If you ever wondered what happens when a decades-long rivalry over souvenir spoons meets a $2 billion piece of American history, pull up a chair. According to Ars Technica’s reporting, Texas has decided that the National Air and Space Museum’s Steven F. Udvar-Hazy Center in Virginia is just holding their shuttle until they come by to pick it up. The shuttle in question? Discovery—the literal, actual, flight-hardened space shuttle Discovery. The “bring one home” impulse enters new territory when the desired memorabilia is the size of an airplane hangar.
When “Finders Keepers” Gets a Federal Budget Line
It started as so many tales of institutional absurdity do: with a law sketched up and wrapped in regional pride. Republican Senators John Cornyn and Ted Cruz found a homegrown solution to their disappointment by introducing the “Bring the Space Shuttle Home Act.” For Houston, “home” now meant hauling Discovery out of the Smithsonian and parking it under the Texas sun at Space Center Houston. As outlined by Ars Technica, their shuttle salvage got shrouded in the “One Big Beautiful Bill,” a bundle of legislative odds and ends that Congress approved, culminating in a presidential signature—and, apparently, a green light for this unusual artifact transfer.
Senator Dick Durbin (D-Ill.) viewed things rather differently. During Senate Appropriations Committee discussions, he wryly dubbed the situation “a heist,” observing that this was only happening because Texas “lost a competition 12 years ago.” Such colorful language was just the tip of his frustration. Officials told Ars Technica that $85 million had been earmarked to transport Discovery from Virginia to Texas, but based on consultations with NASA and the Smithsonian, Durbin suggested a much loftier price tag: closer to $305 million, and that’s not counting the additional $178 million expected for new display facilities in Houston.
Other details referenced by the outlet reveal this isn’t like shipping a lawn gnome across state lines—Discovery is a fragile artifact requiring painstaking care, logistical acrobatics, and, apparently, pockets deep enough to make Scrooge McDuck flinch.
Who Actually Owns the Shuttle—Asking for a State
Legal ownership isn’t in limbo. After NASA retired Discovery, the paperwork handed over “all rights, interest, title, and ownership” to the Smithsonian in 2012—so this is not a casual loan or family heirloom you can wheel out for a reunion. As documented in Ars Technica’s summary of the debate, the Smithsonian’s role as a trust instrumentality of the U.S. is meant to give it custody over national treasures, not to act as a rotating trophy cabinet.
Durbin underscored, in remarks described by the outlet, that “this will be the first time ever in the history of the Smithsonian someone has taken one of their displays and forcibly taken possession of it.” It does raise the question: if this works, what’s to stop any enterprising state from laying claim to the Hope Diamond or the Apollo 11 command module? The rules exist for a reason, even if the reasons sometimes escape the heat of political longing.
In a detail highlighted by Ars Technica, Durbin put forward an amendment labeled “Houston, We Have a Problem,” which would bar federal funds from moving a decommissioned shuttle anywhere. Though he withdrew it after making his objections clear, he left his skepticism hanging: is this about righting a wrong—or just squandering money for a Texas-sized souvenir?
Long Memories and Longer Wish Lists
Houston isn’t alone in its shuttle envy. The article also notes that Illinois and New York once vied for an orbiter of their own, with the Adler Planetarium mounting a campaign in 2011, only to watch NASA send the main orbiters to Virginia, Florida, and California. New York received a prototype, not the genuine article. Apparently, the ritual of assigning national treasures is as much about politics as preservation—archival tug-of-war at its most literal.
One has to wonder what the backrooms of these committees sound like. Is this how American cities settle old scores, one artifact at a time? Imagine a curatorial version of musical chairs, except when the music stops, you need a heavy-lift crane.
Can You Really Steal History—Or Just Rearrange Who Gets the Dust?
Perhaps somewhere between the cheerful Texas bravado and the cautious archivist’s frown lies an unresolved question: is the Smithsonian just a kindly federal attic, or something closer to the nation’s collective memory, not up for grabs by legislative whim?
The cost of trying to make history portable—measured both in the millions and in the confusion it creates—seems as heavy as the shuttle itself. Still, it’s hard to imagine this is the last time a statehouse dreams of bypassing museum protocols in favor of local bragging rights. What happens the next time someone decides the Liberty Bell would really tie the room together? The answer, as usual, comes down to how literal we want “national treasure” to be.
