to the New World. It's our destiny, our frontier. I firmly believe that in my grandchildren's lifetime, man will establish a permanent colony on the moon. From there; he will reach out to explore and conquer the rest of the Solar System. I believe that in my lifetime a man will walk on Mars and we will know for sure whether there is or ever has been life on our nearest heavenly neighbour. And it hurts to know that I will never get the chance to go. I wiîl never ex- perience weightlessness and will never see the stars the way they were meant to be seen. But every timne that shuttle blasts off, they take a small piece of me with them. Every time I see that launch ail my wife usually hears frorn me is a muted "Go, baby, go!" There are noprettiersights in theknownuniverse. Space is the final frontier. It is also the most important. Because it represents our hope for the future and a better tomorrow. This column has not.been about Whitby but about one Whitby resident's dream: to touch the face of God. WITH OUR FEET UP By Bill Swan They're holding court of sorts over at the Lone Star Beaver saloon this afternoon, trying to decide when crime is a crime and when a crime ain't really. It's all rather ethereal (least that's the word that Lucas Letterpress, editor of the Flat Tail would call it if he weren't so close to the fray.) The whole mess comes of Johnny's adopted kid, Eric, who is accused of stealing and eating Mrs. Grits elderberry pie back when he was in grade school. Eric eventually told the town librarian about eating the pie, and how goòd it was, and showed her the elderberry stains on his hands and overalls bib. Then last week the librarian told Lucas Letterpress, and since then Lucas and the Grits family have been hollerin' for Eric's hide. Inside the Beaver, Mayor Johnny's holding court at his usual table in the back corner. But nearly everybody else is holding tight to his draught and straining to overhear the conversation. Right now Lucas Letterpress is talking. Lucas is four feet ten inches tall and has to stand up to look a kneecap in the eye. "I hold that the kid knew what he was doing right away and he knew he was doing stuff what was wrong," says Lucas. "He admitted the whole thing..." Mayor Johnny pushes his hat off his forehead, one foot propped on the edge of the table. "The kid ad- mits eating the pie," he says. "But he never stole no pie. He never said he stole no pie." "But dad gum it, Johnny," says Razor Strop, his two ice blue eyes narrowed to a single point, "the kid ate a pie he knew wasn't his. We demand better conduct than that from the mayor's family." Strop ran against Johnny in last year's mayoralty race. He has the clear vision of an outsider for the conduct of that office. Mayor Johnny shifts in his chair, pulls out his whittling knife and a block of wood. Whittling always relaxes him when the going gets tough. He speaks: "Seems we got a kid here who walked by Mrs. Grits window one day and heard her say she was baking a pie. Maybe heeven smelled it cooking. Then a while later -he passes by again, on his way home,.and darned if there ain't an elderberry pie sittin' on the fence post. "Now there's no way he could be blamed for sam- pling a bit of that pie. Everybody around her knows how good Mrs. Grits elderberry is. And at any rate, at that time there was no law against eating warm elderberry pie on fence posts. Nobody touches the kid." Bent Broadaxe turns from the bar, mug in hand. "If the kid'd belonged to any of us woodcutters, you'da got the sheriff to hand him over to the Moun- ties long ago. I think the least you can do is fire him from his job sweepin'up the council chambers." A murmur of agreement choruses around the room. "Nobody touches the kid," Mayor Johnny repeats. "What he did warn't right," Broadaxe says. "Tasting that pie was only human," repeats Mayor Johnny. "Warrm elderberry pie is just too tempting for any kid." Razor Strop rises from his chair once again, poin- ts a finger toward the ceiling, reconsiders and sits down. "It was more than just human temptation," says Broadaxe, finally. "Yeah," says Strop, his voice sharpened to a point. "This was more than just a kid passing a tempting elderberry pie. He did this more than on- ce." Broadaxe cuts in again. "More than just once. This kid stole piece after piece, pie after pie. lIl bet there were days when he sat under Mrs. Grits win- dow just waiting for her to bake a pie. Then he stole it."9 "Nobody touches the kid," says Mayor Johnny. First there was a silence. Then one voice called out, "Polls!" The cry went around the room. "Poils! Polls! Pols!" Polls are part of the town tradition; nay, they are attended with religious ferocity. So when one voice says, "polls!" therestechothecall. "Then to the polls it is," says Razor. "The polls," says Broadaxe. Mayor Johnny shifts uneasily. "If you want to consult the polls, then fine. I doubt you will find..." SEE PG. 8