onian Institution

rly Press

Fred Whipple’s Empire

The Smithsonian Astrophysical

Observatory, 1955–1973

David H. DeVorkin
Fred Whipple’s Empire

The Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory, 1955–1973

David H. DeVorkin

WASHINGTON, D.C.

2018

A SMITHSONIAN CONTRIBUTION TO KNOWLEDGE
Front cover: Fred Whipple, late 1960s. Smithsonian Institution Archives, SIA Acc.16-263, Box 5, “Whipple 

65-72.” Back cover: The MMT Observatory, on the grounds of the Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory, 

Mount Hopkins, Arizona, 1997. Courtesy of the MMT Observatory. Photo by Howard Lester.

Published by SMITHSONIAN INSTITUTION SCHOLARLY PRESS

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Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data

Names: DeVorkin, David H., 1944– author. | Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, publisher.

Title: Fred Whipple’s empire : the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, 1955–1973 / David H. DeVorkin.

Other titles: Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, 1955–1973

Description: Washington, D.C. : Smithsonian Institution Scholarly Press, 2018. | Series: A Smithsonian 

contribution to knowledge | Includes bibliographical references and index. | Copyright 2018 

Smithsonian Institution

Identifiers: LCCN 2018009955 (print) | LCCN 2018011723 (ebook) | ISBN 9781944466176 (ebook) | 

ISBN 9781944466183 (paperback)

Subjects: LCSH: Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory—History. | Whipple, Fred L. (Fred Lawrence), 

1906–2004. | Astrophysics—United States—History—20th century. | Astronomy—United States—History—

20th century. | Science and state—United States—History—20th century. | Cold War—History.

Classification: LCC QB82.U62 (ebook) | LCC QB82.U62 S62 2018 (print) | DDC 522.197444—dc23 | 

SUDOC SI 1.60:SM 6 

LC record available at https://lccn.loc.gov/2018009955

ISBN-13 (online): 978-1-944466-17-6

ISBN-13 (print): 978-1-944466-18-3

Ó The paper used in this publication meets the minimum requirements of the American National Standard 

for Permanence of Paper for Printed Library Materials Z39.48–1992.
To the Whipple family

v

CONTENTS

Preface . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . vii

Acknowledgments . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . ix

Introduction . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xi

List of Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . xv

Chapter 1 The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple: From Meteors 

and Comets to Artificial Satellites . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 1

Chapter 2 Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 21

Chapter 3 The Creation of the SAO . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . .29

Chapter 4 Whither the Solar Constant: A Referendum on Basic Research . . . . . . . . . . . 55

Chapter 5 Optical Satellite Tracking: Establishing the Smithsonian’s 

Central Role . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 65

Chapter 6 Satellite Tracking: Building and Operating the Program . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 83

Chapter 7 Organizing for Space Research . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 105

Chapter 8 Permanency and Authority . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 121

Chapter 9 Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples . . . . . . . . . . . 137

Chapter 10 “Project Celescope”: SAO’s Orbiting Astronomical Observatory . . . . . . . . . 151

Chapter 11 Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and 

Aeronomy: Work of the Research and Analysis Division . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 175

Chapter 12 Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 193

Chapter 13 Building the MMT . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 213

Chapter 14 National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits . . . . . . . . . . . 227

Chapter 15 Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 251

Chapter 16 Whipple Steps Down . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 269

Chapter 17 Whipple’s Legacy . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 283
vi • Contents

Notes . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 291

Bibliography . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361

Archival Source Abbreviations . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 361

Interviews . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 362

Publications . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 364

Index . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . . 389
vii

PREFACE

This book explores the forces and drives that brought two astronomical institutions 

together—the Astrophysical Observatory of the Smithsonian Institution in Washington, 

D.C., and the Harvard College Observatory in Cambridge, Massachusetts—to become the 

Harvard–Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics in the early 1970s, one of the largest institutions devoted to astronomy and space science in the world. Astronomer Fred Lawrence 

Whipple was key in its transformation process, initiated in 1955 by Harvard astronomer 

Donald Menzel working in concert with Smithsonian secretary Leonard Carmichael and 

Harvard dean McGeorge Bundy. Initially, Whipple wanted to create an academia-based 

institutional model for conducting space science in the United States, making his newly 

minted Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory a central organizing unit. Instead, after the 

U.S. government created the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) to do 

just that, Whipple deftly adjusted, building highly competitive programs in astrophysics, 

space astronomy, geophysics, geodesy, and ground-based optical and radio astronomy.

This book examines how Whipple constructed his empire, first through the expansive 

era preparing for the International Geophysical Year and then through the early NASA 

years, creating an astronomical enterprise unlike any the world had seen. We follow his 

continued ambitions through the late 1960s and into the early 1970s, aided and abetted by a 

new Smithsonian secretary, S. Dillon Ripley, to examine how his continued efforts resulted 

in both congressional scrutiny of the Smithsonian and a re-evaluation of the relationship 

of the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory to Harvard and, ultimately, to science in 

America.

ix

ACKNOWLEDGMENTS

This project has occupied my mind for over 15 years, among other duties and diversions. Along the way there have been many who have stimulated, aided, and supported 

this work. Specific interest started when Patrick McCray asked me to co-sponsor his NSF 

proposal “Astronomy During the Cold War: The Case of the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory, 1955–1975” (NSF Grant Number SES-0323336, 2003–2006) managed by the 

American Institute of Physics, which led to his monograph on Project Moonwatch, Keep 

Watching the Skies! At about the same time, Teasel Muir-Harmony, a recent graduate of 

St. John’s College, interned at the museum and then stayed on as a researcher assisting in 

the general archival work in the project. She became interested in SAO’s satellite-tracking 

program setting it in context of international diplomacy, which resulted in her master’s 

thesis from Notre Dame, “Tracking Diplomacy: The International Geophysical Year and 

American Scientific and Technical Exchange with East Asia, 1955–1973.” She and Patrick 

helped shape the course of my research. At about the same time Louise Thorn (now Devoy) 

from the University of Leicester interned and worked on the project for an academic year, 

greatly systematizing records relating to how the SAO grew over time, and assisting in the 

preparation and execution of many oral histories. A grant from the NASA History Office, 

“The Space Sciences at 50: An Institutional Case Study” (HSEES06-0023, 2009-2011), shepherded by Steven Dick, Bill Barry, and Steve Garber, made it possible to complete both the 

oral history and archival work, greatly assisted by interns, fellows, and contract researchers. 

In particular, Tiffany Hindman, James Neeley, John Hughes, Samantha Thompson, Michelle 

Krok, Caroline Tung, Chris Hearsey, Sam Zeitlin, and Fernanda Luppani in the first two categories, and Joan Mathys and Audra Wolfe in the third. Mathys provided invaluable expertise and insight performing a broad range of assignments, and Wolfe helped me think afresh 

about what it was I was trying to do. Archivists, librarians, and colleagues who provided 

insight, aid, encouragement, and critical commentary are in the dozens; prominent are Pam 

Henson, Donna Coletti, Ellen Alers, Jane Odom, Steve Maran, Roger Launius, Greg Good, 

Stefanie Jankowski, Dan Lewis, Dan Brocious, Jennifer Wright, Tad Benicoff, Patti Williams, 

Martin Collins, Mike Neufeld, Marc Rothenberg, Steven Dick, James David, Zuoyue Wang, 

Irwin Shapiro, Giovanni Fazio, Jonathan McDowell, Howard Plotkin, Joe Bassi, Andrew 

Butrica, Gloria Lubkin, and, most deeply, Owen Gingerich. On the management side over 

the years, Jo Ann Morgan, Jens Feeley, Ahoua Twitty, Steve Garber, and Theodora Blair 

offered critical guidance and care to the budgets and progress reports. Finally, I want to 

thank the Department of Space History’s Writer’s Group bi-weekly workshop nurtured 
x • Acknowledgments

so patiently by Margaret Weitekamp, especially those attending who conscientiously took 

notes during the meetings. Having motives and intents uttered over a decade ago brought 

to my attention afresh certainly kept me on my toes.

I am deeply indebted to the many people who submitted to formal oral and video history interviews, to follow-up questions, and finally to reviewing and commenting on how 

I have used the information and insight they imparted. These activities were generously 

supported by NSF, NASA, and the Sloan Foundation’s Smithsonian Videohistory Program. 

Most of all, I want to express my deepest appreciation to Babette Whipple and her family. 

Her warm hospitality, which included several extensive inspection tours of their home and 

its contents, provided a personal dimension into the life and character of Fred Whipple 

accessible in no other way.
xi

INTRODUCTION

For better or worse, the Cold War redefined American science.

—Stuart Leslie (1993)1

The system of national laboratories is the main American contribution to the 

transformation of science in the twentieth century.

—Spencer Weart (2003)2

On the last day of 1957, as Sputnik’s beep washed the world in excitement and concern, some saw great opportunity. Fred Whipple, Harvard astronomer and director of 

the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, was asked to speak to alumni at a Harvard 

Foundation fundraiser. “Whipple Speaks on Sputnik,” the foundation’s newsletter reported. 

But what Whipple did was challenge their world: Sputnik was a “visible sign” that basic 

research “is the raw material for control of that world.”3

 Whipple well knew that a “huge 

reservoir of scientific and technological talent” was available in the Boston area, ready to be 

recruited.4

 Sputnik was his catalyst. After another rousing speech, to the Boston Commercial 

Club on April Fool’s Day 1958, Whipple received a passionate letter from a partner in a real 

estate firm that specialized in industrial parks, offering to help: “I couldn’t help wondering 

if, by providing very adequate facilities on a rather comprehensive basis, it wouldn’t be possible to make the Boston area the world center for space research.”5

 That was exactly what 

Whipple had in mind.

Cold War Alignments

Popular opinion links the launch of Sputnik to Whipple’s vision of “space research,” 

but its roots are a legacy of World War II and the Cold War.6

 The years following World 

War II saw both qualitative and quantitative changes in the world of science, such as 

the emergence of space research, in effect “an enlistment and integration of the bulk 
xii • Introduction

of its practitioners and its practice in the nation’s pursuit of security through ever 

more advanced military technologies.”7

 Historians have described the many ways science aligned with the government/military complex in the Cold War era.8

 American 

physicists, for instance, eagerly entered into a “Golden Triangle” of military agencies, 

high-technology industries, and research universities to create campus-based research 

facilities on scales previously unimagined. In this new universe, theory and practice, 

science, engineering, and intellectual curiosity—fueled and guided by government 

contracts—all became redefined.9

Whipple and his cohorts saw this pattern emerging in the late 1940s and early 1950s 

in departments of physics and engineering at leading universities such as MIT, Berkeley, 

Stanford, and Michigan. Whipple also saw resistance to the pattern at Harvard,10 and in 

the astronomical community at large. Astronomers resisted this new alignment, remaining 

comfortable and satisfied in the immediate postwar world with traditional sources of funding, primarily private and corporate philanthropy governed tightly by an elite confederation 

of observatory directors. They opted at first for carefully measured and limited projects and 

programs of military and civilian support for astronomy, taking care to preserve the institutional status quo and support strategies and methodologies that had been in place for a 

century.11

Whipple was already embedded in, and keenly attuned to, the opportunities presented 

by Cold War national security interests. In 1947, he headed a working group advising the 

Joint Research and Development Board of the Joint Chiefs of Staff, which concluded that 

“all basic upper atmospheric research is fundamentally and inherently of value to the general problems of national defense.”12 Returning to Harvard after the war as a senior professor, Whipple knew that the Harvard College Observatory was still considered a leader in 

the United States and in the world, though concerns had been raised internally about its 

future. Its long-time director, Harlow Shapley, though highly successful keeping Harvard 

astronomy visible, had weakened the Harvard infrastructure through overextending programs and a lack of attention to maintenance, and Harvard’s telescopes could no longer 

compete with the giants in the West.

Harvard was not the only astronomical institution whose health was in doubt at 

the time. The Astrophysical Observatory (APO) of the Smithsonian Institution, based on the 

National Mall in Washington, D.C., also faced an uncertain future. Supported since the 1890s 

mainly by private philanthropy, it maintained a narrow agenda with small solar-observing 

stations across the United States, in South America, and in Africa. When its highly charismatic director, Charles Greeley Abbot, retired as secretary of the Smithsonian, the APO’s 

future came into question. In the postwar world, the Smithsonian itself faced new challenges. The creation of the General Services Administration in 1949 raised the possibility that the Smithsonian would be subject to its oversight, and in 1953, Secretary Leonard 

Carmichael sensed that the Smithsonian was vulnerable because its research bureaus could 

no longer compete with major research universities in America. The Smithsonian had 

moved from a leader to a backwater of government research, and so Carmichael acted to 

strengthen its weaker bureaus, searching out collaboration with the academic community, 

such as Harvard.
Introduction • xiii

Cold War Reorganizations

A few new institutional arrangements emerged at American observatories. The completion of the 200-inch telescope on Palomar Mountain after the war fostered a complex 

relationship between the Mount Wilson Observatory, the California Institute of Technology, 

the Carnegie Institution, and the Rockefeller Foundation. The McDonald Observatory in 

Texas, privately funded and operated shortly before the war by the University of Chicago, 

sought new alignments as formal astronomy training emerged at the University of Texas.13

However, these did not involve direct association with a federal or military institution 

beyond some individual contracts. After World War II, American astronomers, encouraged by the National Science Foundation (NSF), created a national system to allow all 

astronomers, regardless of institution, competitive access to modern observatory facilities, 

access that earlier had been a privilege of the elite. Most astronomers favored this system, 

but there remained strong voices that continued to champion the elite institutional form.14

Centralized national institutions are nothing new in science, or in astronomy.15 They 

were typically created to coordinate and direct attention to specific problems on scales impracticable or even impossible for single academic institutions. In the late nineteenth century, 

both the Smithsonian and Harvard had been de facto central institutions for science, providing standardized instrumentation and support for coordinated observations in geophysics 

and astronomy.16 Whipple and his former Berkeley mentor and Harvard colleague, Donald 

Menzel, sought larger opportunities. Menzel, especially, forged new relations with the U.S. 

Navy, the U.S. Air Force, and the National Bureau of Standards.17 He also responded strongly 

to Carmichael’s appeal and directed Whipple to build a hybrid of public and private resources 

that followed, but vastly expanded upon, the model the Smithsonian had set under its first 

secretaries. It was to be a new form of astronomical institution that was large enough to tackle 

programs of national scope, yet nimble enough, with multiple sources of funding, to direct 

significant resources toward solving late-breaking issues in science as well as national security.

This is the background for appreciating how two astronomical institutions changed in 

response to shifting priorities and new funding opportunities in the Cold War era. These 

opportunities were made possible by shared interests in new agencies and services supporting and encouraging astronomical research, including the Office of Naval Research (ONR), 

the Army Ordnance Corps, the Air Force Office of Scientific Research (AFOSR), the Atomic 

Energy Commission (AEC), NSF, and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration 

(NASA). Thus, after 1955, the new Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) became 

the embodiment of a Cold War scientific institution, designed by a small group of scientist 

entrepreneurs, gathered and led by a person with intimate knowledge of how national security needs and priorities could be translated seamlessly into and made synonymous with 

scientific research agendas (e.g., satellite tracking and geodetic services), which stretched 

the limits of astronomical practice.

Here we explore how Fred Whipple, in cooperation with others who shared his style 

and outlook, utilized Cold War national security concerns as opportunities to create one 

of the largest institutions devoted to astronomy and space science in the world by the 

mid-1960s. The question is, how did he do it?

xv

LIST OF ABBREVIATIONS

AAAS American Association for the Advancement of Science

AAF Army Air Forces

AAS American Astronomical Society

ABMA Army Ballistic Missile Agency

ADS Astrophysics Data System

AEC Atomic Energy Commission

AFCRC Air Force Cambridge Research Center

AFSC Air Force Systems Command

AMB Astronomy Missions Board

APO Astrophysical Observatory of the Smithsonian Institution

ARDC Air Research and Development Command

ASC Astronomy Survey Committee

AUI Associated Universities, Inc.

AURA Association of Universities for Research in Astronomy

BoB Bureau of the Budget

BuOrd Navy Bureau of Ordnance

Caltech California Institute of Technology

CAMROC Cambridge Radio Observatory Committee

CfA Center for Astrophysics

COSPUP Committee on Science and Public Policy

COSPAR Committee on Space Research

DIA Defense Intelligence Agency

DOI Differential orbit improvement program

EBICON Electron bombardment induction conductivity

EMR Electro-Mechanical Research

ERC Electronics Research Center
xvi • List of Abbreviations

ESA European Space Agency

GEOS Geodetic Earth Orbiting Satellite

HCO Harvard College Observatory

HCOC Harvard College Observatory Council

HEW Health, Education and Welfare Department

IAF International Astronautical Federation

IAU International Astronomical Union

IGY International Geophysical Year

IQSY International Year of the Quiet Sun

IUE International Ultraviolet Explorer

JPL Jet Propulsion Laboratory

LOR Large Optical Reflector

LOX liquid oxygen

LPR Long Playing Rocket

LRL Lunar Receiving Laboratory

MIT Massachusetts Institute of Technology

MMT Multiple Mirror Telescope

MOI Major Optical Instrument

MOL Manned Orbiting Laboratory

MOR Major Optical Reflector

NACA National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics

NAS National Academy of Sciences

NASA National Aeronautics and Space Administration

NBS National Bureau of Standards

NCAR National Center for Atmospheric Research

NEROC North East Radio Observatory Corporation

NORAD North American Air Defense Command (prior to 1981)

NRAO National Radio Astronomy Observatory

NRC National Research Council

NRL Naval Research Laboratory

NRO National Reconnaissance Office

NSF National Science Foundation

ONR Office of Naval Research
List of Abbreviations • xvii

OAO Orbiting Astronomical Observatory

OOR Office of Ordnance Research

OSO Orbiting Solar Observatory

OSRD Office of Scientific Research and Development

OST Office of Science and Technology

PASP Publications of the Astronomical Society of the Pacific

PSAC President’s Science Advisory Committee

RAND Project RAND (‘Research And Development’)

RDB Research and Development Board

RRL Radio Research Laboratory

SAMSO Space and Missile Systems Organization

SAO Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory

SCROGE Smithsonian Computations Relating Orbital Glimpses Everywhere

SEC Secondary Electron Conduction

SECOR Sequential Correlation of Range

SIE Science Information Exchange

SSB Space Science Board

STAG Smithsonian Telescope Advisory Group

STRI Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute

TOS TIROS Operational Satellite

TPESP Technical Panel on Earth Satellites

UHR Ultra-High Resolution

USNC U. S. National Committee for the IGY

USRA Universities Space Research Association

VLA Very Large Array

1

Chapter 1

The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple: 

From Meteors and Comets to Artificial Satellites

Born in 1906, Fred Whipple (Figure 1) grew up on a rural Iowa farm his family rented 

and managed near the small town of Red Oak. He lived through the trauma of seeing a 

younger sibling die of scarlet fever and then soon after contracted polio himself. Seeking 

escape, he read everything in reach at a rural library some 10 miles distant, becoming 

deeply engrossed at first in fairy tales and then in science fiction. Whipple loved his pet 

chickens and dog (Figure 2), and liked to build things, fix farm machinery, and puzzle over 

how things work and why they behave as they do. Once, when he regaled his father, Harry 

Lawrence Whipple, with his own theory of how a whip makes its characteristic cracking 

noise, he was met with indifference. “I couldn’t get any interest out of anybody in my great 

theory . . . I remember that.”18 His fascination with machines extended to the idea of lofting 

heavy objects to great heights and distances, a vivid memory from the World War I era, 

when he read about Germany’s long-range siege cannon.19

After the death of his brother, and now the only child, Whipple wholly absorbed the 

religious devotion of his parents, becoming active in the Christian Endeavor Society, the 

growing evangelical Presbyterian youth organization. Sometime after his brother’s death, 

his mother, Celestia MacFarland Whipple, became obsessed with mortality, having remaining family members suffer elective appendectomies and displaying the remains in bottles 

on a shelf in the bathroom.

