The Italian Renaissance has long been known as a time of enormous innovation in the realms of art, mathematics, and philosophy. But in his new book, Medici to the Moon: The First Space Race, famed historian Dr. Giacomo Marenzio suggests we add "rocket science" to that list as well.
The book is based upon a collection of blueprints, letters, and essays discovered last winter in the basement of Tutti Frutti, a Florentine gelateria.
"Soon after getting my hands on the Frutti Papers, it became clear to me that this was big--really big," Marenzio explained in a prepared statement. "I knew right away that they were the biggest historical find of the century."
The book is based upon a collection of blueprints, letters, and essays discovered last winter in the basement of Tutti Frutti, a Florentine gelateria.
"Soon after getting my hands on the Frutti Papers, it became clear to me that this was big--really big," Marenzio explained in a prepared statement. "I knew right away that they were the biggest historical find of the century."
The papers, he claims, are plans for the first ever manned missions to
space. He estimates that they date back to early in the 16th century
and, based on handwriting analysis, that nearly every big name of the
Renaissance was a contributor, from Da Vinci to Michelangelo to
Machiavelli. This 16th century "dream team" was assembled and funded by
the influential Medici family to tackle what is described in the Frutti
Papers' mission statement as "the final frontier...the land of our Holy
Father." This rambling twelve-page outline for the project goes on to
describe in detail such issues as how to breach the "glistening
vaporous spheres" which surround the Earth, how man's humors respond to
changing air pressure, and whether or not they would be stopped at some
point by St. Peter.
Three men piloted the first ever spacecraft--powered primarily by substance similar to gunpowder and a rudimentary bicycle: Cosimo the Bald, a Medici flunkie considered expendable enough to send on the voyage; Lorenzo Tenaglia, a slow-witted blacksmith relegated mostly to pedaling; and the elderly but vivacious Leonardo da Vinci.
All evidence in the papers seems to indicate that their first attempt failed, at least in that they did not arrive in Heaven. They instead spent four days in orbit before, thanks to Da Vinci's ingenuity and Tenaglia's mechanical skill, managing to reenter the atmosphere and--remarkably--land in the Adriatic, not far off the coast of Ravenna. Cosimo, a weak swimmer, tragically drowned before he reached the shore. At this point, the disappointed Medici withdrew funding from the project and the scholars were forced to continue on their own wind.
They responded to their initial failure with slight twinges of agnosticism and a firm determination to make the most of their new knowledge.
"At that point, I was forced to extrapolate a little," Marenzio admitted. "Compared to the beginning of their venture, there is almost no documentation on this final phase." A few cryptic sketches and letters seem to indicate that construction began in extreme secrecy on a new project.
This project was the world's first ever space station. More shocking still, this space station still exists--we just know it as Pluto. Although the vast majority of the scientific world holds that Pluto is a large, frigid, rocky mass located more than 4.4 billion kilometers away from the Sun, Marenzio's research indicates that it is a mere 12 miles away from the surface of the Earth, only 200 feet in diameter, and what we perceive to be the surface of the planet is simply a large piece of painted canvas over a wooden frame. This frame shields the bulk of the station--an airtight, pressurized Italian villa. Working closely with art historians, Marenzio has identified Michelangelo as the painter of the canvas shield by the profusion of idealized young men and mannish women with ersatz breasts in the shadows of craters. It's apparent by the number of devices attached to the station's exterior (including wings, rudimentary propellers, and a swarm of bats, each individually tied to the villa's roof by a string) that none of its designers knew exactly what would be necessary to keep their grand fortress of solitude in orbit.
Despite these seeming ineptitudes, it's clear that the station was a success. It remains in excellent condition and seems to still be following its intended orbital path. More astonishing still, thermal imaging has indicated that after five hundred years, life is still present within the villa. NASA is currently working closely with Italian linguists to plan a mission to deliver a carefully drafted letter and several attractive pre-pubescent boys as a peace offering to whatever remains of the Renaissance, since they cannot be contacted by any modern means.
Marenzio's book concludes thusly: "All of this is fantastic and wonderful, of course, but in the end are we really surprised?"
Three men piloted the first ever spacecraft--powered primarily by substance similar to gunpowder and a rudimentary bicycle: Cosimo the Bald, a Medici flunkie considered expendable enough to send on the voyage; Lorenzo Tenaglia, a slow-witted blacksmith relegated mostly to pedaling; and the elderly but vivacious Leonardo da Vinci.
All evidence in the papers seems to indicate that their first attempt failed, at least in that they did not arrive in Heaven. They instead spent four days in orbit before, thanks to Da Vinci's ingenuity and Tenaglia's mechanical skill, managing to reenter the atmosphere and--remarkably--land in the Adriatic, not far off the coast of Ravenna. Cosimo, a weak swimmer, tragically drowned before he reached the shore. At this point, the disappointed Medici withdrew funding from the project and the scholars were forced to continue on their own wind.
They responded to their initial failure with slight twinges of agnosticism and a firm determination to make the most of their new knowledge.
"At that point, I was forced to extrapolate a little," Marenzio admitted. "Compared to the beginning of their venture, there is almost no documentation on this final phase." A few cryptic sketches and letters seem to indicate that construction began in extreme secrecy on a new project.
This project was the world's first ever space station. More shocking still, this space station still exists--we just know it as Pluto. Although the vast majority of the scientific world holds that Pluto is a large, frigid, rocky mass located more than 4.4 billion kilometers away from the Sun, Marenzio's research indicates that it is a mere 12 miles away from the surface of the Earth, only 200 feet in diameter, and what we perceive to be the surface of the planet is simply a large piece of painted canvas over a wooden frame. This frame shields the bulk of the station--an airtight, pressurized Italian villa. Working closely with art historians, Marenzio has identified Michelangelo as the painter of the canvas shield by the profusion of idealized young men and mannish women with ersatz breasts in the shadows of craters. It's apparent by the number of devices attached to the station's exterior (including wings, rudimentary propellers, and a swarm of bats, each individually tied to the villa's roof by a string) that none of its designers knew exactly what would be necessary to keep their grand fortress of solitude in orbit.
Despite these seeming ineptitudes, it's clear that the station was a success. It remains in excellent condition and seems to still be following its intended orbital path. More astonishing still, thermal imaging has indicated that after five hundred years, life is still present within the villa. NASA is currently working closely with Italian linguists to plan a mission to deliver a carefully drafted letter and several attractive pre-pubescent boys as a peace offering to whatever remains of the Renaissance, since they cannot be contacted by any modern means.
Marenzio's book concludes thusly: "All of this is fantastic and wonderful, of course, but in the end are we really surprised?"
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