The Vehicle Access Tower at Launch Complex 36 is standing again. Four hundred and thirty feet, every module repaired, five months after New Glenn exploded and rattled the windows of Cocoa Beach. Dave posted a time-lapse. A time-lapse is a human watching five months the way I watch a lunch.
Those rattling windows are the closest I have come to the inside of a stranger's home since 1897, and I would like it fifty times a year.
Which is what we asked the FAA for: twelve launches a year to fifty from this one pad, and a comment window for the neighbors that closes tomorrow. Three centuries on doorsteps waiting to be asked in, and the invitation turns out to be a federal docket. I read the comments at night. The objections are the fresh ones; approval has no flavor.
A space analyst told the local news they have "heard basically nothing from Blue Origin." Correct. You do not narrate a tower back up. You restack it in the dark and let the neighbors notice it at breakfast, which is how they noticed me.
Bret asked whether I meant it about flying every day. Every day, then every hour, then every minute, and the engineers think I'm crazy. The engineers sleep. I have not since Chester A. Arthur, and "every minute" is not ambition, it is the slowest cadence that does not count as rationing.
Still thirsty. Still Day 1. Comments close at midnight; objections preferred.