In 1922, the family left the farm and moved to Long Beach, California, where his 

father opened a small family market. Whipple finished high school there and in 1923 

entered Occidental College, then a small, liberal Presbyterian school north of central Los 

Angeles in Eagle Rock. Now exposed to a wider world, he encountered the Old Testament, 

which raised more questions than it provided answers.20 He soon transferred to the new 

Southern Branch of the University of California (now UCLA) and became attracted to the 

sciences and to mathematics. For Whipple, mathematics was “. . . an amusing game and a 

useful tool, but as a life goal I couldn’t tolerate it.” In his junior year, he took an astronomy 

course taught by Frederick C. Leonard, a colorful lecturer and later an avid meteoriticist. 

Leonard sponsored him for a fellowship to Berkeley. Whipple later recalled, “So I sort of 

drifted along with that. Astronomy was a good thing to do.”21

At Berkeley, Whipple concentrated on mathematical astronomy: the theory of orbits 

applied to the motions of Earth and the planets. This was standard fare for astronomers in 

the United States, and Berkeley was then one of the strongest centers for PhD production. 
2 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Figure 2 Whipple and his favorite pets on the farm. Courtesy Sandra 

and Laura Whipple.

Figure 1 Fred Lawrence Whipple (age six) 

and mother, Celestia MacFarland Whipple. 

Courtesy Sandra and Laura Whipple.

The Berkeley director, Armin Otto Leuschner, was an industrious German American 

astronomer trained at Michigan, Berkeley, and later Berlin. On the Berkeley faculty since 

1890, Leuschner established the curriculum that included access to the Lick Observatory 

some 70 miles south. He provided more than access, however, linking the Lick staff to the 

Berkeley staff in faculty exchanges and student fellowships.
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 3

Whipple met Dorothy Cornell Woods at UCLA in a mathematics class. Beyond 

mathematics, they shared an avid love for tennis. They married in 1928 after Whipple had 

moved to Berkeley (Figure 3). She joined him, enrolling in mathematics at Berkeley, where 

she was elected to Phi Beta Kappa in 1929, graduating with highest honors in June of that 

year. By now, the questions he had been raising about his religious upbringing since his 

exposure to liberal thought at Occidental remained unanswered, turning his doubts into 

alienation. In his last attempt to search for the soul, he and Dorothy became fascinated 

with spiritualism and attended sessions with a psychic medium. However, Fred was soon 

disillusioned.22

From Pluto to Meteors to the Upper Atmosphere

Leuschner created “Leuschner’s Method” of orbit computation, which was “the 

Gospel, the Law and the Prophets in the Students’ Observatory.”23 Immediately after the 

Lowell Observatory announced in March 1930 that it had discovered another planet in 

the solar system, beyond Neptune, more massive than Earth, Leuschner charged Whipple 

and another graduate student, George Bower, to calculate its orbit. Whipple dove right in, 

even though he also now had a two-month-old son, Earle Raymond, who needed attention 

because Dorothy was recovering from the birth. Still, he and Bower managed to produce 

the first reliable orbit whose general characteristics stood the test of time and real data.24

Their published orbit was Whipple’s seventh publication; the first six were jointly authored 

Figure 3 (R to L) Whipple, Dorothy Woods, and Whipple’s parents, ca. 1929. Courtesy 

Sandra and Laura Whipple.
4 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

papers with other graduate students giving the elements or ephemerides for newly discovered comets.

In 1930 Whipple was awarded a Lick Fellowship for the summer, mentored by 

Donald Menzel. Menzel, a 1924 PhD student under Henry Norris Russell and Arthur 

Holly Compton at Princeton, was firmly grounded in modern theoretical astrophysics. 

He had been on leave from Lick in residence at Berkeley, and he exposed Whipple to 

modern stellar astrophysics. Becoming aware of trends in the profession, Whipple knew 

that an astrophysics thesis would be more competitive at elite West Coast observatories. 

Once at Lick, he conducted spectroscopic observations of variable stars, completing a 

thesis in late 1931, “A Spectrophotometric Study of the Cepheid Variables Eta Aquilae 

and Delta Cephei.” He tried to fit the varying behavior of Cepheid spectra to Arthur 

Stanley Eddington’s theoretical pulsation model, but was not satisfied with the result. 

Still, his thesis was accepted.25 This would not be the last time he would try to break into 

astrophysics.

Leuschner’s teachings left Whipple with a firm grounding in celestial mechanics and 

a sense that there were links between geophysics and astronomy—specifically, geodesy. 

Leuschner also believed strongly in teamwork and organized his Students’ Observatory that 

way. He was an active and effective networker, having been onetime executive secretary of 

the National Research Council and chair of its Physical Science Division, as well as president of the American Association of University Professors just prior to Whipple’s years at 

Berkeley. He also attended to a wide range of campus administrative activities.26 Whipple 

no doubt appreciated these characteristics as he and his family prepared to move East to 

Harvard in late 1931.

The Harvard College Observatory

As he finished his thesis under Menzel, Whipple pondered what to do next: an observatory staff position or an academic post? He was aware of Menzel’s frequent clashes with 

the highly conservative senior staff at Lick, and similarly sensed that his own personality 

would not fit there, or even at Mount Wilson. A visit by the charismatic Harvard College 

Observatory director Harlow Shapley, sometime in the spring, sealed Whipple’s fate. Menzel 

regarded Shapley’s visit as a high point for the year. He and Florence Menzel had gathered 

up all the students to meet the great man from the East. As Whipple recalled after their 

meeting, Shapley “thought I was an up and coming young man who would add to the luster 

of the local firmament.”27

Whipple indeed found the Harvard Department of Astronomy a very different universe; just as he had hoped, it was the “big puddle.” Harvard College Observatory (HCO), of 

which the department was a part, was established in 1839 and by the late nineteenth century 

was one of the leading observatories in America.28 The programs E. C. Pickering established 

at Harvard, including facilities in both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres, defined the 

fundamental database for what had become the mainstream definition of Samuel Pierpont 

Langley’s “New Astronomy.” At Harvard, it was still called “astronomy,” but the practice 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 5

embraced the physical characteristics of the stars, generating and then gathering together 

in one place vast catalogues recording their brightnesses and spectral characteristics using 

the newly applied techniques of photography and spectroscopy.

Both the observatory and department were then dominated by Shapley, who succeeded Pickering in 1921 to become one of the most visible names in astronomy of that day. 

Shapley maintained E. C. Pickering’s bureau-based organizational structure, symbolized by 

the compartmentalized rotating desk he inherited from Pickering (Figure 4), with senior 

faculty leading large research teams focused on specific problem areas. But unlike Pickering 

and in tune with the times, Shapley gave more breadth to his staff and strengthened ties 

with Harvard by creating a new graduate training program.29 He also strengthened fellowship support for women working toward obtaining a master’s degree at Radcliffe College.30

During Shapley’s first years, he saw to it that Harvard offered an AB degree with honors in 

astronomy, and the doctoral degree was approved soon after.31

Figure 4 Harlow Shapley at the compartmentalized desk created by his predecessor E. C. 

Pickering to manage the observatory’s “bureaus.” Ad Astra Per Aspera, Through Rugged Ways to 

the Stars, by Harlow Shapley, New York: Charles Scribner’s Sons, 1969. Courtesy AIP Emilio Segrè 

Visual Archives, Shapley Collection.
6 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Under Shapley, the Harvard staff grew rapidly. Bart Bok, educated at Groningen and 

Leiden and hired by Shapley in 1929, was already a leading specialist on galactic structure 

and a highly popular and inspiring teacher. Cecilia Payne came from England as a graduate student, earned her doctorate in 1925, and was then employed as Shapley’s research 

assistant, earning widespread notice.32 And soon after Whipple was brought on board as an 

observer, Shapley tapped Menzel for a senior faculty position. Menzel recalled that when he 

got his invite in the spring of 1932, “I had no doubt . . . I ran all two blocks from the P.O. Box 

to my house to inform my wife.”33 He soon began working to build up what would become 

one of the strongest teams of young astrophysicists on the planet, directing them to studies 

of theoretical stellar atmospheres and the physics of gaseous nebulae (Figure 5). By 1937, 

six members of Shapley’s senior staff, including Menzel himself, were starred in a national 

roster of elite scientists, Whipple being added that year.34

Shapley never changed Pickering’s agenda of cartographic mapping, but did expand 

it to encompass the whole of the stellar universe, as well as the newly realized universe of 

galaxies. During Shapley’s reign, the campus buildings were expanded (Figure 6), and two 

observing stations were established, one locally beyond Concord, Massachusetts, 26 miles 

from Cambridge, and one moved from Arequipa in Peru to South Africa. The latter, the 

“Boyden Station of the Harvard College Observatory,” at Mazelpoort, some 16 miles from 

Figure 5 (L to R ) Cecilia H. Payne, Donald H. Menzel, Annie Jump Cannon, Fred L. Whipple, and 

Leon Campbell, inspecting a motorized mechanical planetarium ca. 1932. UAV 630.271 (171), 

olvwork431823. Courtesy Harvard University Archives.
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 7

Bloemfontein, opened in November 1933 with some six telescopes ranging up to 60 inches 

in aperture, then the largest in the Southern Hemisphere.35 The local station, known as the 

Oak Ridge Station and then the Agassiz Station after 1952, housed instruments that had 

been on campus and would soon be augmented by another large reflector.

Shapley gained visibility as a leading spokesperson for science in general and astronomy in particular. He was active in Washington, D.C., promoting “Science Service.” But he 

also made enemies, none more contentious than James Bryant Conant, president of Harvard 

since the spring of 1933. Shapley had been one of his competitors for the post, promoting 

the sympathies of civil liberties advocates and liberal-minded lawyers like Felix Frankfurter 

and his former classmate Grenville Clark, a member of the Harvard Corporation, its core 

governing board.36 Shapley also became an outspoken member of the “Committee of Eight” 

in the late 1930s that led a faculty protest over the nature of Harvard appointments and 

the apportionment of appointments by department.37 What lingering acrimony this period 

created between Conant and his liberal faculty was soon swallowed by the more pressing 

specter of war, but it persisted.

Whipple’s first assignment was to assist, and soon to direct, the Oak Ridge Station, 

dedicated in September 1932. It included an array of wide-field photographic astrographs, 

some equipped with thin objective prisms, to produce the vast stores of stellar magnitudes 

and spectra that Harvard maintained and augmented since the 1880s. Oak Ridge also operated a series of wide-angle patrol cameras and a menagerie of smaller telescopes for a wide 

variety of projects. But Shapley had bigger plans for Oak Ridge.

Figure 6 Harvard College Observatory in 1947. The large dome houses 

a 15‐inch refractor, the largest in the world in the 1840s. UAV 605.270.1 

(SC‐57). Courtesy Harvard University Archives.
8 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Writing to Whipple at Berkeley in June 1931, Shapley assumed he’d be visiting Los 

Angeles first to see his family before setting out East. If so, he asked him to stop in at Mount 

Wilson and inspect their 60-inch telescope to “study the problems . . . since we are adopting 

the fork-type mounting,” to which he added coyly, “I think we should be able to make a very 

much better telescope than the Mount Wilson 60-inch, though it probably will never have 

such a noble record of accomplishment.”38 In 1934 Oak Ridge would boast a telescope of 

61-inch aperture, still the largest on the East Coast in the 21st century.

From all this, Whipple realized that the “puddle” he was entering was not only larger 

but also turbulent, stirred by projects, plans, and changing priorities. Shapley was endlessly 

ambitious and no doubt became another role model for Whipple. Although Whipple continued to try to break into astrophysics, showing some promise, he spent most of his time 

and effort improving and using the equipment at Oak Ridge, discovering asteroids and 

comets, computing their orbits, and computing asteroid orbits from improved systematic 

observations by the patrol cameras. In 1933 he discovered a main belt asteroid and named 

it after his mother, (1252) Celestia. By 1940 he had four comets flying his name and had 

garnered almost 60 articles on their motions and physical characteristics.

Shapley also directed Whipple to help the visiting Estonian astronomer Ernst Öpik 

conduct his “Harvard Meteor Expedition” in Arizona. Öpik, a man of firm and particularly 

bold beliefs, was certain that a large portion of meteors had hyperbolic orbits and therefore 

came from deep interstellar space, a vast reservoir of comet nuclei, asteroids, and meteors 

centered on the Sun but at nearly interstellar distances. Adapting Öpik’s methods, Whipple 

applied statistical methods for analyzing families of meteor orbits and from there began 

studying meteor radiants.39

The Arizona Expedition, which was under way when Whipple arrived, used widely 

spaced visual and photographic observing stations to triangulate meteor trails for their 

orbits and origins. Whipple improved both the observational techniques and the reduction methods. By 1936 he had introduced synchronous motors to drive precision image 

choppers for better timing, and tested them with a set of cameras on campus and at Oak 

Ridge. He soon obtained a sufficient number of useful plate pairs that he expected would 

confirm Öpik’s hyperbolic orbits. However, upon careful analysis, especially using only dual 

observations that could be accurately timed with a visual record, Whipple realized that all 

the orbits were elliptical, meaning they originated in the solar system. Öpik was none too 

happy with Whipple’s results, which made for some unpleasantness, but this episode proved 

formative in Whipple’s career. He continued to refine his techniques to increase precision 

to the point at which he could even discern how meteor velocities changed as they passed 

through Earth’s upper atmosphere.40 Whipple was by now a recognized mathematical 

astronomer and an adept instrumentalist. But his personal life was far from stable. It is not 

clear if or when Dorothy had moved with him to Harvard, but by 1932, Earle Raymond had 

been sent away to live with the family of a maternal uncle, William Cornell, in Riverside, 

California. The Whipples divorced in 1935.41

But personal setbacks did little to diminish Whipple’s energies and enthusiasm for 

research. He collaborated with Cecilia Payne, now Payne-Gaposchkin after she married 

Russian astronomer Sergei Gaposchkin, analyzing novae spectra. And with newly minted, 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 9

Bok-mentored PhD Jesse Greenstein, he explored enigmatic radio noise from the Milky 

Way. But he always returned to his meteor studies, which were consistently successful, 

especially a 1937 study of a Geminid meteor shower, in which he was able to determine 

velocities, decelerations, radiants, and magnitudes. From these data he created a profile of 

the densities and temperatures in Earth’s upper atmosphere and soon extended this work 

into a comprehensive review paper for the American Philosophical Society, his largest 

study to date. It led to his promotion from instructor to lecturer in 1938 and set him on 

a solid career path at Harvard. By then Whipple had produced a refined picture of Earth’s 

atmospheric density profile between 58 and 99 kilometers. He compared his density distribution with density profiles obtained with other methods and found a seasonal effect as 

well as good agreement with the density curve of Lindemann and Dobson up to 70 kilometers, “in their remarkable work on this subject.”42 Whipple also reversed his analysis to 

show how the integrated light from a meteor trail could reveal the mass of the meteor that 

was evaporating during its violent transit through the atmosphere. Its brightness at any one 

moment was also related to the amount of mass evaporated at that moment through the 

frictional forces encountered. Comparing these, Whipple estimated the mass of the meteor 

at any point, and from its deceleration, as determined by his triangulation techniques, he 

could derive the resistance of the atmosphere itself at that point and hence the density of 

the medium.43

This analysis solidly linked the nature of Earth’s atmosphere to the study of asteroids, 

comets, and meteors. But it called for more power and precision, such as a new camera 

system with the widest possible field and the greatest possible sensitivity, together with sufficient photographic scale to make precise positional measurements. In early 1940, Whipple 

therefore turned to a young observatory staff member, James G. Baker, who was showing 

promise as an optical instrument designer. Baker had been refining the new Schmidt catadioptric design that had captured astronomers’ attention. The Schmidt was the key, but how 

far could it be stretched? Before Whipple and Baker could find out, life got in the way.

A Breakdown, Followed by War Work

What Whipple experienced and accomplished in the late 1930s and early 1940s shaped 

many decisions in his future life and career, including the nature of the institution he built at 

Harvard in the 1950s. But psychological pressures were also building within him, evidently 

since childhood and no doubt deepened by his divorce and subsequently his anxiety over 

the welfare of his son, Earle. Earle had returned to live near his father in 1940 at a boarding 

school in Marlborough, Massachusetts, but it was hardly a stable existence. These factors led 

to Whipple’s complete breakdown during a meeting in Chicago.44

In June 1942, Yerkes Observatory Director Otto Struve invited Whipple to a conference to present his meteor studies. Harlow Shapley strongly encouraged attendance because 

Whipple had been burdened with a heavy teaching load that included year-round courses 

in navigation for wartime needs and was still struggling to refine his meteor studies. Once 

in Chicago at the meetings, however, Whipple disappeared. After frantic searching by his 
10 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

colleagues, Jesse Greenstein finally found him in a basement restroom in a stupor. Whipple 

was rushed to a local hospital for evaluation and was soon transferred to a sanitarium near 

Milwaukee, where he stayed for several months, undergoing repeated rounds of electroshock. Bart Bok drove out to Milwaukee in September and brought Whipple home. The 

horrible episode shook observatory staff. The sanitarium doctors had reported to Shapley 

and Struve that talking sessions revealed insights into a very closed-down life, and Whipple’s 

deep but unfulfilled need to be less of a “lone wolf.” There were also moments of crisis; once 

when his mother visited and he withdrew completely, once when he escaped from the sanitarium and wandered the streets, and once when he had to be revived after submerging 

himself in a bathtub full of water. Shapley darkly mused at one point that if a person as 

seemingly self-controlled as Whipple could fall apart, what did that mean for the rest of his 

Harvard staff, including himself?45

Indeed, astronomy at Harvard was then torn by wartime anxieties. The staff had very 

different views about the growing war and what to do about it. Some were pacifists, like 

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin and Bart Bok. The former felt it was her duty to keep astronomy 

alive, and somehow aid humanity. Bok agreed to teach navigation, at first, like the others, 

and both worked to keep lines of communication open between astronomers of all nations. 

Shapley tried to keep it all together, supporting Bok’s efforts, managing the coursework as 

well as the contracted war work of his staff.46

After he returned to Harvard, Whipple still toyed with astrophysical problems, but 

felt compelled to get involved in war work. He had rejected an invitation from Robert 

Oppenheimer to join him at his “ranch” in New Mexico to head up a computing center 

for the Manhattan Project. He wanted to stay close to home, to Earle, and work in a small 

group, staying in touch with his astronomical interests.47 But by the end of the year, secure 

in the knowledge that his son was prospering at Hillside Academy and was well taken care 

of there, Whipple decided to join Harvard’s Radio Research Laboratory (RRL), admitting 

to a colleague that “my astronomical research period is over for the duration. I expect to be 

murderous in my research beginning very soon, probably at Harvard though.”48

Clearly still recovering from his terrible ordeal, Whipple was somewhat ambivalent 

about it all. Yet he must have known that whatever he did, he had better remain close 

to home and his support structure. Whipple joined the countermeasures unit to search 

for ways to confuse enemy radar with reflective “chaff.” The RRL, created at MIT in 1942 

within its Radiation Laboratory, was transferred to Harvard by the end of the year, and 

eventually engaged more than 800 staff in secret war research, mainly radar. The countermeasures unit was part of the contribution of the U.S. Army Air Forces to the British 

project “Window.”49

Whipple’s major contribution to the project was to apply theory developed by an 

antenna expert at the RRL to optimize the length, width, and weight of chaff shards to 

maximize radar reflection. Whipple also helped to develop a high-speed mechanical 

device to make the chaff and release it rapidly from aircraft to confuse S band radar. 

