James R. Hood

6 May, 2004

Defining and Defending the Mission: Impossible in the Literature of Space and Exploration?

While the literature of space and exploration spans the course of several millennia, we often find a common thread connecting these stories—each journey requiring, one might posit, a “leap of faith” from those who undertake these missions. In one of the earliest recorded writings documenting exploration, for example, Moses is given a directive (from a higher power than most explorers answer to, one might argue) to investigate a land, strange and foreign to his own sect of society, as we see in the following biblical passage: “The Lord said to Moses, [s]end some men to explore the land of Canaan, which I am giving to the Israelites” (Numbers 13: 1-2). This leap of faith on Moses’ part in accepting his mission thus carries with it religious overtones, but other definitions of the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration often do not share those same connotations or connections to religion. In fact, the definition of the “mission” found in this genre of literature varies, depending on both the explorer and the impetus for his or her journey, and sometimes the distinction between one definition and the next is blurred, since the very reasons for the mission often overlap themselves, which then leads to the question of whether or not the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration is “justified.”

While the ideologies expressed by a belief in nationalism, religion, and science supply explorers with a host of reasons to venture into other territories, sometimes the reason for exploring is not as complex. The reason may be as simple as having a desire to dominate other cultures, while, in contrast, peaceful “missionaries” exhibit a sincere concern for the welfare of other societies. Still others look to exploration for a reason only slightly less noble than the latter of these two—the notion that exploring strange new territories is itself a sort of romantic escapism from the tedium of “normal” society. The impetus for the title character’s “mission” in Edgar Allan Poe’s novel, Arthur Gordon Pym, for example, is romantic in nature, since it comes from a desire to “escape” from an all-too-normal society.

The title character in Poe’s Arthur Gordon Pym describes his fascination with the tales of adventure that his friend Augustus shares with him early in the novel, thus romanticizing the notion that the “mission” of exploring the unknown is simply to serve as a means of escapism—both physical and psychological. Pym recounts how he came to envision exploration as a romanticized escape from the “real” world with the following passage concerning these tales from Augustus, who himself was the son of a sea captain:

He [Augustus] had been on a whaling voyage with his father in the ‘John Donaldson,’ and was always talking to me of his adventures in the South Pacific Ocean. I used frequently to go home with him, and remain all day, and sometimes all night. We occupied the same bed, and he would be sure to keep me awake until almost light, telling me stories of the natives of the Island of Tinian, and other places he had visited in his travels. At last I could not help being interested in what he said, and by degrees I felt the greatest desire to go to sea. (Poe 4)

To Pym, the notion of becoming an adventurer carries with it a certain romance, and he even refers to Lewis and Clark, whose venture into the unknown territories of a fledgling country inspired similar feelings of the romance of exploration—along with an overwhelming sense of national pride at the Corps of Discovery’s success—from the citizens of our new nation who imagined themselves as having lived vicariously through the members of that expedition after they returned from their “mission.” In an article entitled “After the Expedition,” historian Larry E. Morris writes that, indeed, “The nation rejoiced when Lewis and Clark and their men rumored to be dead or lost—safely returned to civilization” (Morris 44).

To their compatriots, the members of the expedition were nothing less than heroes, which evokes those same sentiments that exploration of the unknown is a romantic and noble cause, although the actual “reason” for the mission was a mandate from Thomas Jefferson for Lewis to gain all possible knowledge of this territory for the purpose of facilitating our country’s date with its Manifest Destiny—clearly illustrating the ideology of nationalism as a “mission statement.” In fact, the explorers were so successful in accomplishing this goal of igniting a fire of nationalism (as Course Objective 3 offers as a possible reason for exploration) among our country’s citizens at that time, that, with “Its mission over, the Corps of Discovery disbanded . . .” (Morris 44).

This notion of nationalism as a reason for the mission of exploration of new frontiers is evidenced in much of the literature of polar exploration as well, and we find many examples in the Clint Willis anthology, entitled Ice: Stories of Survival from Polar Exploration. One of the most poignant selections from this anthology is an excerpt from Scott’s Last Expedition, by Robert Falcon Scott himself. This work contains journal entries that chronicle the ill-fated expedition party’s egress from their assault on Antarctica after having discovered that they had been beaten to the pole by Norwegian explorer Roald Amundsen by a mere twenty-one days—a heartbreaking loss for Scott and his men, who had hoped to usher in a new era of national pride for his fellow British citizens. Adding insult to this injury is the fact that Scott and his polar party of four others all perish before they return to their base camp, their mission falling short of meeting even that goal, although one successful element of the overall mission, the procurement of penguin eggs by Apsley Cherry-Garrard and two others from the party, is chronicled in an excerpt from Cherry-Garrard’s own book, entitled The Worst Journey in the World.

