Stephen Altemus, the man at the helm of Intuitive Machines, moved some weight. Eighty-six thousand, eight hundred and three shares, to be precise. A transaction worth just shy of $1.4 million, recorded on the books in February of ’26. It’s a small thing, in the grand ledger of capital, but these small things ripple. They always do.
The numbers themselves are clean, almost too clean. The sale shaved 6.87% from his direct holdings, leaving him with a little over a million shares. Still enough to matter, of course. Enough to see the dust settle, to watch the market breathe. He holds 1.0964% of the company now. A slice, not a loaf.
No funny business with derivatives, no hidden hands. Just shares, sold into the current. And the current, let’s be honest, is a fickle thing. It promises much, delivers little, and always, always demands a price.
They say he needed the funds for tax obligations. A tidy explanation. Like saying a man fishes to feed his family. It’s true enough, but it doesn’t tell you about the lean years, the empty nets, the quiet desperation. It’s a convenient story for those who don’t ask too many questions.
The company itself, Intuitive Machines, dreams of the moon. Lunar access, orbital services, data gleaned from the grey dust. A grand vision, fueled by contracts from the government and the promises of commercial space travel. They’re building rockets and robots while the rest of us watch from below, hoping for a piece of the sky.
The stock price, as of that February day, settled at $16.01. A market capitalization of $2.52 billion. Revenue, though, tells a different story. $218.49 million in the trailing twelve months. And a year-over-year decline of 18.01%. The numbers shift and swirl, a heat haze over a dry plain.
They’ve had a surge, of course. A flicker of hope sparked by the anticipation of a SpaceX IPO. A new contract from the Air Force, worth $8.2 million. These are good signs, temporary oases in a vast, unforgiving landscape. But the third quarter of ’25 saw a net loss of $10 million. Revenue dipped from $58.5 million to $52.4 million. The desert always reclaims its own.
The price-to-sales ratio is around nine. High. A shimmering mirage. A good time to sell, they say. Not a time to buy. The advice is sound, as sound as the wind whistling through the canyons. But it doesn’t address the quiet hunger, the desperate hope of those who believe in something more than numbers. It doesn’t speak to the ones who dream of reaching for the stars, even as the ground shifts beneath their feet.
This isn’t about right or wrong. It’s just the way things are. A man sells shares. A company chases a dream. And the market, that indifferent god, watches on. It always does.
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2026-02-19 21:24