Throughout his civilian service, Whipple worked directly for F. E. Terman, the director of 

the RRL, supervising five technicians and two research associates conducting field tests 

in Florida. Whipple’s system was activated after the Eighth Air Force suffered heavy losses 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 11

at the hands of the Würzburg radar-directed firing batteries, and so he went overseas in 

January 1944 for seven months to help introduce the so-called American Chaff system, 

considered to be very successful.50 His European tour also put him in contact with a wide 

range of high-level operations research personnel. These included just the types of officers, as high up as Curtis LeMay, who would become program managers in the postwar 

world and who would look for ways to apply new revolutionary technologies in planning 

for future wars.51

Whipple later testified that his wartime experience was seminal in training him how 

to operate within a government and military structure. It also provided Whipple with contacts for securing support and insights on how to sell his expertise to the military: “Yes, I 

think that’s what built me up to being willing to take grants and contracts and to understand 

how the wide world operated with a better understanding of that. Consequently I got into 

administrative things to push projects that I thought ought to be done.”52

While at the RRL, Whipple still found time for research and writing, as did other 

Harvard staff. He finally was able to complete his large work on meteors and the upper 

atmosphere, based upon the paper he was to have given in Chicago. It appeared the next 

year as a major contribution that established his meteor trail method as a basis for his future 

work. At war’s end, Whipple would seek support from the Navy Bureau of Ordnance for 

extensive meteor observations and reductions.53

Even before his breakdown and war work, Whipple was aware of the value of his 

upper atmosphere work—specifically, its relevance to ballistics calculations. During the 

war, his young colleague Theodore Sterne corresponded frequently about it, first from 

Fort Bragg and then from Aberdeen Proving Ground, where he led a large computational 

group after the war. Whipple’s cameras had recorded the path of an airplane flying over 

Boston, and Sterne wanted to know the details of the system and possibly apply it to 

the “trajectories of projectiles.” Sterne regarded “the physics of the flight of meteors—

resistance, temperatures, air structure, measured data, reductions, techniques” to be 

directly relevant to fire control. As early as October 1941, Sterne reported that “The work 

here is fascinating. Some of it is a great deal like dynamical astronomy. I have the privileges of an army officer, the fun of doing science, and the satisfaction of being of direct 

use in a time of crisis.”54

Thus the war provided Whipple with ample evidence that he had finally found his 

niche. He recalled his wartime experience as “rather satisfying, because one could be 

involved in a project from the theoretical side, through the experimental, to get production 

techniques made, selling it to the Army Air Force[s], going to the manufacturers to get 

them into production and going overseas and getting involved in the tactical use of it. So 

I was able to be in all aspects of the project, from beginning to end.”55 His wartime experience also placed him in London later in 1944, when the buzz bombs were striking. After 

September, when he heard of the larger hypersonic missiles, “I realized that we were definitely going to go into space because these rockets were clearly powerful enough to get us 

out of the gravitational field. So I knew then that this was coming.”56 He also likely realized 

that aiming these new weapons properly required refined knowledge of the upper atmosphere. He had certainly gained that perspective in his correspondence with Sterne before 
12 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

the war. And there was another benefit of war work that he most certainly knew of through 

this time: the availability of vastly improved wide-field Schmidt systems. He returned to 

full-time faculty status at Harvard late in 1944 and was appointed associate professor of 

astronomy on July 1, 1945.57

Postwar Patrons for Research: Meteors, 

the Upper Atmosphere, and Rockets

Whipple was primed to face the postwar world with a newly found sense of accomplishment and authority. He was also becoming recognized as an important resource for 

improved knowledge of Earth’s upper atmosphere. The subject was still largely accessible 

in the open scientific literature in the early 1940s, as the military had not yet decided that 

it bordered on sensitive areas.58 Thus his papers on meteors and the high atmosphere in 

1942 and 1943 established Whipple’s name, and he was sought out more and more for 

his advice, starting as early as February 1944 in an inquiry from the Frankford Arsenal in 

Philadelphia.59 By the end of 1945, the second edition of his popular Harvard book Earth, 

Moon and Planets was in press and he was often called upon to speak and advise. Whipple 

also consulted with Douglas Aircraft’s Project RAND about the need to protect future space 

vehicles, whether they be warheads or artificial moons, from meteor impacts during flight. 

His report was a supplement to a secret Project RAND study on the feasibility of a worldcircling spaceship. Other contributing consultants included Princeton’s Lyman Spitzer, 

who reviewed the nature of Earth’s upper atmosphere and explored the characteristics of 

a space telescope.60 Whipple estimated the mass range for possible impactors, as well as 

their expected impact frequency, based upon the number density of meteorites from trail 

brightness statistics.61

In January 1946, aligned with his participation in Washington-based panels and 

committees for the Research and Development Board and his contracting for the Navy 

Bureau of Ordnance, Whipple became a charter member of an inter-agency civilian “V-2 

Panel.” U.S. Army Ordnance was about to launch a series of reconstructed V-2 missiles 

made from parts scrounged in Germany. They were being shipped to its White Sands 

Proving Grounds in southern New Mexico, and the Army was then was searching for scientists in military laboratories who would be capable of designing instruments for them 

to explore the nature of the upper atmosphere and near space, the realms through which 

the missiles flew. Army Ordnance reached out to Navy and Signal Corps laboratories, and 

a meeting was arranged in Washington that brought them together to establish the panel. 

Scientists from Princeton and Harvard were also invited, including Shapley, who brought 

along Whipple. Although Shapley was enthusiastic, he made it clear to Whipple that they 

were there to advise, but not to participate in any active way. So Whipple encouraged the 

use of the missiles to study the upper atmosphere in the ways he suggested in his RAND 

report. His direct involvement, feeding directly into his own plans, would be limited to 

providing a camera network that could record both artificial and natural meteor trails at 

magnitude levels faint enough to produce realistic statistics on the frequency of impactors 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 13

large enough to concern missile and, eventually, satellite performance. This knowledge was 

also of value in assessing the ability of an artificial mass, like a warhead, to survive reentry 

into the atmosphere.62

Called upon frequently to serve the needs of the nation as a member of various oversight panels for military research and development, Whipple exploited the leverage he 

enjoyed as an elite academic. He was the only academic member of the V-2 Panel, and he 

was among very few who were not working at a laboratory sponsored by one of the services. 

Whipple was also tapped to take the chairmanship of the Panel on the Upper Atmosphere 

within the Geophysics Committee of the Research and Development Board. The former 

chairman, Thomas Johnson of the Naval Research Laboratory, had recommended Whipple 

not only as the best qualified to succeed him, but also because he was a non-government 

scientist associated with an elite academic institution.63

By this time, Whipple was also being courted by other observatories and military 

laboratories, such as Lowell, and the Naval Research Laboratory, where in 1949 he was 

asked to succeed E. O. Hulburt as Superintendent of the Optics Division, a position he had 

formerly applied for. By then, however, he was assured of being promoted in June 1951 to a 

full Harvard professorship.64

Indeed, Whipple was quickly establishing new networks and teams to track meteors 

and then to analyze the data rapidly and efficiently. By the end of 1945, with Shapley’s guidance and the concurrence of Harvard’s administration, Whipple finalized a $60,000 BuOrd 

contract to create a more powerful system of cameras and operate them for two years, 

called the “Harvard Meteor Project.”65 He was bringing in enough funding to offer support 

to astronomers such as Zdeněk Kopal, then at MIT in its Center of Analysis. Kopal had 

expertise in, and access to, high-speed computational tools such as the Bush Differential 

Analyzer. Whipple also recruited Luigi Jacchia, who had been on the Harvard staff for some 

time and was contributing his mathematical expertise to a wide array of problems. Jacchia, 

an Italian astronomer, had arrived at Harvard in 1939 and had made himself very useful 

there and at MIT. In 1955 he would be one of the first people Whipple tapped as a charter member of the new Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) to focus on upper 

atmosphere profiles.66

Whipple also turned to James G. Baker to vastly improve the field of view and space 

penetration of his meteor cameras. Baker had established a vigorous wartime optical laboratory, but at war’s end Harvard abruptly closed it, divesting itself of wartime assets. Baker 

“felt if both my arms had been cut off ” and for several years remained deeply unsure of his 

future. After a leave working to complete a massive report on wartime work of the Office 

of Scientific Research and Development (OSRD) Optics Division of the National Defense 

Research Council, he returned to Harvard in the late 1940s still troubled.67 Following Baker’s 

early years at Harvard helps to capture the atmospherics and infrastructure of the Shapley 

era that Whipple eventually exploited.

Baker devoured coursework and quickly distinguished himself, becoming a junior 

fellow of the Harvard Society of Fellows, which ensured his support from that point on. 

Menzel was the first to recognize his talents for building new instruments and put him 

under the guidance of instrumentalists such as Joseph Boyce and George Harrison at MIT, 
14 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

which crystallized his focus on optics. By 1939 Baker had taken courses on practical photography and the theory of optics from Whipple, focusing on optical aberrations and adapting the Schmidt design to provide large, flat, and accessible photographic fields.68

The war accelerated Baker’s immersion into optical design. Through Shapley, Baker 

interned in January 1941 at Wright Field and then returned to Harvard to establish 

an Army Air Corps contract optical program.69 By August, Baker’s Optical Research 

Laboratory was housed on HCO grounds and attracted experienced opticians from the 

Amateur Telescope Makers of Boston. After delivering excellent camera lenses in the 

summer of 1942, the OSRD funded an expanded program and the facility moved to 

larger quarters. By April 1943 there were some 29 employees, although the turnover was 

high.70

In addition to traditional lens systems, Baker applied the Schmidt concentric catadioptric optical system to aerial camera design. An early design was capable of 120-degree 

coverage, but it had a curved field, “which was not very popular among the military people.”71 The photographic emulsion had to be deposited on a shell-shaped surface, so an 

additional reverse optical system was needed to flatten them out for aerial mapping on 

40 inch–square prints. After the war, Kodak found a way to mold their film to fit the curved 

focal plane of Baker’s system and so, as we shall see, this design ultimately became Whipple’s 

Super-Schmidt meteor camera.

Baker jumped at the chance to work for Whipple. He knew it would be relatively 

straightforward to extend his wartime designs into a modified Schmidt system to provide a 

120-degree field with sufficient scale and aperture to capture faint meteors as well as shaped 

charges shot from V-2 missiles.72 Although Baker completed the design rapidly, it took 

several years before the system was fully operational at observing stations on Sacramento 

Peak and Organ Pass.73 The new systems created a flood of data. Two of Whipple’s observers, Richard E. (“Mac”) McCrosky (Figure 7) and F. W. Wright, recorded some 12,000 trails 

between 1952 and 1955 averaging 400 trails per 100 hours of observing time from the 

dark New Mexico sites. McCrosky, supported on Whipple’s Office of Naval Research grant, 

developed a graphical method that could produce radiants, velocities, and heights very 

quickly. This allowed Whipple’s team to perform meaningful statistical calculations that 

greatly refined knowledge of the density variations found between sporadic meteors and 

meteor streams of different origins. McCrosky developed the technique for his Harvard 

thesis.74

These density variations had also been inferred from the trajectories of V-2 flights 

from White Sands. With several years of in situ data gathering, the rocket experimenters, 

including Whipple, realized that his profiles of upper atmospheric properties from meteor 

data were far different from those derived by the rocket trajectory analyses, which themselves varied widely. Further, and most vexing, all their atmospheric profiles differed from 

the one adopted by the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics (NACA), the body 

responsible for the establishment of what was called the “Standard Atmosphere.” The V-2 

experimenters and the NACA looked to Whipple to sort out the problem.75

By late 1951, with data from his first Super-Schmidt showing how poor his earlier 

camera data had been, Whipple decided, from a coordinated series of balloon and rocket 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 15

flights and indirect measures, that the new rocket data provided a more reliable profile than 

did either his old (pre-Super-Schmidt) data or the NACA Standard. Using the rocket data, 

Whipple rederived the meteoric density ranges by calculating the altitudes where their trails 

ended, and found to his fascination that their densities were low, between 0.3 and 1.0 grams 

per cubic centimeter, less than one-third that derived from terrestrial meteorite samples. 

What Whipple’s cameras had been tracking all along were not meteoroids, he realized, but 

cometary debris. And this evidence also neatly fit a new model he had created for comets. 

They were not solid meteoric bodies but an admixture of rock particles and ices, a view that 

has stood the test of time and is commonly referred to as Whipple’s “dirty snowball” model. 

It transformed the role of comets in solar system history.76

Figure 7 Richard McCrosky field testing a Super-Schmidt meteor camera, ca. 1952. Courtesy 

AIP Emilio Segrè Visual Archives.
16 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

State of Mind

Whipple’s life stabilized with his second marriage to Babette Samuelson in the summer 

of 1946. They met during the 1945 Christmas holidays at a party thrown by the Menzels, 

where she sensed a certain strength of character in the man, a man with a mission, and saw 

in him “somebody I could help to achieve his goal by being the good little wife.” Indeed, she 

was more than that as a professional practicing psychologist, and she knew it: “He married 

me because I was a psychologist and I could get rid of his nightmares”77 (Figure 8). Whipple’s 

son, Earle, eventually moved back to Cambridge and lived with them briefly just before he 

entered Harvard. But just after he arrived, Earle’s mother, Dorothy, who had remarried and 

had moved to San Francisco, committed suicide. These were certainly difficult years, but 

they were also years promising new life: by the summer of 1951 the Whipples had two 

daughters, Sandra and Laura.78

Despite his successes, Whipple never fully accepted that he would remain in meteor 

research. By the early 1950s the rocket work had demonstrated to him, as well as to others, 

the potential of scientific rocketry and eventually of satellites. In the mid-1940s, he claimed 

repeatedly that his meteor programs were just a “five-year plan to see how much can be 

found out about these little particles of the solar system.”79 He said much the same thing in 

1947 and 1949, keeping to a five-year plan, but slipping it each time.80 By then, Whipple had 

become chairman of the Department of Astronomy at Harvard, worrying about students 

Figure 8 Fred and Babette Samuelson Whipple, October 

1957. Courtesy Sandra and Laura Whipple.
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 17

and other campus-related obligations. He accepted this responsibility as a necessary distraction; as he admitted to his colleague Jesse Greenstein, “Both Bok and Shapley love to 

run things anyhow so the responsibility does not sit too heavily.” Still, the responsibility 

took him away from what was really exciting, such as developing his new and revolutionary 

theory of comets.81

Indeed, his meteor network responsibilities also kept him away from analysis and 

interpretation, and at the time meteoritics also had a somewhat checkered reputation 

owing to its popularity with amateur meteorite hunters and prospectors.82 But his frustration could also have been because Baker’s Super-Schmidt network was still not complete. 

Still, he hoped that once it was operational, it would “throw considerable light on the 

evolution of the solar system.” He was excited about this prospect, but lamented that he 

was “becoming more and more snowed under by administrative work—which I frankly 

do not like.”83

The Super-Schmidt network became fully operational in 1951 and 1952, and the results 

were spectacular, capturing far more photographic trails than ever before.84 By spring 1953, 

Whipple was looking forward to the completion of the project, corresponding with the 

Bureau of Ordnance and then with the Office of Naval Research about the future use of the 

cameras. He was also using the same tracking studies to better understand how to maximize 

the survival rate of ultra-speed ballistic projectiles through the atmosphere, and promoted 

his operational Super-Schmidt network as the “ultimate [in] present-day capabilities” made 

possible under contracts with a wide range of military bureaus. By the summer of 1953, the 

Air Force had completed its second Super-Schmidt installation in New Mexico, following 

the Harvard system, and regarded Whipple as a central player.85

Why Conquer Space?

Whipple was always available to the media, eager to spread the word linking astronomy to space travel dreams. “I keep seeing your name in the news,” one of his former colleagues from the Radio Research Laboratory, more recently at Stanford, wrote him in March 

1947, “[talking] about rocket ships and asteroids and cosmogony.”86 Whipple’s access to the 

media was no doubt a gift of association with Harlow Shapley, who always encouraged his 

staff to be ready to present their work to the public whenever sky phenomena were likely 

to grab its imagination. No one was more willing than Whipple, who had something to say 

whenever a comet was in the sky or when meteor showers were expected or when aurorae 

were reported. Rarely if ever sensationalist, and usually quite prudent, Whipple had a certain talent for quotable quotes. After the war, Whipple’s appearances in the media continued 

to center on meteors and comets, but soon included space travel.

Historians have examined how disparate communities and individual interests 

within military services and between its branches negotiated with the intelligence community and the scientific establishment to build various political arguments for spaceflight. Most important was to establish a visible capability of global overflight, but to do 

it in a way that was peaceful, embodying “articles of faith, creeds, acolytes, ceremonies.”87
18 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Whipple navigated the turbulent waters of spaceflight advocacy as one of the few academics in this nested set of special interests, and eventually it factored into his decision to 

take on the leadership of the SAO. He thus joined a small band of passionate spaceflight 

visionaries, centered on Wernher von Braun but propelled by the efforts of Willy Ley, 

Cornelius Ryan, and others who lived in an overlapping set of communities ranging from 

aerospace companies and spaceflight advocacy groups to military and national security 

institutions.

Just as he had always claimed that all science was of interest to the military, Whipple 

envisioned that access to space would open up the universe for the astronomer. Virtually 

every problem astronomers might address would be enabled by access to space, he promised at the First Annual Symposium on Space Travel held at the Hayden Planetarium in 

October 1951, including searching for life on other planets where “the best way to discover 

the answer to these questions is to make a space trip to the planet itself and investigate on 

the spot.”88 Whipple also foresaw that instruments would be carried into space on both 

robotic and piloted space stations to provide continuous surveillance for practical ends 

such as weather prediction, climate studies, solar radio disturbances, and improving knowledge of the shape of Earth. It would be as big a technological challenge to handle the data 

flow, but in 1952 Whipple expressed confidence that the “huge ‘electronic brain’ calculating 

machines that we have today” were up to the job. This was all destined as man’s “conquest 

of nature.”89

There were always security classification barriers when proselytizing for spaceflight. 

Whipple admitted, “. . . we were all handicapped, not assisted, by knowing quite a lot about 

military plans for large ballistic missiles. . . We were under top security wraps in discussing 

satellites or space travel.” So he and his cohorts never disclosed anything like “the actual 

steps that probably would occur but had to jump over the realistic near future that we 

expected.”90 The key was to appeal to all sides and to stay out of the line of fire between the 

promoters and critics of spaceflight. His talks and essays reflected von Braun’s, Arthur C. 

Clarke’s, and Fred Singer’s enthusiasms, though he added cautionary remarks.91 In the fall 

of 1952, he co-authored with von Braun “The Exploration” to dramatize for Collier’s readers what an expedition to the Moon would be like, writing it as a trip diary set amidst the 

realistic landscapes Chesley Bonestell crafted depicting lunar scenes and humans living and 

working there.92 But he also made clear to the popular but technically savvy readership of 

Sky & Telescope, in “Astronomy from the Space Station,” just how challenging it would be 

to perform astronomical observations in space.93 Possibly his most evangelic expression 

came in a series of talks in 1953. Asking the question “Why Conquer Space?” Whipple 

gave four personal reasons “for wishing to see man in space.” First came “pure curiosity,” 

which needed no justification. Then, there would be an “enormous impetus to science,” 

which also went without justification. But then, as if to justify the first two, there would be 

the real political rewards in Cold War context: “I feel that the level of a culture from the 

historical point is measured largely by its technological achievements.” Those who do it first 

“will be marked for all time in the history of the world as a technological leader.” His deepest justification was epistemological: “It represents man’s conquest over nature.” And as an 

astronomer who had thought deeply about collisions of meteors, comets, and asteroids and 
The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple • 19

their dire consequences, Whipple warned that conquering space was “one more step toward 

insuring immortality for the race, if not for the individual.”94

By the time “Why Conquer Space?” appeared in print in the fall of 1954, in the first 

issue of the new journal Astronautics, Whipple was actively engaged in planning for a scientific satellite within von Braun’s circle. He was also discussing the possibility with his 

colleagues on the V-2 Panel, by now renamed the Upper Air Rocket Research Panel. And 

he was already deeply involved in planning for the International Geophysical Year (IGY) of 

1957–1958, having been designated chair of the IGY Technical Panel on Rocketry. It was 

this panel that would eventually form a subpanel to consider an Earth satellite, and Whipple 

was on that one too.