Of Cherry-Garrard’s mission in The Worst Journey in the World, A. Alvarez writes in his book review, entitled “A Magnificent Failure,” that one reason that explorers choose these sorts of “impossible” missions can be attributed to those individuals’ desires to “escape” society, much as Pym does. Alvarez offers an anecdote on this reason for undertaking such missions of exploration, stating that

Mallory’s famous reason for wanting to climb Everest—“Because it’s there”—was only half the story. The other half was “Because you’re here”—where “you” included the town, the job, the hierarchies, the wife, the kids, the dog, and, above all, the kind of person who would ask such a stupid question in the first place. (Alvarez 7)

While this notion that some explorers’ missions are simply designed to permit the restless individual to “get away from it all” is often dismissed by claims that the majority of explorers act in the interests of nationalism or personal glory, some, as in the case illustrated in Richard Byrd’s Alone, lend credence to the claim that the opportunity for personal reflection that comes from the solitude of distancing oneself from society is itself the goal of—and the reason for—the mission.

      While Byrd’s writing in Alone reflects on his solitude as the sort of opportunity for “finding oneself” that this mission provides, he does describe the feelings of isolation that he experiences as a result of his having left behind a society that has grown comfortable with the trappings of the “familiar,” stating that “It was a queer business. I felt as though I had been plumped upon another planet or into another geologic horizon of which man had no knowledge or memory” (Byrd 139). While, for Byrd, this feeling of having “. . . been plumped upon another planet or into another geologic horizon of which man had no knowledge or memory” is the result of a choice of his own making, other literature that describes much the same feeling of being a “stranger in a strange land” offers different reasons for a character’s having to endure similar conditions, one example being the narrative of John Carter from A Princess of Mars, by Edgar Rice Burroughs.

Early in A Princess of Mars, John Carter (“Captain Jack Carter,” as he sometimes refers to himself) and his friend find themselves trying to avoid a band of Indians while coming out of the Arizona hills on their quest for gold after the Civil War had ended, and after taking refuge in what he believed to have been an abandoned cave following his friend’s death at the hands of “the savages,” Carter awakens to discover that he has somehow traveled to another world, with no explanation for how he came to arrive there. Carter describes the experience, stating that “I opened my eyes upon a strange and weird landscape. I knew that I was on Mars; not once did I question either my sanity or my wakefulness” (Burroughs 10). Although he can provide no explanation for his being there—he knows not by what manner he was transported nor for what reason—he soon discovers that his apparent “mission” for being there will be to rescue Dejah Thoris, the princess of Mars to whom the title refers, from her fate at the hands of that world’s “savages.” It seems that this mission draws on the romantic theme of rescuing the damsel in distress that literature of the Middle Ages often depicts, alluding to the notion as well that the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration may take on connotations of a crusade, albeit, in this case, without the religious overtones.

One example of the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration as primarily a religious crusade, however, is seen in the film Black Robe, directed by Bruce Beresford (1991), a dark, brooding work that portrays a group of Jesuit priests intent on both exploring a new world and gaining converts from among its peoples, in this case, Native Americans from the Great Lakes regions of this country. The priests are subjected to miserable conditions and constant danger—most tribes of Native Americans in this region during the historical setting of the film are always at war with at least one other group of Native Americans, it seems, and most of these adversaries reason that if priests are “with” an enemy group, then the priests are enemies as well—yet they accept, without fail, that the success of their mission is more important than their individual lives. The implication, as suggested by Course Objective 6, is that religion is a cultural issue that has as its foundation the belief that some explorers have a worldview that “centers” their own beliefs and customs to the expense of marginalizing—if not outright eradicating—the beliefs of other cultures.

The end of Black Robe portrays the priest calling into question the true purpose of his mission, since, it seems, the Native Americans with whom he lives want him to baptize them all, yet for what the priest believes might be the wrong “reason.” The Native Americans mistakenly believe that baptism will save them, but the “salvation” that they are asking for is protection from the very disease that the Europeans have brought with them that is decimating the Native American peoples. This “disease” is both actual and metaphorical, since it represents not only the physical afflictions that the Europeans bring to the New World, but to the disease that destroys the cultures of indigenous peoples by displacing their “wrong” beliefs with the “right” beliefs of the explorers.