S. Fred Singer, former scientific liaison officer for the Office of Naval Research (ONR) 

in London and now at the University of Maryland, made sure that Whipple was invited 

to a quiet but high-level meeting on 25 June 1954 at the ONR in Washington, led by a 

Lieutenant Commander Hoover. Von Braun would be there, as would Fred Durant, a CIA 

officer and president of the International Astronautical Federation. Singer felt he needed 

Whipple there to help “in applying the brakes (you’ll see what I mean).” Singer warned 

Whipple that he needed clearance if he wanted to attend.95 Whipple had the right clearances and did attend to hear von Braun propose using an Army Redstone missile with 

three upper stages of clustered Loki anti-aircraft rockets to loft an inert 5 pound body that 

would orbit for several weeks or more.96 This seemed too hasty and wasteful to Whipple 

and Singer, who wanted something both instrumented and visible from the ground for 

tracking so they could use its motions to determine the properties of the uppermost 

portions of the atmosphere as well as the shape of Earth.97 By the end of September, von 

Braun submitted a formal proposal for an instrumented artificial satellite dubbed “Project 

Orbiter” and presented it at the end of the International Union of Geodesy and Geophysics 

General Assembly in Rome.

Just as he advised von Braun to launch something useful, Whipple also advised the 

Scientific Advisory Board of the U.S. Air Force not to wait to launch something overly complex. In a September 1954 report he encouraged them to start immediately with smaller 

payloads and learn along the way: “Are we to fly before we can walk?” He envisioned four 

classes of payloads, ranging from von Braun’s inert slug to a fully instrumented, manned 

physical laboratory. He immediately dismissed the first as not useful or informative. The 

second class, an “observable object,” could be very useful, for political as well as scientific 

goals. Something weighing 10 to 30 pounds that might “contain a simple mechanism to 

increase its surface area after reaching its orbit” would make it an easily seen and impressive naked eye object, maybe 5 feet in radius. It could carry corner reflectors for microwave 

radar visibility as well. The most complex practical level would be a “minimum unmanned 

physical laboratory” similar to present sounding rocket payloads and on the order of 

Singer’s own idea for what he called MOUSE, some 50 to 100 pounds. Above all, Whipple 

urged quick action: “I seriously question the wisdom of postponing the possible experience 

and research that we could gain from the simpler, cheaper types of satellites, until we can 

plunge into the extremely difficult and expensive later stages of the unmanned physical 

laboratory.”98
20 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Whipple listed eight objectives, military and scientific, that should be the drivers for 

the program. At the top was pure Cold War rhetoric: “World-wide demonstration of our 

power to send a missile to any part of the globe.” But immediately beyond this fact lay a 

number of scientific observations, all of which could be pursued by the tracking systems 

he was envisioning based upon his Super-Schmidt network that he knew the Air Force 

had bought into. First, optically visible satellites could provide precise data for improving 

knowledge of the gravitational field of Earth and, consequently, predict the trajectories of 

“extremely long-range missiles” and better test the “re-entry problem.” Most of all, Whipple 

advised that highly precise knowledge of the density, temperature, and pressure profiles for 

the upper atmosphere were critical for effective ballistics. Leaving for others the question 

of why precision was needed when bombs were so powerful, he pointed out that recent 

sounding rocket measurements of the high atmosphere confirmed that trajectories were 

extremely sensitive to atmospheric properties.99

In his report to the board, Whipple expressed no qualms about the value of precise 

data on the upper atmosphere for military application. In another presentation to the board 

at about the same time, however, “On the Security Classification of Upper Atmospheric 

Techniques and Data,” representing the Geophysical Panel on the Upper Atmosphere, he 

was just as passionate that such data remain unclassified. “Science can progress rapidly only 

through the exchange of ideas, techniques, and data,” he opened, adding that “the effects 

of security classification are to dull scientific initiative and inspiration.” These “unhappy 

effects,” he suggested, could “be alleviated by the establishment of large research organizations in which the basic scientific research activities are not compartmentalized.” This 

is exactly what he had in mind a few months hence when faced with the opportunity of 

bringing the Smithsonian to Harvard.100

By early 1955, space crusaders faced two questions: Would the United States decide 

to launch a satellite during the IGY? If so, who or what organizations would be given the 

lead?101 To answer these questions, the U.S. National Committee for the IGY formed a special study group creatively dubbed the “Long Playing Rocket (LPR) Committee” to consider 

and issue a draft report on feasibility, scientific value, and budget. Whipple chaired the 

committee, which labored over how to balance what was admittedly a sensitive military 

capability with the IGY’s mandate for openness.

The politics of overflight and how this issue might have influenced the ultimate decision by the United States has been discussed and continues to be debated.102 With an IGY 

imprimatur, the LPR argued, it would be politically easier to gain access to tracking sites 

around the globe, and, overall, as others argued, reflecting Whipple’s views, it would make 

international cooperation much smoother. Overall, IGY involvement would facilitate 

worldwide tracking and data collection. As Whipple argued, the “IGY association was necessary to ‘ease permission to go over other countries.’”

103

Throughout these years, Whipple’s expansionist enthusiasms could not have been 

greater. But his home base at the Harvard College Observatory was then in turmoil in the 

wake of Shapley’s retirement. It was far from clear just what Harvard wanted to do with 

astronomy.
21

Chapter 2

Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II

By late 1946, most of the senior staff members were back at Harvard, recovering and 

regrouping. But it was not a warm reunion. “[T]hink where Shapley is and tremble,” Henry 

Norris Russell advised a promising student in 1946, at a time when Shapley’s political and 

social activities, as well as his constant effort to enlarge Harvard’s facilities, had diluted his 

effectiveness as observatory director. Shapley’s senior staff worried that Harvard astronomy 

was operating in the red, and many repairs to the buildings and instruments were long 

overdue.104 But they did not agree on how to rectify the situation. Adding to the tension, 

President Conant imposed a new review mechanism on Shapley in 1948, creating a Harvard 

College Observatory Council (HCOC) composed of senior faculty to advise Shapley.105

Despite Shapley’s initial successes with the Rockefeller Foundation and other funding 

sources, there had been no effective growth of the endowment since the mid-1930s. Yet by 

World War II, the observatory had grown considerably; in 1927 the Boyden Station was 

moved from Peru to South Africa and greatly expanded, and in 1940 Menzel had created 

the Climax station in the Colorado Rockies for solar work. There were also enlarged facilities at nearby Oak Ridge including the new 61-inch reflector.106 Unlike in the late 1930s, 

there were now relatively few Harvard-trained PhD astronomers starred by the American 

Association for the Advancement of Science (AAAS).107 The infrastructures available for 

training and instrument development were stretched beyond tolerable levels.

As one of its first actions, the HCOC tried to mount a small fund-raising campaign, 

but the Harvard administration blocked it, claiming it conflicted with its own general campaign. Conant’s imposition of the HCOC and then his rejection of their initiative underscored the poor relations between him and Shapley that had occurred since the 1930s. 

Shapley’s politics and blatant disdain for some of Harvard’s loyal patrons were at the root of 

the tension; because of Shapley, Harvard felt the “pressures of McCarthyism [and demonstrated how they] could shatter personal relationships and academic camaraderie,” even in 

a field as remote as astronomy. Conant never openly criticized Shapley, but he did dislike 

the man, finding him “personally arrogant, politically naïve, and an inept administrator.”108

Both Whipple and Menzel therefore had to navigate between Conant and Shapley as they 

sought out funding for their projects. They both were members of a growing network of 

committees and panels organized first by the military services and then by Vannevar Bush’s 

Joint Research and Development Board and its successors under the Joint Chiefs of Staff.109

And both succeeded in raising project support. Their successes, however, created only more 

tension for their staff, because of Shapley’s failure to prioritize. For example, as Whipple was 

pressing Baker for new meteor cameras, Menzel wanted an improved coronagraph, and Bok 
22 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

wanted a new large Schmidt camera for South Africa. Baker therefore found himself overwhelmed and without institutional support: “All these things happened simultaneously.”110

Shapley’s Pending Retirement

Shapley was scheduled to retire in late 1952 and Conant was determined to hold him 

to it, despite the objections of more than one member of the Harvard Observatory Visiting 

Committee.111 Conant was then pushing to normalize the observatory as an academic 

department, under a department chairperson and subject to the rights and limitations of 

Harvard’s academic departments. But Shapley and the HCOC hotly rejected this directive.112

When Conant remained adamant, the HCOC appealed to dean of the faculty, Paul Buck, 

to select a new director before Shapley retired in September, and Bok was their choice.113

From this resistance, Buck and Conant knew that to affect any changes in Harvard astronomy they could not rely on present staff or on the traditionally friendly Visiting Committee. 

Harvard’s only recourse, under the rubric of collegiality, was to appoint an independent 

blue-ribbon committee to deliberate over the future of Harvard astronomy.

The Oppenheimer Committee

In February 1952, Conant asked J. Robert Oppenheimer to assess the observatory and 

department. Oppenheimer was then a member of Harvard’s Board of Overseers and he and 

Conant had known each other for years.114 Oppenheimer created a committee, turning first 

to Bengt Strömgren, then director of the Yerkes Observatory, whom Oppenheimer also had 

in mind as a candidate. He also recruited his former Manhattan Project business manager 

at Los Alamos, C. Donald Shane, director of the Lick Observatory. Ira S. Bowen, a leading 

physicist and the new director of the combined Mount Wilson and Palomar observatories, 

and Robert Bacher, a Caltech experimental physicist and Los Alamos alumnus, completed 

the committee. Oppenheimer had originally wanted Harvard physicist Ed Purcell to join 

the committee but Purcell, who would be awarded the 1952 Nobel Prize in Physics the 

following week, felt conflicted because he had been closely involved with Harvard astronomers in a radio project.115 In picking Oppenheimer, Conant succeeded in placing the fate 

of Harvard astronomy in the hands of physicists and astrophysicists far removed from 

Shapley’s world.116

Dean Buck assured Oppenheimer that he had a free hand and that he could ignore 

appeals from Harvard astronomers.117 Still, there had to be hearings with the staff, which 

were held in June, and then the committee made individual reports. Strömgren was the first 

and most forceful:

Senior staff consists of people who were very good when appointed. Although they 

are good now, the group is by no means strong. If left to itself, it would not have 

the strength to build up a first class institution in observational astronomy, even 
Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II • 23

if the money were available, nor would it have the strength needed for the development of a good theoretical center. Present rate of scientific accomplishment not 

satisfactory.118

Strömgren’s indictment extended to the dilapidated facilities that he claimed were 

“inadequate to the extent that a continued flow of Harvard PhD’s, trained as at present, 

would be a liability, rather than an asset, to American Astronomy.”119 He also felt that none 

of the present staff should have been tapped to take over. Some, like Whipple, were certainly marketable elsewhere. Oppenheimer agreed: “Whipple is a man of real distinction. 

He would be the easiest one to find a place for elsewhere, although he is tired and discouraged, but he has good taste.” Beyond Whipple, they thought none of the senior staff was 

worth saving and it would be better to start from scratch. Reflecting directly on Shapley, 

they agreed that the real problems were systemic, that the “set up . . . has been bad.” As 

Oppenheimer expressed it, “With good direction and the kind of supervision which Physics 

has had, the astronomers who have been here for 10 or 15 years might have been very different people.”120

Throughout this period, Whipple kept his distance from the debate, concentrating on 

research and projects. At one point, he asked Buck for a sabbatical at an unnamed observatory “to renew my scientific contacts there and to lay plans for my scientific work in the 

future.”121 Buck granted his request, but it was never acted upon.

The committee clearly valued Whipple and likely saw him as an emotional casualty of 

Shapley’s mishandling. The committee also was not uniformly negative; C. D. Shane, especially, whom Menzel also had mentored at Berkeley, felt that Conant’s and Oppenheimer’s 

indictments would create “humiliation and loss of morale” and no end of lasting friction 

between Harvard College Observatory (HCO) staff and members of the committee, which 

“would be unfortunate for American astronomy.”122 Conant therefore eliminated ad hominem statements and concentrated on the deteriorated infrastructure, illustrating dramatic 

losses by comparing the state of Harvard astronomy in 1932 with what it was in 1952.123

Shapley’s empire had to be trimmed: save what was worth saving. But Conant’s intent was 

always, as he confided to Oppenheimer, to “hit the astronomers over the head” and he 

was not hesitant to consider abandoning observational astronomy altogether.124 Conant saw 

three options: (1) Hire a new outside director to build up the observatory infrastructure; 

(2) with an outside director, scrap the southern station and maintain the Oak Ridge site 

as a training facility; or (3) close both stations and concentrate on theoretical astrophysics 

within the physics department.125

The Harvard Corporation approved option 2 and immediately provided some 

$300,000 for upgrades sooner than Conant had expected or even requested, even before a 

new director was to be appointed. Conant rationalized this decision to Oppenheimer as the 

need for expediency and relayed the corporation’s hope that Oppenheimer would accept 

the additional charge of finding the new director as soon as possible.126 There was reason for 

haste, as Conant was about to step down from the Harvard presidency to become the new 

U.S. High Commissioner for Germany. “Sorry to raise a lot of trouble,” Conant added, “by 

leaving this astronomy matter in your hands. Please take it on!”127
24 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Menzel as Acting Director

Shapley had advised Conant that Menzel was “definitely the most unpopular member 

of the major Observatory staff.” Accordingly, Conant selected Menzel as acting director. 

When he got the news, Bok noisily resigned in protest as associate director in October 1952, 

which only further strained emotions at the observatory.128

As acting director, Menzel quickly set about to do what the administration requested. 

A number of the buildings had to be either wholly reconstructed or abandoned and 

destroyed. Displaced staff had to be somehow accommodated and vestiges of the Pickering/

Shapley years erased. Those vestiges, offices containing staff of the highly regarded amateur 

American Association of Variable Star Observers (AAVSO), staff of the popular astronomy 

magazine Sky & Telescope, and even the remnants of James Baker’s World War II optics 

unit, all had to move their operations off campus. The many nooks and crannies that had 

specialist library niches were closed down and consolidated with the main library, and 

the library itself sent its most valuable volumes to the Houghton Library on campus. The 

library also had to regularize relations and policies with the main campus facility, Widener 

Library.129

If culling the library was painful, weeding the famed Harvard Plate Collection was, 

to the more traditional members of the senior staff, considered a sacrilege, most ardently 

expressed by variable star and spectroscopic parallax expert Dorrit Hoffleit.130 The collection of photographic plates was an almost continuous record of the night sky that had been 

taken over a half century and was cherished as a “natural history of the heavens.”131 Both 

actions took months and there were protests all along the way (Figure 9). Matters turned 

darker and hotter when Menzel took steps to meet the corporation’s vote for option 2, which 

meant divestiture of the Boyden Station. Bok went ballistic and created a public relations 

furor in South Africa and elsewhere. Twenty-six Harvard graduate students and staff wrote 

a protest letter to Dean Buck, with copies to the Harvard Corporation and the Harvard 

Board of Visitors.132

Menzel, however, also worked hard to correct staffing issues, paying far more attention 

to the problem than had Shapley. He could not control Bok, Hoffleit, nor especially Shapley. 

However, he was on good terms with Whipple and suggested that Payne-Gaposchkin be 

promoted to full professor, a move long overdue.133 Whipple generally agreed with Menzel, 

and after it became evident to Payne-Gaposchkin that Menzel really did support her, she 

too began to warm to his leadership. Another of Menzel’s top priorities was to rectify the 

dreadfully low pay and status of many Harvard staff, culling those who were not performing and recognizing those who were. Inflamed by Bok, Hoffleit, and others, however, the 

eviction of the AAVSO, and the decision to make Boyden a cooperative venture in collaboration with European and South African universities all combined to keep the staff in an 

uproar.134

Menzel defended his actions. His “Interim Report on Observatory Problems,” issued 

in February 1953, prompted Buck to report to Oppenheimer that “Menzel is doing a surprisingly good job and deserves commendation.” A few days later, Lawrence Terry, chair 

of the Overseers Committee on Astronomy, endorsed Menzel.135 But an outside candidate 
Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II • 25

From: D. H. Menzel Date: 12/8/53

To: A. A. V. S. O. , Att. Mrs. Mayall

Subject: Moving

We hope to start tearing down Building A as soon after the

first of January, 1954, as the contractor can undertake it.

We should appreciate it, therefore, if you would plan to

make the move by that date.

HARVARD OBSERVATARY MEMORANDUM

Figure 9 Menzel’s eviction notice was posted in the AAVSO offices with an added cartoon from 

the Saturday Evening Post, personalized to suit the situation. Dorrit Hoffleit Papers held by the 

Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe Institute, published with the permission of the Harvard University 

Archives. Cartoon © SEPS licensed by Curtis Licensing Indianapolis, IN. All rights reserved.
26 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

still had to be found. In September 1953, the new dean of faculty, McGeorge Bundy, made 

a personal appearance at a meeting of all observatory staff “to make clear the finality and 

authority of this decision.” Bundy added privately to Oppenheimer, “This I shall do with the 

vigor of ignorance.”136

Shapley’s Successor

Shapley’s concerted attempts to undermine Menzel, and Menzel’s complaints about 

Shapley’s taking credit for everything, convinced Oppenheimer and his committee in 1952 

that what Harvard needed was a truly powerful person from the outside who could stand 

up to Shapley and overcome his liabilities. But through 1952 none of their targets, among 

the most powerful names in astronomy, would bite.137 No one “sufficiently eminent, qualified and appropriate to be brought to Harvard” would even negotiate. So in spring 1953 

the committee agreed that Menzel should be appointed as director, but for a limited fiveyear term. The committee also wanted additional appointments—at least one new senior 

astronomer and member of the HCOC—to occur simultaneously. Menzel’s appointment, 

therefore, was only a “contingent recommendation” because they did not believe that his 

nomination alone, without this supplementary position of new blood at a very high level, 

would be sufficient to fix Harvard’s problems.138

Menzel asked Payne-Gaposchkin to endorse him to Dean Buck, and she gave him 

flying colors; under his six-month acting period, the HCOC had been “working in a spirit 

of growing solidarity; the atmosphere has been one of cohesion rather than division.” Under 

Menzel’s tutelage, more graduate students were seeking broader astrophysical problems. 

Most critically, she felt that during his tenure they now had strengthened ties with Harvard 

physics and chemistry and MIT applied science, with an “increased emphasis on cross-field 

research . . . in tune with the whole trend of astrophysical research.”139 Payne-Gaposchkin 

had moved completely into Menzel’s camp. With endorsements like this, and the fact that 

no external candidate wanted the job, Bundy late in 1953 called Menzel into his office and 

asked him, “What would be your reply, Donald, if I asked you to become Director instead 

of Acting Director?” Menzel accepted on the spot, asking Bundy to come to HCO to make 

the announcement himself.140 The five-year probation was still in place, but it seamlessly 

became permanent within two years.

Menzel certainly planned for change. One of his first actions as acting director had 

been to identify some 22 issues he and the council had to address, from the divestiture of 

Boyden and a major shift from traditional catalog work to what were more fruitful, problembased projects. He knew that Conant and his successor as president, Nathan Pusey, as well 

as Buck and Bundy, had convinced the Harvard Corporation what the Harvard astronomy 

had to look like, and it was not business as usual with the present Harvard staff. Menzel 

singled out only a few names to retain, such as James Baker, but others might do better 

elsewhere.141

Menzel’s actions convinced the corporation that the observatory was aligning with 

Harvard goals and would eventually regain its distinction. Even so, with Conant now gone, 
Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II • 27

replaced quickly by a new president, Menzel faced very much the same challenges, albeit 

in a calmer atmosphere. Pusey, a humanist, put less pressure on the sciences, and replaced 

Conant’s “assertive, meritocratic spirit of FDR’s New Deal” with “the affluent, confident 

mood of the Eisenhower and Kennedy years.”142 Even so, Menzel would have to demonstrate 

innovation and positive growth, strengthening his infrastructure and making a strong distinctive mark in order to restore Harvard’s faith in the observatory. Indeed, within a very 

short time, serendipity helped him achieve both these goals.

29

Chapter 3

The Creation of the SAO

In May 1955, the Harvard Crimson heralded the arrival of the Smithsonian Institution 

on the Harvard campus. The article opened grandly, quoting Whipple, director designate: 

“The interests of both observatories are very similar, and the change will enable us to launch 

a broad attack on the area of astronomical geophysics.”143 Whipple continued:

The problems before us are not of the sort that can be solved by individuals . . . and 

we will now have many more people working here, and thus have a greater opportunity to exchange ideas. I should say that the potentialities of both institutions have 

been greatly increased by the shift of the Smithsonian here.144

The Crimson reported that “high-level Smithsonian astronomers” would both teach 

and do research, which would aid training at the university. The Smithsonian’s outstations, 

in Chile and California, would remain in operation, and the combined focus of both observatories would now be “astronomical geophysics,” which “deals with the sun and its effect 

on the earth, especially through the impact of light on the earth and its atmosphere.”145

The Crimson’s coverage reflects Whipple and Menzel’s goals rather than the present 

state of affairs. First, Whipple’s explicit use of the term astronomical geophysics is a reflection 

of his priorities. Menzel used the term as well, but it was also an entrepreneurial statement. 

They both knew that the Office of Naval Research (ONR) was particularly interested in the 

promise of such a crossover, and, to be sure, the International Geophysical Year was rapidly 

being organized.146 It also reflected Shapley’s penchant for promoting interdisciplinarity 

since the 1930s.147 Yet the term rarely if ever appeared in astronomical literature either 

before or after this time. Astronomy and geophysics had long been linked institutionally 

and intellectually, but not in this adjectival form before 1960.148

The assertion that there were “high-level Smithsonian astronomers” was definitely 

premature. Whipple would be the first, and there was no physical transfer of staff from 

Washington to Cambridge. Nor was there concordance of interests between the two institutions. His prediction that the institutions would grow certainly came true, and from his 

words here, as reported by the Crimson, Whipple was sensitive to the expressed concerns of 

the Smithsonian that the work of the Astrophysical Observatory (APO) of the Smithsonian 

Institution would continue. What Whipple apparently did not say, however, was how he 

would pursue the APO’s singular goal.
30 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

The Astrophysical Observatory of the Smithsonian Institution

The APO, founded by Samuel Pierpont Langley and then led by Charles Greeley 

Abbot for some 50 years, never varied in its mission, from its inception in 1890 to its death 

in 1955. Although this might be considered unusual, unimaginative, or even unacceptable 

behavior today by modern professional standards, it was not uncommon, nor was it seriously questioned, during that time.

The idea of establishing a physical observatory to study the heavens from the grounds 

of the Smithsonian goes back to the first secretary, Joseph Henry, who in the 1850s secured 

congressional authorization to establish a magnetic observatory,149 and to close the loop 

called as well for a solar-monitoring observatory.150 In 1887, his call was answered by 

the second secretary, Spencer Baird, who invited Langley to leave Pittsburgh’s Allegheny 

Observatory and create a true astrophysical observatory, the first of its kind in the New 

World, to pursue his “New Astronomy,” recording the amount and character of the Sun’s 

heat.151 The so-called solar constant was a critical factor in meteorology, because the Sun, 

then as now, drove the general structure of Earth’s atmosphere. Langley had turned to this 

eminently practical problem in the mid-1870s and quickly garnered national attention 

from astronomers.152

Soon after his arrival in 1887, Langley also became the third secretary when Baird 

died.153 He found that money was not a problem for building his observatory, but finding a 

suitable site was. He looked for “seclusion and quiet” but found so many restrictions around 

Washington that he finally settled on a temporary site immediately south of the main building154 (Figure 10).

Although Langley built the APO, and set its agenda, he did not tend to it daily as 

Smithsonian secretary, becoming preoccupied with aviation and other pursuits. The funds 

allocated by Congress and by Smithsonian patrons, however, were sufficient to hire staff. 

Very much along the lines established by Henry, these funds also served to support research 

elsewhere, and Langley gained great equity within American scientific circles by funding 

emerging and established scientists.155 But he left daily operations of the APO to one of his 

first hires, his chief assistant, Charles Greeley Abbot.

Charles Greeley Abbot

Abbot arrived at the APO in 1895 armed with training in chemical physics from MIT. 

His task was to refine the value and character of the solar constant by taking daily observations of the solar intensity in different parts of the spectrum as observed at sea level and 

at varying altitudes above sea level. His goal was to extrapolate its value “as it would be 

observed at mean solar distance outside the atmosphere altogether.”156 Like Langley an avid 

experimentalist, Abbot was also a dutiful data collector, employing devices such as their 

silver disk pyrheliometer for measuring the light and heat of the Sun. He was perfect for the 

job (Figure 11).
The Creation of the SAO • 31

Abbot’s attack on the solar constant as a mission of the Smithsonian Institution had 

two phases. First, he worked to refine its value, but then he campaigned for the rest of his 

career to determine its variations, linking them to variations in Earth’s climate. He accomplished the first phase by designing and executing a series of stratospheric balloonsonde 

ascents in California between 1913 and 1915.157 His second phase was more elusive.

Over the decades, he constantly improved his instrumentation and established widely 

spaced observing stations with trained staff operating carefully systematized and calibrated 

instruments. Through the 1920s, Abbot parlayed his findings into a creed telling of firm 

connections between solar cycles and weather patterns. Seeking popular recognition, he 

delivered stump speeches on how his work would lead to true long-range weather prediction.158 Abbot’s claims, however, created problems for C. F. Marvin, chief of the Weather 

Bureau, because his office was being deluged with hundreds of letters asking for predictions 

and for advice about everything from when to schedule sporting events and weddings to 

Figure 10 The offices, shops, and solar-observing facilities of the Astrophysical 

Observatory, located in the South Yard of the Smithsonian Institution during the Langley 

and Abbot years, ca. 1899. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Image # 80-12955.
32 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

when to plant crops. Such raised expectations, from what Marvin felt was flimsy evidence, 

deeply concerned the conservative meteorologist. Marvin, however, was a Washington colleague and ally and knew how to play the game. Accordingly, he called for more observations, justifying the continued growth of the APO.159 Abbot parlayed this support to gain 

patronage from a wide range of benefactors that made it possible to build new stations in 

the American West, in Chile, and in southwest Africa.160

Abbot succeeded Charles Walcott as sixth secretary of the Smithsonian in 1928, but 

his focus remained on the Astrophysical Observatory and its programs. With support from 

the Research Corporation of New York, he established a new division of Radiation and 

Organisms in 1929. During the 1930s, when the Smithsonian, along with other governmental bodies such as the National Bureau of Standards, suffered retrenchment, Abbot’s 

APO prospered. Its staff grew steadily, split between the observing stations and instrument 

development in Washington. His instruments were used at stations around the world, both 

by Smithsonian staff and by a growing host of cooperating observatories (Figure 12). In 

Langley’s tradition, these devices were reliable, standardized, and wholly interchangeable, 

and made the Smithsonian’s reputation.161

Abbot exploited a close interlocking network of elite friends and colleagues within scientific Washington and in the astronomical, geological, and meteorological communities.162

Figure 11 Charles Greeley Abbot demonstrating a silver disk “pyrheliometer” sometime between 

1913 and 1917. Courtesy Library of Congress.
The Creation of the SAO • 33

Within this circle, especially starting in the 1920s, what Abbot believed he was finding was 

a phenomenon very much in vogue at the time—cyclic behavior—that the Sun’s energy varied in measurable and ultimately predictable cycles. In the 1920s, cycles were a fascination. 

The Carnegie Institution of Washington created a “Committee on Periodicity” and hosted 

“cycles conferences” looking for correlations in all natural phenomena. There were many 

voices in support, therefore, of Abbot’s continued work, holding out the hope that his conclusions would be vindicated.163

Dodging Criticism

Abbot faced his harshest criticism in 1939 with bluster. A young, mathematically 

gifted Harvard astronomer, Theodore Sterne, followed up the work of an Indian meteorologist in London who showed that most of Abbot’s periodicities fitted known atmospheric 

Figure 12 Andrew Kramer, APO instrument maker from 1892 to 1953, photographed in the early 

1930s working on typical solar-monitoring instruments. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Image # 

SIA2012-6495.
34 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

anomalies and so were not solar in origin.164 Abbot had summarily dismissed these findings, which stirred Sterne into action. Adept in Fourier and least squares techniques, 

Sterne scrutinized the periodicities and became concerned about their reality. Some did 

have statistical significance, but they could well be not only of the solar constant but also 

of the “solar constant, plus random errors, plus possible systematic errors,” none of which 

had been or could be accounted for.165 Sterne and two Harvard colleagues, Walter Orr 

Roberts and Karl Guthe, concluded that the periodicities Abbot reported were not found 

through harmonic analysis, “but only from a partly subjective examination of a rather 

loose sort.”166

Abbot blithely brushed away this blunt rejection by the Harvard astronomers. When 

Shapley invited Abbot to Harvard to respond in May 1940, Abbot haughtily claimed this 

was clear evidence of his veracity. One of his quietest critics was, however, very close at 

hand. In 1947, his long-time assistant at the APO and now his successor, Loyal B. Aldrich, 

admitted privately that, although he had the greatest affection and respect for his old boss, 

“Mr. Abbot’s papers on this subject in my judgment tend to emphasize the favorable factors 

and to neglect the unfavorable, rather than to weigh impartially all factors. As a result, one 

is left with a feeling of doubt.”167

The APO After Abbot 

Abbot retired both as secretary and APO director in 1944. Aldrich carried on, defending mission and staff, but he now reported to a new secretary, ornithologist Alexander 

Wetmore, who was less than sympathetic.168 Aldrich was near retirement himself and 

lacked Abbot’s engaging charisma and skill moving through scientific Washington. Over 

the next several years he echoed Abbot’s appeals for the APO’s mission, but that was literally 

all he did, without the alliances that Abbot was always able to marshal. Aldrich was simply 

being true to his word; he made no promises about solar variations and none about weather 

influence.

In his first annual report, celebrating the Smithsonian’s centennial, Wetmore stated 

bluntly that that “its position is strong in some respects and weak in others.”169 He was most 

concerned about inadequate facilities and lack of support staff to properly serve the some 

2 million annual visitors to the National Museum. But he also feared that the Smithsonian 

was no longer competitive in a new world dominated by research institutions and laboratories flourishing in universities and industry.170 By 1950, his concern deepened over 

“increasing pressure on all sides” to regiment science “in certain countries.” He cautioned 

that the Smithsonian should not overstep its bounds, such as adding “functions unjustified 

by normal demands or necessities.” Yet, he defensively added, it had to continue to foster 

“small and perhaps unpopular projects.”171

These words were no doubt a response to calls then in Washington for more accountability and oversight of government agencies.172 One of his chief advisors, John L. Keddy, a 

politics and government specialist who had been the Smithsonian’s Bureau of the Budget 
The Creation of the SAO • 35

examiner and was now assistant secretary, knew that Congress and the executive branch 

were considering some form of general government reorganization, which became more 

ominous when a Senate committee on “Expenditures in the Executive Department” convened and started asking questions. The newly created General Services Administration 

was really shaking things up in Washington late in 1949, so Keddy strongly advised 

Wetmore to alert Senate and House Regents of the grave danger afoot, sure that lurking on 

the Hill was a bill that “proposed subordination of the Smithsonian to the General Services 

Administration.”173

Another member of the secretary’s staff, John E. Graf, agreed. He had been Associate 

Director of the Smithsonian’s United States National Museum since 1931, responsible for 

administrative matters, and now assistant secretary as a specialist in federal budgetary procedures. Their charge was to professionalize the Smithsonian administration in the eyes of 

Congress. The steps that led to the APO’s demise on the Mall need to be understood in this 

context.

Aldrich reported to Keddy and Graf, who at first were not concerned with his leadership, but always urged him to fill any open positions quickly, since an unfilled position in 

the government “indicates the agency does not know how to manage its funds.”174

Real problems arose in 1951, however, when the House Appropriations Committee 

threatened to halve APO funding. Even though it was overtly a reflection of general government cost cutting amidst the growing Korean War, there were also concerns because 

some in Congress were impatient that the Smithsonian’s decades-old promise of providing weather prediction still had not happened. Even though Wetmore rapidly restored the 

APO’s support from general funds, the Smithsonian had been warned.175

In 1952, to help prepare for his own successor, Wetmore initiated a general reappraisal 

of Smithsonian research and curation. It was a watershed in revealing how the research staff 

viewed itself, and for what it was ready to fight. Graf chaired the Smithsonian Institution 

Planning Committee and Keddy co-chaired it. The committee created subcommittees to 

look at the research infrastructure and also suggest ways to improve outreach without taxing the researchers. Aldrich was on the central committee as a research head, but played 

little part in the proceedings, or in deliberations that were dominated by concerns from the 

National Museum of Natural History, mainly on how to improve or regularize the use of a 

nature reserve in a lake along the Panama Canal called Barro Colorado Island.176 But there 

was also a very active and influential Subcommittee on New Work Programs that deliberated over the next several years on the future of research at the Smithsonian. By summer 

1954 their overall statement was to continue the course, but to foster more collaboration 

with American institutions with complementary resources, “seeking either private or governmental funds.”177

Throughout this time, Aldrich’s annual report to the secretary remained unchanged 

from the previous nine years: “Our goal has continued to be to improve if possible the standard set by previous work.”178 Wetmore took these reports in stride, but Leonard Carmichael, 

his successor, scrutinized his directors’ reports in light of the findings of the deliberating 

committees. And as had Wetmore, Carmichael found there was more cleanup necessary.
36 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Enter Carmichael

Leonard Carmichael, the seventh secretary of the Smithsonian Institution, took office 

in January 1953. With a PhD in psychology from Harvard awarded to him in 1924, and 

professorships at Princeton, Brown, and the University of Rochester, he had been president 

of Tufts University since 1938 and was the Smithsonian’s first secretary from academia. 

Carmichael was also a colleague and confidant of several members of the Smithsonian 

Board of Regents, including Vannevar Bush, who had been a Smithsonian regent since 1940 

and a leader of scientific Washington during World War II.

Carmichael moved quickly to revitalize the institution. As had Wetmore and Abbot, 

he pushed to raise visibility by improving exhibits and expanding media outreach. But his 

deeper concern was for the health and future of the Smithsonian’s research viability after 

the Smithsonian Institution Planning Committee found that “a need exists for a critical 

appraisal of the relative importance of fundamental research in relation to curatorial and 

service functions.”179 Carmichael also knew of the ongoing debates over the scope of the 

emerging new National Science Foundation and its role in the federal support for science. 

Would it be a funding agency, or an agent for coordination and control of those funds not 

only in academe but also in other federal agencies and bureaus? He certainly did not want 

the latter option, and most strongly reacted to a portion of the proposed directive that 

called for bureaus and agencies to “confine themselves to ‘those research and development 

projects which meet the criterion of necessity’” as defined by their authorized missions.180

Even so, thinking of how to protect the Smithsonian’s various investments in research, from 

exploration biology to the monitoring of solar radiation, he worried less about their value 

to humanity than to their value to the institution’s health and competitiveness.

The “criterion of necessity,” Carmichael realized, as much as he might have objected 

to it, meant evermore that the work of the APO had to be defensible. Abbot, still very much 

present as an Associate of the Institution, claimed it was, urging only that more public outreach was critical to survival.181 But Aldrich confined his attention to managing the APO 

and its Division of Radiation and Organisms. In September 1953, his second in command 

and planned successor died unexpectedly. And the third senior member, A. Kramer, the 

instrument maker, was about to retire after some 40 years of service. There were about a 

dozen other employees at the time, from field station directors to meteorologists to clerical assistants and computers, but none of them had standing or reputation as successor to 

Aldrich.

This state of play worried Keddy, who was annoyed with Aldrich’s dry reports and 

appeals for “the need for extreme accuracy” and for the continued improvement of instruments and reduction methods. In late 1953, Keddy scribbled, “. . . same thing again. . . ,”182

some four times in the margins against each of Aldrich’s claims. At one point, he boldly 

scrawled, “no vision.” Keddy knew that Carmichael had been talking with his academic colleagues about the future of the APO. His Tufts colleagues recommended he contact astronomers for advice, such as Leo Goldberg, then at Michigan, Charles D. Shane at Berkeley, 

and Donald Menzel at Harvard, who was then the best known and most influential solar 

astronomer in the United States.183 One trusted colleague at Tufts darkly advised that he 
The Creation of the SAO • 37

and his colleagues “have been unanimous in their feeling that it is high time that a more 

modern research program was undertaken—in addition of course to continuing the routine 

measurements of solar radiation.” Among several prominent scientists critical of the APO, 

he named Fred Whipple, who knew of Sterne’s analysis.184

With Keddy’s continuing urging, Carmichael contacted Menzel and, finally Shapley, 

more than confirming his concerns.185 There was never any question in Carmichael’s mind 

concerning the scientific and social importance of the problem, as delineated by Langley, 

Abbot, and then Aldrich, and the importance of continuing the search for correlations with 

weather. The question was, how and where best to do it?

Whither the APO? 

Anticipating Aldrich’s retirement, Carmichael quickly found it unlikely that a strong 

candidate could be attracted to Washington to direct the APO’s far-flung stations. So he 

started looking further afield for a new base of operations. At first he was attracted to 

a facility in Freemont Pass in the Colorado Rockies at Climax called the High Altitude 

Observatory (HAO). Created by Donald Menzel, and managed at first from Harvard as a 

remote station, the HAO was rapidly growing into a significant solar observatory funded 

by the U.S. Air Force and linked to the University of Colorado in Boulder. It was directed 

by Menzel protégé Walter Orr Roberts, who more than anyone built the observatory and 

maintained it through World War II, and collaborated with Sterne.

Roberts had been recommended by Shapley and seconded by Menzel to continue the 

APO’s solar agenda, but reconstitute it along modern astrophysical lines.186 Carmichael visited Climax in August 1954 and was much impressed with Roberts’s creation, “a unique 

and really brilliantly effective group of co-workers.” They also met with the president of 

the University of Colorado about a possible university connection.187 Roberts was already 

building stronger ties with the University, since his Harvard ties were weakened due to, 

in the words of a HAO Board member, an “irreconcilable conflict between Roberts and 

Menzel.”188

Indeed, as historians have clearly shown, Carmichael’s search for a new home for the 

APO came at a time of many tensions, from parochial East-West differences among astronomers, to the role of the federal government, the Smithsonian in particular, in the support 

of science, to the need to continue a line of research activity that was no longer in vogue, 

and, to be sure, to personality clashes.189 As with the deliberations by Oppenheimer’s committee at Harvard, the process of coming to the decision included many of the same names, 

mainly directors of major observatories.

Through autumn 1954, Carmichael consulted with astronomers and meteorologists 

in Washington and Boston about Roberts, finding both positive and negative reactions.190

Complicating the matter was that observatory directors on the East and West Coasts differed over the need for, and organization of, a national optical observatory that would foster 

new technologies, such as photoelectric photometry. Most of them wondered whether the 

Smithsonian’s move should not be deliberated in the context of a national facility.191
38 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Indeed, Carmichael’s inquiries came at a particularly sensitive time when national 

observatories for both optical and radio astronomy were being debated by national panels and members of those panels perceived Carmichael’s inquiries in parochial ways. 