Although the history of the Jesuits also documents their desire to acquire knowledge of other cultures through their missions, the fact remains that these explorers often did more harm than good to existing cultures, despite their best intentions. It is no small wonder, then, that the priest has issues with their request at the end of the film. Does he baptize them, knowing that the symbolic act is intended to represent spiritual salvation, and not, as the Native Americans believe, to offer actual protection from imminent physical death? Does he hesitate to offer them even the spiritual salvation that he believes that the act symbolizes, since the primary directive of his mission is to proselytize on behalf of the church, and the Native Americans desire this sacrament only because they believe that accepting it will protect them from the horrible disease that is claiming one victim after another from among their peoples?

It is certain that this film raises questions about whether the mission of explorers—intentional or not—often “succeeds” at the expense of the culture of the “explored.” Earlier in the film Black Robe, one of the members of the Native American groups ominously warns another member who has been more receptive to the Jesuits’ mission, stating, in effect, that accepting the ways of the Europeans means the death of their own culture and customs. This places the priest’s struggle with the mandates of his own mission in a context that raises the question of whether any such directive that even claims to avoid the issue of “changing” the explored peoples can, in fact, stay within the guidelines of that mission statement, since the explorers may endanger the explored peoples even while the explorers maintain the belief that their own presence “does no harm” so long as they make no conscious effort to alter the existing society’s customs. This belief that “passive” missions, therefore, do no harm to the explored, as we see in Mary Doria Russell’s novel, entitled The Sparrow, can sometimes have disastrous results, despite the explorers’ best intentions.

In The Sparrow, Russell describes another well-intentioned Jesuit mission that has an unexpected and calamitous outcome for the explorers as well as the explored, who, in this instance, reside on another planet. The novel is non-linear, both chronologically and spatially, “jumping” from one location and time to another, which stresses the many elements that go into the making of a mission of that complexity. With so many factors to consider in an undertaking of this magnitude—the distance to the planet itself dictates that the expedition travel at near-light speed for several months, space-relative time, aboard a large asteroid that has been fitted with engines, living quarters, and food supplies that will support the crew throughout its journey—it is almost a given that there will be some oversight that will affect the outcome of the mission, and this is precisely the case with The Sparrow.

While the theme of religion again plays an important part in defining this mission, it does so almost by stressing the fact that the success of the mission itself is not to be measured in terms of proselytizing or converting the members of this alien society. The religious overtones of the mission are significant instead for the individual members of the expedition, particularly so for Emilio Sandoz, a Jesuit priest who just happens to possess an amazing gift for learning new languages, aided by his training as a linguist. After Jimmy, a friend of Emilio’s who works at the SETI [Search for Extraterrestrial Intelligence] site in Arecibo, discovers a radio broadcast of aliens singing emanating from a distant planet, the Jesuit hierarchy quickly decides that a mission with a goal of exploring the new world, studying its peoples’ culture, and collecting both scientific and anecdotal information is in order.

Although this mission to the planet of Rakhat is primarily scientific in its nature, one might consider that a secondary reason for the expedition is to lay the groundwork for future missions, a notion articulated very well by fellow graduate student Kristy Pawlak during a class discussion on the subject. In effect, Kristy stated that even if the primary goals of a mission to another planet were, in fact, to indoctrinate other cultures to the religion or beliefs of the explorers, the “missionaries” would first have to establish the foundation upon which future missions—e.g., those which “actively” promote religion—would build. Some of the necessary components of that foundation work would likely include exploring and mapping the planet, collecting scientific data, studying the structure of societies, and, of course, learning the peoples’ languages in order to communicate with them. While this particular expedition to Rakhat focuses on those goals, the mission goes awry when the members of the party overlook the potential for disaster that introducing even a seemingly insignificant element of our culture—growing our own food locally, rather than gathering it in the wilds—will have on these people. This oversight eventually leads to mass rebellion from the more passive, yet numerically superior segment of that society against the more aggressive “ruling class” that preys (literally) on the weak and submissive members of their society. One might consider that the overriding concern for any mission, therefore, should be the simple mandate of “First, do no harm.”