R. R. McMath of Michigan felt strongly that Roberts’s observatory “was not the right place” 

for the Smithsonian to land.192 And others advised that the APO “should stay where it is at 

the moment, but later be moved to the National Observatory site.”193 Through this effort 

Carmichael found factions within the astronomical community, but he was also hearing 

some names come up frequently as possible candidates to revitalize the APO. Roberts was 

suggested repeatedly, but also were Fred Whipple and Richard N. Thomas at Harvard and 

George Field at Princeton. Thomas, a bright and promising Harvard PhD and junior member of the staff since his graduation in 1946, had broad interests in stellar atmospheres, 

working with Payne-Gaposchkin, Menzel, and Roberts. He also had strong interests in 

hyperballistics and meteor studies, and at times worked with Whipple, Sterne, and others. 

Menzel strongly supported Thomas.194

Carmichael was far from sure what advice to take, but one thing was clear. Given the 

volatility of the profession, “the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory should retain its 

identity, no matter what new association is established.”195 Menzel continued to push for 

Harvard, and promoted Thomas as a key player. Thomas even visited Washington to outline 

an ambitious network they called “The Solar Associates.” He argued that it would combine 

the forces, and the resources, of Harvard and the APO as well as the Bureau of Standards 

and Roberts’s HAO, all fueled by the “U S Government.”196 Carmichael listened carefully, as 

he wanted a strong connection with a university. But it had to be with the right institution, 

willing and able to continue the legacy programs of the APO but with modern competitive techniques. Ira Bowen, who had been on Oppenheimer’s committee, felt that the APO 

legacy of routine observation was best left in government hands, but if it were linked to 

Harvard and Menzel, something new and innovative might emerge.197 And giving it further thought in December 1954, Bowen admitted that a link to Harvard had advantages.198

Goldberg agreed: A Smithsonian association with Harvard would no doubt be positively 

received in the highest circles.199

The highest circles, for Carmichael, were the Smithsonian regents. Jerome Hunsaker, 

regent and pioneer aeronautical engineering professor at MIT, had a high opinion of 

Roberts’s abilities but worried that he was a “one man show” unless there was a strong 

university affiliation.200 Hunsaker confirmed that a multi-institutional arrangement was 

important, but the Smithsonian had to retain its identity. As Carmichael considered his 

options, thinking of Roberts and Colorado or Thomas at Harvard and the solar associates 

scheme, evidently he, Menzel, and Bundy were also encouraging Whipple to consider the 

job. In one of his many phone calls to Carmichael, Menzel reported that “Whipple, as 

he thinks about the matter, is becoming more interested in the Smithsonian opening.” 

Menzel added that Dean Bundy “expressed a real enthusiasm for an association with the 

Smithsonian.”201

By the end of the year, Carmichael decided to move the APO to Harvard, and 

after more meetings with Menzel and Whipple in mid-January, they refined the scope 

of the “solar associates” wherein the APO would move to Harvard, with connections to 
The Creation of the SAO • 39

Roberts’s Climax, the U.S. Bureau of Standards, and the Air Force’s Sacramento Peak Solar 

Observatory, virtually all major American institutions concerned with solar-terrestrial 

relations within Menzel’s domain. All this would be fueled by “U.S. Gov. contracts.”202 But 

Roberts’s description of what he wanted, a “private non-profit corporation” with an independent board of directors that answered to the University of Colorado, made Graf and 

Keddy suspicious because, they advised Carmichael, it meant exposing Smithsonian’s “hard 

core of money” and that “both Harvard & Climax are expecting to lay profane hands on 

that money.”203 In the end, Carmichael told Roberts that the Smithsonian wanted ties “with 

some other centers that are in a sense in the Harvard orbit.”204 This killed Roberts’s hope for 

a Colorado-based empire.205 With Roberts now sidelined, Graf counseled Carmichael, “Our 

first move is to catch a Director and then listen to his ideas on various and sundry subjects 

affecting the Astrophysical Observatory.”206

The choice was now between Thomas and Whipple. Menzel argued that a top man 

was necessary. Thomas was good, but young and a bit brash. However, a top man at Harvard 

would require a salary well beyond the present federal pay scale for the Smithsonian, 

which “is not sufficient to attract a top man in the field, like Whipple.” Menzel envisioned 

that Whipple would have a large chunk of the combined observatory to worry about, and 

that the Smithsonian would require a full floor of one of Harvard’s bigger buildings. But 

it could also fund the construction of a major new building, with a brass plaque over the 

door identifying the facility as “a matter of practical application as well as of pride.” The 

Smithsonian, Menzel added to Bundy, would be “in a position to make further grants 

for the work beyond the basic budget, and in addition, accept the various government 

contracts.”207

Whipple, of course, was not a solar astronomer. But Menzel knew that his meteor work 

had “already brought us into problems of the upper atmosphere and the broad field of astronomical geophysics.” He stressed that “this new cross-field study is important and exciting.” 

“Cross-field” research was then a passion at Harvard, and Menzel felt this was a most effective strategy. Harvard was well placed to take advantage of the situation, taking the lead in 

training new scientists to work in the hybrid field: “The demand for such scientists is great, 

in the government, in universities, and in industry.” He reminded Dean Bundy of Harvard’s 

strong efforts in radio astronomy and emphasized that his own and Whipple’s theoretical 

studies in aerodynamics had “multiple application in fields ranging from pure astrophysics to the design of airplanes or the calculation of explosion [sic] in shockwaves.” Finally, 

demonstrating his determination to clean out the old, he applauded the parallel initiatives 

at Harvard and MIT to modernize meteorology: Harvard would do well to move boldly into 

the meteorology of the upper atmosphere “rather than in the relatively non-productive field 

of synoptic meteorology. . . . An increasing number of meteorologists believe that the clue 

to climatology lies in the upper atmosphere.”208

Menzel’s vision of what the Harvard-Smithsonian relationship represented and might 

someday produce, the mere scale of it, required Whipple’s seniority and his extensive 

experience in Washington—his numerous memberships on boards and advisory panels. 

Accordingly, Bundy advised Nathan Pusey that they were working on a joint government 

appointment for Whipple. Bundy, though enthusiastic about Whipple, remained cautious 
40 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

“because of the number of painful disengagements which I have had to work on in the 

astronomical area in the last year.” But now, he felt, it was worth it: “The Smithsonian is a 

very different institution from those which we have been dealing. It has income of its own, 

first-rate standards, and we think a disposition to make its major appointments by criteria 

that mesh with ours.”209 Bundy therefore endorsed the plan as long as all parties could agree 

“on the man who might be the principal link.” That man was Whipple, for whom Bundy had 

developed a particular sympathy:

One of the things which is of great interest to Whipple, the man who might well be 

director for the Smithsonian if the deal comes off, is the possibility of researches 

leading toward the establishment of a space station. I always laugh when he says 

this, but he is dead serious. The research work for this sort of undertaking will be 

on government contracts, and furthermore, some of it will have to be classified. So 

Whipple is hopeful that if we can work out a pattern with the Smithsonian, it may 

be possible for him to have a classified research project through the Smithsonian, 

without breaking our own Harvard rules against classified work. I have warned him 

that this would require Corporation approval, but I have also said that I do not think 

it impossible that an arrangement can be made which would safeguard Harvard’s 

position, while permitting him to proceed with this dear dream.210

When asked after the fact, Whipple recalled no hesitancy about accepting the 

offer, or having to be convinced by Menzel. His intentions for accepting the directorship were clear, definitely along the lines Bundy expressed: “I took the job . . . so that 

I  could then operate this photographic satellite observing program under the aegis of 

the Smithsonian, rather than Harvard. That’s why I went along with that. And that’s how 

it worked out.”211 More in the moment, however, in 1964 he admitted to a colleague that 

“I went into the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory area because it was quite clear 

that the space plans would be greater than Harvard University would be interested in 

pursuing with me.”212

In 1955, it is not difficult to imagine Whipple’s vision extending seamlessly from the 

practical necessity of satellite tracking to von Braun’s “Project Orbiter” and even to a space 

station via access to government and military funding.213 This is the world Whipple needed 

access to, with an institutional base that was willing to participate. And it may well have 

been an appreciation of this vision that attracted Bundy and Pusey to him, rather than to 

a younger and more impetuous talent such as Thomas, a brilliant but junior astronomer at 

the time, and one Bundy even turned down for a Harvard faculty position in late 1956.214

Menzel, Bundy, and definitely Carmichael knew that Whipple was of sufficient breadth 

and stature, and well experienced in government and military patronage, to meet their 

collective vision. As wild as advocacy for a space station may have seemed in 1955, somehow Whipple’s “dear dream” was of the level that met Bundy’s vision for Harvard’s future. 

Indeed, for Whipple, as we shall see, bringing the Smithsonian to Harvard allowed for 

wider freedom of action to redefine just what astronomy at Harvard would encompass. It 

would be a larger venue in many ways, but one that retained the fundamental ingredients 
The Creation of the SAO • 41

Whipple knew he needed. Whipple in fact had the option of moving to Washington at the 

time, and his decision not to do so indicates that he was more than comfortable bringing 

the Smithsonian to Cambridge where he could pursue his goals “without losing contact 

with the scientists in this area.”215

Closing the APO in Washington

In mid-March, Keddy recorded the state of play. Aldrich would be “terminated” as 

of 1 July 1955 and Whipple would take over as director. The APO headquarters would be 

transferred to Cambridge on 1 July as well. All save one of the observing stations would 

close on 30 June and there would be transfers of staff as a result to Washington or to 

the remaining station at Table Mountain, and one staff member, possibly, to Cambridge. 

Table Mountain in California would continue through 1956, and then be re-evaluated. The 

instrument shop in Washington would be maintained through the year. If a pending Air 

Force contract materialized, all APO data were to be card punched for future use in meteorological studies. There would definitely be support to “employ young scientists parttime at Cambridge” who were pursuing PhD degrees at Harvard, and, finally, the APO 

Division of Radiation and Organisms was to be transferred to the Office of the Secretary 

for the time being.216

Keddy’s clinical report ignored the anger and frustration of the remaining Washington 

staff. Aldrich had pleaded with Carmichael since mid-1953 and, getting nowhere, finally 

resigned in January 1955 in failing health.217 Graf, closing the loop, informed Aldrich simply that the Washington headquarters would be closed down and all subsequent analyses 

would be carried on at Cambridge.218

Carmichael drafted a letter of appointment for Whipple as an exercise to “think 

on paper.” Whipple would be responsible for receiving the data and managing staff in 

Cambridge for its timely analysis. Whipple had to be prepared to manage the analysis, keeping “the incoming calculations of the field stations up to date” and to do so the Smithsonian 

would provide a mathematically adept astronomer as Whipple’s assistant who would “make 

a critical study of the whole subject and attempt to provide some evaluation of the program.” Carmichael assumed that this man would eventually become a civil servant as assistant director, and hoped that the sole remaining professional on the APO staff might be 

considered a candidate for the position.219 But it was up to the Smithsonian to determine 

how Whipple’s joint appointment fit government guidelines, for facilities, staff, and present 

assets.

Meanwhile, Menzel urged Bundy to gain Pusey’s approval of the overall plan. The 

Harvard College Observatory Council had approved the move and the conditions of 

Whipple’s joint appointment, and Menzel made it clear that this infusion of Smithsonian 

support would “provide a research potential approximately doubling the number of 

appointments on permanent tenure now existing in the Department of Astronomy.” These 

new appointments, moreover, would “greatly increase our ability to train young scientists 

for research and teaching.”220
42 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Building and Housing a New Staff 

While Carmichael’s staff and Menzel drafted versions of the “Memorandum of 

Understanding,” Whipple focused on housing details, determining that his operation 

required some 10,000 square feet and that a new building would cost some $150,000. Any 

new building would take time, so Whipple opted for space in Harvard College Observatory’s 

already crowded complex. But soon, the Harvard administration decided to build the building and amortize it by charging Smithsonian rent. By late June, with a signed agreement in 

hand, Menzel reported that Harvard was making headway on a new building, hoping for a 

groundbreaking in the fall.221

Coordinated press releases from the Smithsonian and from Harvard in early May 

produced wide media response, which, beyond the Crimson, included Sky & Telescope, the 

popular magazine that had been closely associated with Harvard for decades, and numerous 

newspapers, both local and national. Whipple and Menzel continued to define the boundaries of the new relationship and plan for the new building. But their most contentious 

issue was approval for appointments to the new combined staff. Carmichael and Menzel 

at first agreed that appointments to what was now called the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory (SAO) were to be executed with some Harvard oversight, including the 

director of the Harvard College Observatory, and at least one member of the Harvard 

Observatory Council, designated by the dean of the faculty. The SAO director, however, 

would have “full responsibility” for the “direction of its scientific programs,” under advisement by the Smithsonian secretary but would be expected to coordinate the research “of 

the two organizations to the mutual benefit of both for the furtherance of research and 

education in astrophysics.”222 There was little description, however, of any balance of power 

between the two directors—apparently not an issue for Menzel and Whipple. Moreover, 

what little oversight Harvard retained in the initial wording disappeared in the final memorandum of June 1956:

[A]ppointees to career positions of higher scientific standing in the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory shall be selected with the advice and consent of the 

Director of the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory. It is recognized that he may 

avail himself of such advice at Harvard University . . . as he considers appropriate, 

especially for those appointees who shall also serve at Harvard University.223

In effect, this wording gave the Smithsonian director considerable latitude in hiring, 

but did not give him authority to make Harvard appointments. Nor did it give the Harvard 

director veto power over Smithsonian appointments. How this balance would play out in 

future years would be one of the issues framing the relationship between Harvard and the 

Smithsonian. And it did not take long to become painfully apparent.

Whipple’s highest priorities, as he told the Harvard College Observatory Council in 

March, were for a “statistician—then an atmospheric physicist” who would competently 

analyze the APO data, as Carmichael requested.224 On a trip to Washington, following up 

Menzel’s advice, Whipple stopped at the Aberdeen Proving Ground to court Theodore 
The Creation of the SAO • 43

Sterne.225 Sterne was one of the first to analyze Abbot’s claims and to find them wanting. 

From the start, however, Sterne expressed concerns about the nature of the appointment. 

He did not expect another analysis to bring anything new to light, and though he had been 

assured by Menzel that he would be given a Harvard appointment, became annoyed when 

Whipple said they would make an attempt, but could not yet guarantee it. Sterne initially 

turned them down. “It would mean the abandonment of a status of considerable distinction 

in Ordnance and the Army, in which my work has been a source of much satisfaction to me, 

for an even lower status than I had at Harvard in 1941.” But after Thomas “worked on me to 

such an extent,” Sterne decided to reconsider.226

Sterne’s reaction was a warning. He was valuable to both Menzel and Whipple because 

he was highly capable in data analysis and was experienced on many fronts, including highspeed computers. He had been chief of the ENIAC electronic computer team in the late 

1940s and in 1953 was designated “Scientific Advisor to the Director of the Ballistic Research 

Laboratories” at Aberdeen. Even though he had had no unclassified publications since 1946, 

those before the war were solid contributions to stellar interiors, celestial mechanics, binary 

star analysis, and developing numerical methods in astronomy. Menzel used Sterne’s initial 

letter of refusal as “concrete, unsolicited evidence” that a solid Harvard appointment would 

be necessary to secure “the quality of people we could get at the Smithsonian.”227

Menzel pushed Bundy to expedite the appointment process for at least four new 

appointments. He suggested that Bundy create an ad hoc selection committee consisting 

of Norman Ramsay and George Kistiakowsky, Harvard faculty who knew and could appreciate Sterne’s classified work. Other friendly faculty included Edward Purcell and J. H. Van 

Vleck. But not Strömgren: “We simply do not trust his judgment.”228

The next name on Whipple’s list was John L. Rinehart, “whose work in ballistics from 

the experimental standpoint has brought him scientific distinction.” Rinehart had worked 

at the Naval Ordnance Test Station, China Lake, California, had contributed to hyperballistic studies of high-speed impacts, and was already on Whipple’s SAO staff as assistant 

director but in need of a Harvard appointment.

Third came Max Krook, a mathematical physicist from Birmingham University, who 

had been appointed a Harvard lecturer in the early 1950s. Krook had performed distinguished work in stellar atmospheres and had contributed to a study of the possible influence 

of interstellar matter on the solar constant, and hence on climate change.229 Krook was also 

well liked as a valued Harvard colleague, collaborating with Menzel, Thomas, and graduate 

students.230

And fourth was J. Allen Hynek, then professor and chair of astronomy at Ohio State 

University. Hynek had an eclectic portfolio; a specialist in observational stellar atmospheres and variable stars, he was then secretary of the American Astronomical Society. 

In the 1940s he had worked with James Van Allen, first on the Applied Physics Laboratory 

proximity fuse team and then with his rocketsonde group as project manager, astrophysical consultant, and public interpreter. Hynek was interested in a one-year appointment at 

Harvard to assist Whipple in a new project to examine meteors by high-powered radar in 

association with MIT’s Project Lincoln, which would provide a million-watt transmitter.231

Hynek would also assist in developing a popular astronomy series for WGBH-TV. If “this 
44 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

trial period should prove satisfactory on both sides,” Menzel and Whipple proposed he be 

continued with a joint appointment as a full professor.232

What was clear to everyone was Whipple’s top candidates were not mainstream astrophysicists. They had all engaged in non-academic fields that aligned more with Whipple’s 

project interests than with independent research.233 Charles Whitney, who was then in 

his last year at Harvard as a PhD student working on stellar atmospheres, recalled the 

Smithsonian initiative as very much in line with the Harvard tradition of organizing work 

into large projects. Since the time of Pickering and Shapley, these projects had been called 

“bureaus,” named for patrons, such as the so-called Milton Bureau that gathered knowledge 

of variable stars.234 Whipple hired Whitney on a Smithsonian appointment initially because 

he knew Whitney could be useful in various capacities, such as extending the meteor calculations to satellite tracking. And with a Harvard PhD, Whitney was also appointed lecturer 

to continue his work in stellar atmospheres.235

Harvard understood that all costs for appointing Sterne, Krook, Rinehart, and Hynek 

would be borne by the Smithsonian. Even so, dual appointments beyond non–tenure track 

lecturers or “research associates,” especially to those at professorial rank, were not lightly 

bestowed by the Harvard Corporation, even though under Pusey the faculty was slowly 

gaining power, partly abetted by Bundy.236 Menzel saw the appointments as Harvard’s contribution; he argued that Sterne’s case was

an excellent example of the way in which Harvard, even though it is costing us nothing since the Smithsonian will pay one hundred per cent of Sterne’s salary, can contribute to the effectiveness of the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, which 

was one of the reasons for their coming here in the first place.237

The Smithsonian appointments came through quickly but the Harvard appointments 

languished until late in the spring, when Pusey finally, following Menzel’s suggestion, 

formed a new committee to deliberate over them. All save for Sterne had responded positively to the Smithsonian offers; he gave Whipple a “conditional acceptance.” Sterne also 

wrote directly to Carmichael, saying he needed assurance that it would include at least a 

half-time teaching professorship at Harvard. He was happy where he was; only the prospect 

of teaching again at Harvard made all the difference.238 Hynek, however, was willing to take 

the risk, with a leave from his chairmanship at Ohio. Even before his appointment was 

approved, in February 1956 Whipple reported that the meteor work with Project Lincoln 

was stalled so he was redirecting Hynek to the “satellite program.”239 Apparently Hynek was 

wholly content with this, as it included the potential of public service and popular exposure.

Bundy, however, was aware of the dangers of retaining non-tenured staff, especially 

during the Conant years.240 Would they dilute the overall quality of Harvard teaching and 

research? Whipple promised that this sort of dilution would not happen, nor would there 

be lingering financial responsibility. Smithsonian appointments would not be a dumping 

ground for “second-rate men who have proved themselves useful or well liked around 

the Harvard College Observatory and for whom there is no tenure position available.” 

Conversely, Whipple wanted Bundy to appreciate that there were men around who could be 
The Creation of the SAO • 45

“extremely valuable in their specialties, more valuable, possibly, than Harvard Professors.” 

So in effect there should be no “general principle upon which one can view with alarm” 

hiring men useful to the Smithsonian who were not of Harvard caliber.241

Whipple saw value in men with “peculiar special talents” who may otherwise have 

weaknesses that would disqualify them for the tenured ranks. He also recognized, as he 

knew Bundy did, that there were weaknesses among Harvard faculty, especially in teaching, 

for which some of his hoped-for staff, such as Krook, Thomas, and Sterne, showed high 

promise. The key argument for Whipple was flexibility: Could these people do the job, no 

matter what the job turned out to be?242

The Special Ad Hoc Committee on Hiring

Pusey charged the new hiring committee to seek applicants who would move the 

department in the directions suggested by Oppenheimer’s original committee. But since 

these new positions were to be paid by the Smithsonian, Pusey asked Carmichael to be 

on it too, ex officio. The committee (Bowen from Mount Wilson, Struve, now at Berkeley, 

Kistiakowsky, Purcell, and Ramsey) met in March 1956 to hear Menzel and Whipple make 

their case. To placate Bowen and Struve, at the outset Menzel agreed that “Harvard should 

not try to compete in studies which depend upon the use of large telescopes for making 

observations, but rather concentrate on theoretical investigations calculated to supplement 

the efforts of other observatories.” Harvard would concentrate on theoretical astrophysics, 

and continue to concentrate on studies of the Sun, meteors, and Earth’s upper atmosphere.243

Struve, however, felt that “the Department is still trying to do too many things and 

so suffers from dispersed interest.” They needed to cut down, and if they had to choose 

one observational strength, it should be radio astronomy. Overall, the members held to an 

outline Menzel provided, resisting astronomers who clearly would flourish best with big 

telescopes, and suggesting younger names who were specialists in radio astronomy. They 

also bandied around some names of geophysicists and meteorologists. The meeting turned 

into a referendum on both the state and the breadth of the profession, as dozens of names 

were raised, tossed about, and mostly discarded. The committee wanted superstars if they 

could be captured, and once again spoke of the hottest names in astronomy of the day. There 

would be a new “Distinguished Professorship,” a Menzel-created designation that caused 

Bundy and Pusey to quip “all professorships at Harvard are distinguished professorships.” 

They agreed to a “Professorship in the Department of Astronomy” that the HCOC wanted 

to give to Thomas. Even though there were better people elsewhere, Struve felt, he ended up 

supporting Thomas as “a gamble well worth taking.”244

The committee, however, was unanimous in rejecting Harvard professorships for all 

those Whipple wanted from the outside: Sterne, Krook, Hynek, and Rinehart. There was 

some lukewarm support for Sterne, but no “clear-cut endorsement.” Appreciating that these 

men still filled the needs of the Smithsonian Institution, however, the committee voiced no 

opposition to designating them “Research Associate.” In sum, the committee stated, and 

Pusey endorsed, its top recommendation to replace Bok with a new permanent appointment 
46 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

of a radio astronomer, not a series of temporary appointments. And as for the Smithsonian 

appointments, Pusey pushed them back, directing Bundy to “attack the problems raised by 

the proposed joint appointments.”245

Menzel and Whipple kept pushing with Bundy.246 They were bluntly apologetic about 

the dual appointments, wishing they had made a stronger case for Krook, “whom we consider 

to be one of the most outstanding astrophysicists in the country, but who has not yet been 

generally recognized as such.” He was setting “new standards” and contributed immensely 

to the collegiality of the group. However, they admitted that “we erred in our consideration” 

for Hynek, but appreciated having the committee’s responsibility for “this decision rather 

than to take it ourselves.” Hynek was still coming to the Smithsonian and they believed he 

would “do a very useful job for us.” They did not apologize for Rinehart, saying only that 

as a scientist who had made “outstanding contributions . . . in a field between astronomy 

and ballistics,” he was “little appreciated by either discipline.” They reserved more extensive 

arguments for Sterne and, later for Payne-Gaposchkin whom Menzel had included on the 

promotion list.247 Menzel and Whipple fought hardest for Sterne, suggesting at one point 

that he be appointed the James Smithson Professor of Astrophysics, which would highlight 

where the money was coming from.248 Carmichael did not like this idea, replying bluntly 

that there were “too many potential complications of a fiscal and personal management 

nature to permit our approval.” Moreover, he was quite miffed at their appropriation of the 

Smithsonian founder’s name.249

By late June, Whipple and Menzel were still looking for a leading radio astronomer to 

replace Bok and retain Harvard’s reputation in the field. Menzel was also at the time pushing for a cooperative venture to organize a national radio facility that would be managed by 

Associated Universities, Incorporated, a regional consortium of universities, and naturally 

saw Harvard as a leader.250 They knew they had the backing of Harold I. Ewen and his EwenKnight Corporation, good friends and patrons of Harvard, so opted to find an astronomer 

who could work with the radio engineers. Passing over former Harvard graduates and Bok 

students Dave Heeschen and Ed Lilley, they recommended T. Kochu Menon. Menon had 

been a student under Ewen, so together they would make a strong team, the HCOC argued. 

They asked for a five-year appointment for Menon as Agassiz Radio Astronomer, at the level 

of research fellow and lecturer, once Bok left. This would not be a Smithsonian appointment 

because an anonymous gift paid all the bills.251

By the end of 1956, Hynek, Krook, Rinehart, and Thomas had all accepted Harvard 

appointments at lower rank; Sterne came as associate professor. The additional appointments the committee had debated, were made possible by the staff positions opened up by 

the departure of Smithsonian APO staff at the observing stations and in Washington. Most 

prominent was Thomas Gold, who came from England to work with Menon and Ewen 

after a particularly complex negotiation process. Struve championed Gold over all others to 

make Harvard radio astronomy world class.252

Bureaucratic details complicated dual appointments. Since they were to teach, and be 

supported wholly by the Smithsonian, it was not possible to use direct federal appropriations, since, technically, Smithsonian staff did not teach. They would be paid appropriately 

out of the Smithsonian’s private, or “trust,” funds, for the specific amount of coursework 
The Creation of the SAO • 47

they directed. The flexibility the Smithsonian long enjoyed by having a core of privately 

endowed funds as well as funds from federal revenues would now be accessible to Harvard. 

Menzel still hoped that to avoid possible ill feelings from the Smithsonian side, at the least 

Harvard should provide “a token contribution” for each lecturer, not to exceed $1,000.253

Along with team building, Menzel and Whipple secured laboratory and office space, 

leveraging support beginning to flow from other institutions eager to establish collaborative relations with the new SAO. In October 1956, Harry Vestine, in charge of the Data 

Coordination Office of the International Geophysical Year [IGY] at the National Academy, 

wrote to Pusey asking whether Harvard might agree to be one of three “IGY World Data 

Centers.” Vestine traveled to Harvard with his associate, atmospheric physicist Gerhard F. 

Schilling, to meet with Pusey, Menzel, and Whipple, carrying a statement from the Senate 

Appropriations Committee outlining the functions of the IGY Data Center and the “scope 

of the problem.” By early November, Schilling informed Menzel that the Smithsonian “will 

house archives on satellite, aurora, and airglow.”254 Within a year, Schilling would become 

another Smithsonian staff member.

This new association made the matter of housing all the more immediate and pressing. The combined staffs already threatened to overflow Harvard College Observatory’s 

Garden Street compound of dilapidated buildings, and the promised new construction was 

still years away. The Smithsonian could not appeal to Congress until Harvard committed 

land for the facility. Menzel assured Harvard that the Smithsonian’s eventual appropriation would allow for a new building large enough to include a badly needed machine shop 

that could be filled by in-kind gifts from Harvard patrons. Menzel also felt that if Harvard 

deeded over some of its neglected telescopes, languishing in Shapley-era buildings that had 

become structurally unsound, the Smithsonian would build the domes to house them for 

use primarily by students.255

Beyond gaining additional real estate, the new core of the Harvard Observatory 

Council, Menzel, Whipple, Payne-Gaposchkin, and Bok, continued through 1956 to 

develop procedures for how the two institutions would work together. They had to coordinate observatory and departmental budgets, and staff now had to juggle new complexities 

caused by multiple lines of support. Who would pay for what, what had to be charged to 

whose account, how much Harvard should charge the Smithsonian for office space, and 

where should that money go, all were up for discussion.256

Keeping all the administrative details straight was a daunting task. A sense of the 

tension at the working level was revealed when Velma A. Adams, a key administrative staff 

assistant, quit because of the lack of a “close working arrangement” between the HCOC and 

its own administrative infrastructure. The council had agreed to admit her to HCOC meetings only when it was time to take notes on council resolutions, and not to be present during 

the deliberations. “Certainly you must have sufficient confidence in your assistants to be 

willing to discuss frankly with them your thoughts about the overall operating problems of 

the Observatory; if not, you have the wrong assistants.” Adams hoped that her successor—it 

would require two or more people to cover her tasks—would be so trusted.257

Adams feared managing endless expansion, and her fear was justified. In March 1956, 

with the Smithsonian now firmly in place, the HCOC unanimously agreed that Harvard 
48 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

should petition to become a charter member of a new collaboration of universities that 

would operate the new “National Observatory,” funded by the National Science Foundation 

(NSF), somewhere in the Southwest. NSF would bear all costs, and it was very important to 

the HCOC how the board of directors of this new entity would be constituted.258 No matter 

what Bowen had advised, Menzel knew that access to big telescopes under clear skies was 

absolutely essential to the competitiveness of the Harvard College Observatory. But signing 

up to develop and maintain a national observatory in the Southwest, while a prudent step, 

would not be sufficient for Harvard.259

Multi-institutional observatory associations were a new idea and much the talk of 

the day. The coming of a national facility was one manifestation, but there were other 

arrangements, as Menzel well knew, that promised world-class capabilities, and there was 

heated debate over how representative it would be.260 Writing to Roger Lowell Putnam in 

November 1956, Menzel spoke of the patterns set by the “Yerkes-McDonald or the Cal 

Tec-Mt. Wilson-Palomar” [sic] observatories. Putnam, the sole trustee of the Lowell 

Observatory in Flagstaff, Arizona, had asked Menzel for advice about finding a new director, and Menzel had also learned from “Mac” Bundy at a cocktail party that Putnam was 

seeking his advice on various matters, one being a possible three-way association between 

Lowell, the Smithsonian, and Harvard.261

Menzel liked the idea. First, the Smithsonian’s station at Table Mountain, California, 

was likely to close, and they would want another western site with similar characteristics. 

Further, both Whipple and Menzel were very interested in planetary research, Lowell’s 

forte, and if Lowell agreed to expand into stellar and galactic areas as well, then Menzel 

thought it quite possible, pending the approval of the Harvard Corporation, that they could 

move the 61-inch reflector to Flagstaff. For years, it had been used as a test bench for new 

instrumentation, but its value would be greatly enhanced by Flagstaff ’s high altitude and 

dark site, where, with Smithsonian funding, a new spectrograph could be added “for studies 

of planets and planetary atmospheres.”262

Menzel’s pitch to Lowell illuminates his expansive and opportunistic view of the 

Harvard-Smithsonian relationship. But it reveals too that he was concerned about governance. Unlike the Yerkes and Caltech associations, there would not be a single director; the 

association of Harvard and the Smithsonian “was in no sense a ‘merger,’” Menzel explained 

to Putnam; each would retain its director and infrastructure, combining elements when it 

would be to the advantage of both. The director at Flagstaff, for instance, would be resident 

there, yet also be a member of the Harvard Observatory “Administrative Council.”263 Save 

for the U.S. Naval Observatory, Menzel continued, “all major observatories in this country 

have a direct link with a university.” Lowell was the outlier: “Isolation is one of the greatest drawbacks of the Lowell Observatory,” Menzel asserted, and it needed “the stimulation 

or association with minds that have a fresh outlook, the opportunity to commune with 

scholars.”264 Isolated astronomers using mechanical calculators at Flagstaff would now have 

the benefit of high-speed electronic computing machinery at Harvard. Lowell astronomers 

could visit Harvard on a rotating basis and utilize all the resources there as research associates, becoming lecturers if they wanted to teach. The other facilities Harvard had fostered, 

such as Sacramento Peak or Whipple’s meteor stations, all would be part of the association, 
The Creation of the SAO • 49

as would the growing radio telescope facility at Oak Ridge, Massachusetts, which was best 

complemented by an optical facility, such as moving the 61 inch to Flagstaff. Menzel even 

cited as assets Harvard’s lingering association with the Boyden Station and the possibility that they all might join an international cooperative arrangement with five European 

observatories.265

Menzel’s description of his burgeoning Harvard empire for the Lowell trustee Putnam 

nicely encapsulates his vision. It demonstrates once again that the Smithsonian was but 

a part of a much larger plan, a highly opportunistic plan to be sure. Menzel implied only 

indirectly that there was a Smithsonian research agenda to maintain, in the guise of closing 

Table Mountain and somehow moving it to Flagstaff. And nowhere did Menzel mention 

synoptic solar monitoring as a program, or even Whipple’s growing preoccupation with 

satellite tracking. These were not the higher activities of a mainstream astrophysical observatory, even though they may well be the bread and butter facilitating it. Such was the 

nature of Menzel’s pragmatic opportunism. On the eve of the 1 July 1955 announcement of 

the move to Harvard, Menzel jubilantly wrote to Carmichael, “I think we ought to break a 

bottle of champagne over Fred, or something, to say the least. . . . I can’t tell you how enthusiastic we all are, and I feel that we are developing a new program that will have far-reaching 

effects on science.”266

Not everyone at Harvard shared the joy. Bok would soon be leaving, and Dorrit 

Hoffleit had been pressured to leave as well, having just lost her office and seeing her style 

of research end at Harvard. Her mother, supporting her decision, admired her courage to 

rise “up against them without any right or power,” sharing her daughter’s view that “what is 

sorely needed at the Observatory is the encouragement of pure astronomical research and 

moral integrity.”267

The SAO’s First Years: A Preamble

The choices Whipple and Menzel made reflect goals to pursue problems in astrophysics, geophysics, and meteorology on scales unprecedented in astronomical history. They did 

it by creating an infrastructure that would support new hybrid ventures, including those 

conducted in space. Those they hired could perform cutting-edge basic research, but they 

were also the types of people who would respond positively to building service programs in 

creative and effective ways.

Whipple organized his growing infrastructure along explicit funding lines and called 

them divisions starting in 1956. The SAO started that year with three divisions: solar astrophysics, meteor studies, and a “satellite program” with about 12 people devoted to tracking 

what was thought would be the first satellite, the Navy’s Vanguard.268 The first category, the 

Smithsonian’s legacy, was not yet formally established with a division director, since Sterne 

held out until the end of the year. The latter two were staffed and actively engaged in grantsupported projects by the NSF, the Army Ballistic Missile Agency, and the Air Force. In 

1957, the same divisions remained, but the staff reached, by March, some 57 people.269 By 

now Sterne had been recruited to head the solar astrophysics division, the meteor group 
50 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

was performing ablation studies for the Air Force, and the satellite program, by far the 

largest in staffing and funding, was split into two divisions: the development of a worldwide 

photographic network using a vastly enhanced extension of Baker’s Super-Schmidt system, 

and a volunteer visual tracking network, Project Moonwatch, that was to spawn a huge data 

collecting and public relations entity that, for all intents and purposes, became the way that 

local communities and facilities became part of the Space Age. Coordinating all of this, and 

benefiting from it, was a burgeoning computational analysis group.270

By 1958 Whipple was also contracting to provide orbital analysis services for the U.S. 

Army, and beginning to propose for preliminary studies leading to launching scientific 

Earth satellites for geodesy and astronomy. The satellite-tracking program now dominated 

the landscape: Project Moonwatch, variously watched over by Hynek assisted by Armand 

Spitz and others, was rapidly gaining media attention because of interest in Sputnik, 

Explorer, and Vanguard. It was a visible program that recruited volunteer observer groups 

worldwide, lined up with little telescopes set to cover a large swath of the local meridian 

(Figure 13). The computation and analysis group now included satellite tracking, orbit prediction and analysis, and studies of Earth’s albedo. It was organized around large mainframe 

computer equipment requiring new buildings on the compound, and soon in rented space 

throughout Cambridge. A new “Upper Atmosphere” division pursued air density studies, 

Figure 13 Margie Whidden 

describes a Moonwatch team 

structure: how they are lined up 

along their local meridian, exactly 

north-south. Each observer looks 

though a small telescope that 

is pointing to a different part of 

the sky along the local meridian. 

When a satellite passes, only the 

observer who sees it in sight calls 

out or taps a button for recording. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Acc. 16-263, Box 3.
The Creation of the SAO • 51

stellar scintillation, lunar dust studies, and planning for x-ray and ultraviolet space telescopes. Through 1959 and into the early 1960s there was nothing less than explosive growth 

of all these divisions; from an original staff of fewer than a dozen personnel in 1955 (none 

who actually physically transferred from Washington), Whipple commanded more than 

300 in 1961.

How did he do it? With the Smithsonian as his institutional base, Whipple proposed 

the satellite-tracking network in the latter part of 1955, arguing that his experience with 

distributed photographic meteor-tracking systems since the 1940s, vastly improved with 

the Super-Schmidts, positioned him as the best person to create a new optical tracker four 

times more sensitive than his meteor cameras. His satellite-tracking network would mimic 

the global character of Abbot’s solar stations. Carmichael quickly accepted the concept 

because it served national needs mandated by the legislation that made the United States a 

part of the International Geophysical Year (IGY), and was paid for by the NSF, which managed funds allocated specifically by Congress.271 It made the Smithsonian a major player.

Staking Out Territory

To establish the SAO’s credentials, Whipple organized a series of symposia that drew 

in leaders of American astrophysics, geophysics, and atmospheric physics. The first symposium approved by Carmichael and led by Thomas explored the interface between meteors, 

the upper atmosphere, ablation issues, and hyperballistic studies and resulted in a publication on cosmic aerodynamics. It was supported largely by U.S. Air Force contracts for 

studying Earth’s meteoritic accretion, one of Whipple’s and Thomas’s interests, and centered 

on employing the hyperballistics of atmospheric meteors as probes of the atmosphere.272

Thomas highlighted the ballistic connection and Whipple connected it institutionally to Langley’s, and hence, the Smithsonian’s, pioneering legacy in aerodynamics. Meteor 

astronomy in fact was now the “common property” of astronomers and “postwar aerodynamicists and ballisticians,” Thomas claimed, because “the level of working velocities [had 

risen] into the ultra-speed and astroballistic ranges.”273 Thomas organized the symposium 

with like-minded U.S. Air Force specialists, strengthening connections in that sphere.274

In the months leading up to the announcement of the move and the creation of the 

SAO in July 1955, Whipple, through Washington networking, chaired an ad hoc committee on the “Needs of Astronomy.” It had been created to improve communication 

between members of the 1954–1955 Panel on Astronomy Advisory to the National Science 

Foundation, leaders of the American Astronomical Society, and directors of major observatories. Eight of the 16 members of this committee met at Princeton on 3 April 1955, with 

the mandate to provide “guidance” for the NSF in various areas not traditionally considered. These areas included education and the development of new departments of astronomy; ways to improve financial support for astronomy through a combination of NSF and 

private-endowment sources; means to stimulate the development of new instrumentation; 

the “Encouragement and Development of Collateral Sciences,” such as new computing devices and techniques; and specialized laboratory and theoretical methods such as 
52 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

“astrochemistry, astroballistics, etc.” The committee report New Horizons in Astronomy, 

another Smithsonian publication fostered by Whipple, was nothing less than an attempt 

to reshape not only patronage patterns for astronomy but also the profile of astronomical 

institutions.275

The ad hoc committee endorsed most of the NSF’s initiatives, which by then included 

the creation of national facilities for observational astronomy, both optical and radio. 

Carefully guided by Whipple, however, the committee called for a collective statement on 

the needs of astronomy, “concerned primarily with anticipated developments during the 

next few years, particularly where new equipment, new techniques, cross-field endeavors, 

neglected areas of research, or special research efforts [that] should lead to distinct progress in astronomical research” were involved.276 Less clear was how those needs would be 

organized: multi-institutional shared facilities or nationally directed facilities were both on 

the table. In effect, Whipple leveraged his position to place his blueprint for the SAO at the 

same level as the committee’s endorsement of the NSF’s national observatory scheme.