Similar mandates are seen in other works regarding the literature of space and exploration, with perhaps the most familiar variation being the “prime directive” that has become the mantra of Star Trek missions. In “An Other Frontier: Voyaging West with Mark Twain and Star Trek's Imperial Subject,” Valerie Fulton notes that

In carrying out their mission of frontier exploration, Star Fleet officers are at all times bound to obey the "Prime Directive," a policy designed by Star Trek's writers to underscore the future's first commitment to justice and humanity. The ordinance, which prohibits all Federation personnel from interfering with the cultural development of less advanced worlds, bears a striking resemblance to the mandate now issued at federal parks and wilderness areas throughout the U.S., usually in the form of a sign cautioning against the destruction of a "fragile ecosystem" and requesting that visitors leave everything as they found it. (Fulton 8)

Such directives smack of imperialism and ethnocentrism, however, by suggesting that the culture of the “explored” societies is, by definition, “inferior” to that of the explorers’ society. At the very least, the explorers are condescending—“talking down” to those they consider “lower” than them—and this attitude carries forward, as we will see, even when the goal of the mission is more serious than merely observing another group of peoples and reassuring them with a patronizing pat on the head that we mean them no harm—in a sense, convincing ourselves as well that we really are “the good guys,” when, in fact, our showing up on somebody’s doorstep always means trouble, either for them—the “explored”—or, on occasion, for us, the explorers, as evidenced by the outcome of Russell’s The Sparrow.

            Fulton’s essay, “An Other Frontier: Voyaging West with Mark Twain and Star Trek's Imperial Subject,” covers this “mutual reassurance” aspect of the explorer’s mission as well, giving the following example:

Star Trek: The Next Generation's U.S.S. Enterprise, the flagship for an entire fleet of Federation vessels, has as its "continuing mission" a duty to "explore strange new worlds" and to "seek out new life forms." Since it also has the weapons capacity to annihilate a small planet, crew members sometimes find themselves obliged to reassure species from less technologically advanced worlds that, remarkable as it may seem, the arsenal is for defensive purposes only. Unlike the incredulous life form who believes weapons are made to be used, American t.v. viewers have little trouble accepting the show's nonviolent premise--in large part because we are accustomed to the routine stockpiling of nuclear and other advanced weapons for the protection of our country's "national security." (Fulton 4)

We therefore reassure both the explored peoples and ourselves (the explorer) that our intentions are most honorable, but, in reality, the image that we have of ourselves is not always accurate, since we are looking at ourselves from the perspective of the explorer, not through the eyes of the explored, although some works from the literature of space and exploration, such as director Robert Wise’s film, The Day the Earth Stood Still (1951), turns the tables, placing our own culture “under the magnifying glass” in the role of the “explored” peoples rather than the explorer.

            In The Day the Earth Stood Still, Wise reverses the role that we are used to playing, having a well-intentioned being from another planet land on our nation’s doorstep (a park in Washington, D.C.) to bring, much as a kind but firm father figure would, the wayward child back into line before he or she did something regrettable. Klaatu, who represents a society far more advanced than our own, reassures us that he is acting for our own good when he tells us that our world will be turned into “a heap of smoldering ash” unless we mend our ways with respect to our aggression towards (and intolerance of) others, since it is apparent that we are no longer limited to containing our malfeasance to our own planet. Klaatu has at his disposal a weapon (Gort, a robot whose own “mission” has as its sole directive the mandate that it should police the universe, targeting those who can no longer keep their aggressive tendencies in check) capable of destroying entire planets if need be, although Klaatu assures us that Gort’s presence merely ensures that nobody “gets out of line,” since the consequences of doing so is both swift and final. While Klaatu’s mission, therefore, is one of peace, we begin to see the error of our ways when we use the threat of mutually assured destruction (M.A.D.) as a deterrent. Were it not for the different perspective—viewing ourselves as the explored, rather than the explorer—of this film, the chance for reflecting on this issue might be lost, so it appears that Klaatu’s mission has been accomplished.

            If the goals of Klaatu’s mission were to have us reflect on those issues while gaining a new perspective of ourselves and our world, it tells us, much as Ronald Weber’s review, “The View from Space: Notes on Space Exploration and Recent   Writing,” that the mission of literature of space and exploration might be to serve as a catalyst for reexamining ourselves, our ideals, and our world. Citing astronaut Buzz Aldrin’s claim in his [Aldrin’s] book, Return to Earth, that, after returning to Earth from the historic Apollo 11 moon landing, setting foot on the deck of the USS Hornet “was actually the start of the trip to the unknown” (Weber 282), Weber suggests this “return to Earth” reference is a metaphor for personal reflection and introspection, whereby the “mission” focuses on gaining a better understanding, not of other planets, places, or peoples, but of ourselves. Weber continues, stating that “In recent writing space exploration tends to function as it does in Aldrin’s book: as a means of turning new attention back to earth” (Weber 282). Weber states that “the end of all exploration, T.S. Eliot has told us, is ‘to arrive where we started / And know the place for the first time’” (Weber 282), which is somewhat ironic, since It seems that the “mission” has come full circle, leading us back to ourselves.

            Still, the role of nationalism as the primary impetus for exploration—particularly space exploration—persists, because without that “pride of nation,” it is doubtful that there would be any “mission” that serves as a new frame of reference for examining our life on Earth in the first place. The rhetoric of the Cold War fueled these missions, and John W. Jordan’s essay, entitled “Kennedy's Romantic Moon and Its Rhetorical Legacy for Space Exploration,” analyzes the mission of our own space program during that period that had as its goal landing the first human on the moon. Jordan offers his analysis of the reason for pursuing that mission’s goal with the following passage: “Questions of international prestige shadowed America's space program, and although the United States subsequently matched and surpassed the Soviets' accomplishments in number, there was still a sense of needing to reclaim lost national pride” (Jordan 212).

Norman Mailer’s Of a Fire on the Moon recounts, both on a technical and philosophical level, the fervor behind the Apollo 11 mission that drew on that desire to “reclaim lost national pride,” while at times seeming to hint that such a mission is a thinly-veiled exercise in flexing our imperialistic muscles for the entire world to see. The success of a mission of this sort—landing the first human on another celestial body—might arguably carry with it connotations of religious “superiority” as well as the obvious claim of technical one-upmanship. Mailer warns, however, that “. . . the notion that man voyaged out to fulfill the desire of God was either the heart of the vision, or anathema to that true angel in Heaven they would violate by the fires of their ascent” (Mailer 103).

How, then, are we to define (or defend, for that matter) the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration if it seems to create such paradoxes as those we have been discussing? We are given questions whose answers escape us, arguments on whether ends do or do not justify the means—or the “meanness,” one might argue, given some explorers’ methods of bringing the “explored” peoples into compliance with “correct” (i.e., the explorers’) worldviews—and definitions of the “mission” that sometimes seem to overlap or blend together, as in the case of Black Robe or The Sparrow. Perhaps the best defense for the “mission” in the literature of space and exploration is to consider the mission of the literature of space and exploration. If, as Ronald Weber, argues, this literature serves as a catalyst for reexamining our lives and our worldviews, then it will lead to meaningful reflection on issues that affect society as a whole, including, as the film The Day the Earth Stood Still suggests, the notion that our planet will suffer, lest we become better stewards of peace and forego the sort of thinking that marginalizes other cultures. If the mission of works from this genre of literature is to foster this sort of critical thinking and personal reflection, then I, for one, would offer two words in judgment of its success in that respect—“Mission accomplished.”

Works Cited

Alvarez, A. “A Magnificent Failure.” Rev. of The Worst Journey in the World, by Apsley Cherry-Garrard. The New York Review.

Byrd, Richard E. Alone. Ice: Stories of Survival from Polar Exploration. Ed. Clint Willis. New York: Thunder Mouth Press, 1999.

Burroughs, Edgar Rice. A Princess of Mars. New York: Ballantine, 1912.

Fulton, Valerie. “An Other Frontier: Voyaging West with Mark Twain and Star Trek’s Imperial Subject.” Postmodern Culture 4.3 (May 1994).

Jordan, John W. “Kennedy's Romantic Moon and Its Rhetorical Legacy for Space Exploration.” Rhetoric & Public Affairs 6.2 (Summer 2003): 209-231.

Mailer, Norman. Of a Fire on the Moon. Boston: Little, Brown, and Co., 1969.

Morris, Larry E. “After the Expedition.” American History 38.1 (April 2003): 44-58.

Poe, Edgar Allan. Arthur Gordon Pym. New York: Oxford University Press, 1998.

Weber, Ronald. “The View from Space: Notes on Space Exploration and Recent Writing.” Georgia Review 33 (1979): 280-296.

Works Referenced

Black Robe. Dir. Bruce Beresford (1991).

Cherry-Garrard, Apsley. The Worst Journey in the World. Ice: Stories of Survival

from Polar Exploration. Ed. Clint Willis. New York: Thunder Mouth Press, 1999.

Russell, Mary Doria. The Sparrow. New York: Ballantine, 1996.

Scott, Robert Falcon. Scott’s Last Expedition: The Journals. Ice: Stories of

     Survival from Polar Exploration. Ed. Clint Willis. New York: Thunder Mouth 

     Press, 1999.

The Day the Earth Stood Still. Dir. Robert Wise (1951).