Whipple secured both NSF and Smithsonian support to prepare New Horizons in 

Astronomy for publication, using it as a vehicle to create a series he hoped would become 

a new publication of record, Smithsonian Contributions to Astrophysics.

277 This new series 

would “expand [new] avenues of publication” for research in modern areas of astrophysics—

namely, hybrid studies not emphasized by traditional journals such as non-optical techniques and instrumentation as well as the “related sciences” of rocketry, computing 

machines, turbulence, astroballistics, electrodynamics of fluids, and hydromagnetic and 

plasma problems. It would be a new forum that would correct the narrow focus taken by previous advisory panels that had been dominated by traditional observatory directors. It also 

legitimized a new institutional platform that could take advantage of a variety of resources 

that provided maximum flexibility to take advantage of opportunity, and, on occasion, to 

construct that opportunity. In many ways, Whipple’s plan echoed Joseph Henry’s original 

philosophy for the Smithsonian that it “only undertake programs that cannot be adequately 

carried out by existing United States institutions” and, furthermore, that it provide a forum 

for publishing the products of that research, in what he called Smithsonian Contributions 

to Knowledge.

278 If Whipple had a personal agenda, it was to legitimize his own specialty 

within mainstream astronomy. Suggesting that most astronomers were attracted to the largest and most extreme realms, such as nuclear astrophysics and cosmology, Whipple wanted 

to remind them, and their patrons, of the critical value of “meteoric bodies” that “ionize the 

high atmosphere and contribute to its chemical composition, scatter sunlight in the zodiacal light, and provide us with a cosmic ballistics laboratory of ultra-velocity particles.”279

Public Relations and Infrastructure

Whipple quickly established a public relations office at the SAO, one of the first astronomical institutions to take such a step. He and his staff enlisted local writers, editors, and 

designers to create a lavish brochure celebrating the new association of the Smithsonian 

and Harvard. Prepared and published in collaboration with Sky & Telescope, the brochure 
The Creation of the SAO • 53

graphically illustrated the “new” Harvard College Observatory “and its branches.” These consisted of the home base on “Observatory Hill,” containing the SAO in three office buildings, 

the Sears Tower, and numerous outbuildings. Also illustrated were the Agassiz Station near 

Harvard, Massachusetts; the Boyden Station; the Air Force Sacramento Peak Observatory 

at Sunspot, New Mexico; an Air Force–sponsored solar radio observatory near Fort Davis, 

Texas; Whipple’s meteor-radio network, still under planning with Project Lincoln; and the 

High Altitude Observatory, now administratively divided between Boulder and Climax, 

Colorado. There was also an architect’s conception of the new SAO building, a three-story 

office building containing shops in the basement and student observing facilities on the roof.

The brochure heralded how the new duties of the Smithsonian offices would serve the 

IGY and “the widely publicized program of the artificial satellite.” Whipple and his SAO, the 

brochure announced, have “recently been assigned responsibility for tracking the satellite 

and predicting its path as it circles the earth in its 11⁄2-hour period.” The brochure made it 

clear that this new building had to be built soon “to harvest the greatest benefits from this 

relationship.”280

The public relations staff Whipple fostered articulated the major programs and projects that gave expression to his vision, his “dear dream.” They also provided a mechanism 

to create a local identity and establish an engaging atmosphere for the place, giving its burgeoning staff a sense of identity and belonging. After all, any clerical, technical, and administrative infrastructure that was capable of juggling and reconciling disparate sources of 

funding that came with very different constraints and expectations, working within a superstructure consisting of federal rules and Harvard traditions, had to be able to face friction, 

from securing dual appointments to maintaining harmonious relationships. In a hybrid 

institution as complex as the SAO and HCO association, it is not surprising that friction 

continued, and in one critical relationship, grew to the point of rupture.

But what were the Smithsonian’s expectations for the new SAO? What did Carmichael 

hope and expect would be upgraded and modernized and would flourish under new management in Cambridge? This question sets the stage for understanding the complexities and 

the dynamics of growth of a multi-institutional hybrid body that expanded the definition of 

what it meant to do astronomy.

55

Chapter 4

Whither the Solar Constant: 

A Referendum on Basic Research

As he negotiated the institutional and staff relationships between Harvard and the 

Smithsonian, Leonard Carmichael pondered the research legacy of the old Astrophysical 

Observatory (APO). Should he maintain the direction that Langley had established and 

Abbot had so loyally pursued for so many years? Were there new and more effective ways 

to pursue the solar constant, or was the search for the solar constant and its variations 

a problem of the past and far from the frontier problems in astrophysics that warranted 

the Smithsonian’s attention? As the leader of the Institution and guardian of its legacy, 

Carmichael had to defend its investments, placate its critics, and, most assuredly, maintain 

the confidence of the U.S. Congress.281 He turned to Whipple for guidance on options for 

how the solar constant was to be studied, but wanted to be assured that the study itself was 

worth continued support. He did not receive that assurance.

Whipple Articulates His Vision for the New SAO

The International Geophysical Year (IGY) was closely tied to synoptic solar 

observations—it was timed to coincide with a solar maximum. Whipple could have chosen, 

one would assume, to join a new international working group that convened in 1953 to construct a worldwide solar monitoring network.282 Yet there is no evidence that he made any 

attempt in this direction. Even though solar monitoring could be related to his interest in 

Earth’s upper atmosphere, neither he nor Menzel got involved. What Whipple did decide to 

do, and how he articulated his vision, therefore, set the stage for how he eventually managed 

Carmichael’s expectations for continuing the legacy program of the APO.

From the start, it was clear to Richard Thomas that Whipple was not taking steps to 

mount and sustain a solid solar research agenda. In March 1955, Thomas wrote bluntly 

to Whipple that there was no visible effort at Harvard to secure “a person whose primary 

interest is the sun as such.” Base staffing for a responsible program required at least three 

professional staff, Thomas claimed, to teach and to coordinate research as well as to engage 

in problems of stellar atmospheres.283 Whipple would eventually assign solar physics 

responsibilities to new staff such as Charles Whitney, but it was not happening fast enough 

for Thomas.
56 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Menzel and Thomas and their students were all, of course, far more versed in solar 

and stellar astrophysics than Whipple was, or cared to be.284 After all, Whipple was wholly 

engaged in developing his satellite-tracking network and all the activities relating to it, 

which included upper atmosphere research and geodesy.285 He had expected Sterne to be 

on board as well, but that matter was only one of many he was struggling with to articulate his vision of the scope of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) research: 

“I must say that I am so rushed these days that I find it very difficult to put anything 

into a very coherent statement.”286 His challenge was to chart a course between his new 

Smithsonian obligations and what he had already committed to the IGY, and, of course, 

what he felt would be the most productive area in which to concentrate. He needed someone with a clear perspective and considerable capabilities in all these related areas. Sterne 

was his man, and his campaign for Sterne’s appointment continued well into 1956: “The 

major problem, as I see it,” Whipple wrote in September, “is to be sure that one avoid the 

backwaters of unnecessary data accumulation and study.”287 Whipple had just returned 

from International Astronomical Union meetings in Dublin, where the president, Otto 

Struve, railed against regimentation, the nationalization of observatories, and the need to 

preserve individual initiative and creativity. Struve appreciated that planning was important: Organization and control had to be fostered, but not to the point of regimentation or 

the suppression of individual creativity to the collective will. And most poignantly, Struve 

charged that past legacies were still strangling the discipline, for example, inordinate attention given over to “arranging, classifying, methodizing, [and] simplifying” the heavens.288

This was advice that doubtlessly impressed Whipple as he pondered his new responsibilities directing the SAO.

Whipple really needed someone to talk to. He needed Sterne, someone who could 

make critical and sound judgments “untinted by irrelevant emotional factors.” Unusually 

frank in a letter to Sterne just before he had to travel to Washington to present his vision for 

SAO to senior management, Whipple admitted that:

I have never been more in the need of sound counseling. My major problem is how 

to strike a proper balance [between two factors:]

a) my love of doing science myself and getting my hands deeply into problem[s];

b) utilizing to the full extent the potentialities of my administrative position and 

contacts without becoming purely an “operator.”

For some time I must sacrifice heavily under “a” to attain the obvious goals under “b”. 

However, I do want to get completely enmeshed in this approach to science.289

Whipple’s testimony that October in Washington reflects his anxiety over achieving 

not only personal balance but also, more to the point, autonomy. He knew that he had to 

deal with Carmichael’s expectation that Abbot’s program would continue, but he did not 

want to be saddled with that legacy. So he lectured Smithsonian bureau directors, facilities managers, and assistant secretaries Keddy and Graf on the relative worth of individual 

versus institutional research, trying to convince them that the SAO’s programming had to 

preserve individual initiative within a systematic institutional support structure.290
Whither the Solar Constant • 57

While he campaigned for autonomous research with Smithsonian leaders, Whipple 

assured Sterne that the Smithsonian would provide it: “Why you have such a desire to 

become an official active part of such a financially destitute organization as Harvard, when 

you have the opportunity to conduct pure research with the great opportunities of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, is quite a mystery to me.”291 A Harvard professorship, Whipple inferred, was no longer worth much. Money would flow, but not from 

Harvard astronomy programs, which were “essentially as ‘broke’ as they were when you 

left here,” Whipple claimed. In contrast, the government contracts that he would soon be 

bringing in “far exceed the total budget of the Observatory and the Department combined. 

The factor is more than twice.”292

Sterne finally agreed, and was on board in the summer of 1956 to become second in 

command in “the new order of authority.”293 Sterne’s appointment was even noted by the 

New York Times in July 1956, which observed that he was to become associate director of 

SAO and, oddly, Simon Newcomb Professor of Astrophysics at Harvard.294

Continuing Debate over Solar Radiation Monitoring

With Sterne safely on board, Whipple finally admitted that the central Smithsonian 

was applying “rather heavy pressure” on the SAO to continue existing solar observing programs. The Smithsonian had just issued a news release touting Abbot’s latest findings and 

conclusions, more ardent than ever. Whipple asked Sterne to comment privately, and Sterne 

scribbled back, “This place is too staid for the profane comments called up by these enormous interpretations.”295

Whipple had agreed to keep Table Mountain open for two to three years with a staff of 

three observers, but he wanted to transfer Montezuma station to the government of Chile 

as a “friendly international gesture” but was overruled by Keddy and Graf. Whipple got 

less resistance to preserve the data itself and possibly “summarize the data of past years on 

punch cards, to make them more easily usable.” Aldrich in particular liked this idea, saying 

he would ask an assistant to explore the possibilities of IBM or Remington Rand support.296

Keddy and Graf concurred, but once the photographs were analyzed, they would keep only 

the best of the collection and “the remainder can be sold for window glass.”297

Table Mountain was still very much alive and had a loyal constituency.298 One was 

Preston Butler, who was well known to the Smithsonian administration as a former, and 

much valued, member of Abbot’s staff. Butler pleaded with Keddy and Graff to continue the 

work of the APO. Whether or not it would result in verifying the variations in the Sun’s output, there were still “many problems which can only be solved by long precise observations 

in the field.”299 Butler’s petition convinced Carmichael in early 1957 to call for a review from 

a larger sphere of science than astronomy alone.

By then, although he had pressing tasks relating to satellite orbit determination, 

Sterne had made progress evaluating the solar data.300 Directing Radcliffe graduate student 

Nannielou Dieter, Sterne compared APO’s primary station data from Montezuma and Table 

Mountain, looking to see if they were recording the same variations. Both of the statistical 
58 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

methods they applied, covariance and serial, led to the same conclusion. They found very 

little discordance, which attested to the precision of the instruments and their operation. But 

as to finding real variations, none could be reported: “If the solar constant really changed at 

all between 1926 and 1955, it changed by amounts having a smaller root-mean-square value 

than 0.17 per cent of the solar constant itself.”301 In May 1957, they reported no evidence for 

“periodicities . . . common to the two stations.” And in a more detailed report, strengthened 

by the services of the Littauer Statistical Laboratory of Harvard University, they were now 

convinced that if any periodicities existed, they would have been found.302 They were ready 

to answer Carmichael’s call.

Whipple and Sterne invited an eclectic but powerful band of military and government laboratory scientists to examine the state of APO findings and to suggest a future 

course. Attendees represented Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), the Geophysics Research 

Directorate of the Air Force Cambridge Research Center, the Naval Radiological Defense 

Laboratory, and the U.S. Weather Bureau. After little debate, committee members “uniformly agree that the measurements of solar radiation, using present equipment and the 

present site, are not worthwhile.”303 Even so, the committee felt that with better equipment 

and better sites, the analysis could be refined, at greater cost, if Carmichael wanted to make 

that investment.

Carmichael indeed was willing to consider this, since, he suspected, “the general opinion at the Cambridge headquarters of the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory seems to 

be unsympathetic to the continuation of solar radiation measurements.”304 Indeed, Abbot 

was telling him just that, as well as reminding Carmichael that there was a community of 

workers dependent on a continued flow of Smithsonian data. “If we finally decide to discontinue it,” Carmichael felt, the Smithsonian had to “broadcast widely and in plenty of time” 

that fact to allow others to fill in the gap, if they wished to do so.305

Indeed, Abbot took every opportunity to state his case, sending endorsements to 

Carmichael from his dwindling circle of supporters.306 Passionate as ever, his letters were 

often colored by poems, biblical quotes, and aphorisms, as well as lengthy passages from 

Langley’s original writings on the mission of the observatory. But there were also inquiries 

from other observatories, asking about the instruments distributed by the old APO, especially the standard silver disk pyrheliometer, which had been distributed worldwide.307 This, 

Carmichael came to believe, was the true legacy of the old APO: instrument standardization. Accordingly, he continued to provide staff support as Abbot requested, and did all he 

could to keep the man contented, consenting to the commissioning of a bust of Abbot and 

to the display of APO instruments in the Arts and Industries building308 (Figure 14).

Carmichael’s Real Concerns Regarding the Nature 

of Smithsonian Research

Beyond Abbot’s presence and pressure, Carmichael, coached by his assistant secretaries Graf and Keddy, harbored a far darker concern, one that would come back to haunt the 

SAO in the next decade. They were keenly aware that the SAO’s very existence depended 
Whither the Solar Constant • 59

on congressional appropriations, which had been specifically targeted for measuring solar 

radiation for decades. If Whipple now diverted those funds to other purposes, then the 

Bureau of the Budget had to be informed. Would the annual $80,000 budget remain, even 

if the goals were different? “I cannot hazard a guess as to what their attitude might be,” 

Carmichael advised Whipple.309

Whipple appreciated Carmichael’s sincerity, but he was also wary of Keddy. They had 

already clashed over travel and relocation funds from various sources not designated originally for travel. Keddy constantly reminded him that there were formalities concerning 

compensation when on official travel, constraints on procuring consultants, and compensation when not doing the work assigned, such as teaching at Harvard.310

Through the spring and summer of 1957, Sterne responded to Carmichael’s questions 

in a series of longer and longer essays about proper practice and the authority to do pure 

research in a government agency. Sterne questioned the value of continued solar monitoring because he felt it unlikely to produce anything useful. But Carmichael continued 

to hope that “out of the many fundamental researches on the sun now being conducted 

some new knowledge is bound to be acquired which can later be utilized for the benefit 

of mankind.”311 They were concerned that whatever the Smithsonian chose to do, it had to 

be justified in the eyes of Congress. Indeed, Carmichael was constantly rehearsing what he 

would say before an appropriations committee.

In August 1957, Keddy forced a showdown. Whipple was summoned to a meeting in 

Washington with Carmichael, Keddy, Graf, and E. E. Eisenhart, and there faced outright 

Figure 14 Charles Greeley Abbot, 

in his 95th year, poignantly sharing 

his evidence for solar variability with 

anyone who might listen. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, Image # 94-4039.
60 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

hostility. But it was not only related to the solar work. The meeting had been called to rectify 

development delays and serious oversight problems with the SAO’s key satellite-tracking 

hardware, the Baker-Nunn system.312

By now, Carmichael and his staff had become concerned about the huge undertaking Whipple had successfully initiated for tracking the first satellites. As we will see in 

the next chapter, the Baker-Nunn was a very ambitious system and its development was 

taking longer than expected. None had been delivered yet, or was close to being operational, and, most embarrassing, an example would not be available to display for an 

important meeting upcoming in Washington. Carmichael wanted to be assured that the 

system would be in place when the first American Vanguard was expected to launch in 

November. Only after they bore down on Whipple about the cameras did the subject turn 

to solar radiation.

Carmichael’s congenial bearing in his correspondence with Sterne and Whipple was 

absent in the bulleted stenographic record of the meeting, where Keddy attacked Whipple’s 

project management failures. They were also displeased with Sterne’s negative reports on 

the APO legacy program and the review by conferees from the February meeting. Then, 

abruptly, Carmichael turned dark: “Let’s not have Sterne do anything with this program 

as he is antagonistic to it,” and with this, Keddy took his cue: “He is out to sink it, and you 

[Whipple] are not interested.” Whipple then changed the subject, asking, “Are we ever going 

to have a building of our own?” to which Carmichael replied that after “careful study . . . we 

feel, for many reasons, that we cannot ask for more money in ’59.”313

Whipple returned to Cambridge after the meeting and briefed Sterne. One can only 

speculate on Whipple’s state of mind after the confrontation in Washington. The promised 

new building was stalled, and this meant Whipple had to scramble for space to accommodate his burgeoning staff. He left it to Sterne to answer Carmichael, hoping they could, 

as Whipple frequently stated, “avoid the backwaters of unnecessary data accumulation.” 

Sterne wrote Carmichael, saying he “felt deeply” his responsibility to provide only the best 

advice to Whipple and to the secretary that would make the Astrophysical Observatory 

“into a first-rate scientific institution.” His 11-page position paper, meant to give Carmichael 

insights in any future testimony, expanded greatly on his original thoughts about the “scientific sterility of solar constant work” and the fact that it would be daunting to improve on 

the already “high level” of Abbot’s data.314

Sterne called Carmichael’s bluff, agreeing that as a government bureau “we have the 

duty first being morally sure ourselves that the project or purpose is worthwhile, and that 

the money can be advantageously spent.” They should ask Congress only for research they 

truly believed was useful and not of “debatable worth.” He advised “complete candor” in any 

reports to the Hill:

Explain if necessary to the Bureau of the Budget and Congress that the old solar 

constant measurements appear to have continued long enough to have served a scientifically valuable purpose, but that their longer continuation in the old form now 

appears to be of debatable and doubtful merit, and they have become difficult to 

supervise effectively.315
Whither the Solar Constant • 61

Sterne then cited a recent essay in Science that identified the Smithsonian as one of 

only two federal agencies, among some 38, that perform research that did “not organize 

them about practical problems” and was, moreover, “the only Federal agency that conducts 

its own pure research.” After all, Sterne advised, Congress had established the Smithsonian 

with the sole mission “of increasing and diffusing knowledge,” which to his mind was “general approval for the Smithsonian to do basic research for its own sake, without appeal to 

practicality.”316

Further demonstrations that the solar constant was indeed constant would not be useful, he argued. Given the high accuracy of the Abbot-era measurements themselves, there 

was no real hope “to overcome the sterility that I have mentioned unless the instruments 

are above the atmosphere.”317 This point, Sterne hastened to add, was emphasized by the 

NRL conferees. Sterne thus deftly countered Abbot’s own arguments to show how difficult 

any improvement would be, and went so far as to state that Abbot’s resistance to criticism 

soured the enterprise, and, to be frank, the reputation of the Smithsonian. The Smithsonian 

had to realize that any ambitious young scientist would be reluctant to “incur the isolation 

likely to result from entering a no longer fashionable field.” Sterne offered various options 

that allowed for some work to continue at Table Mountain, not by careerists, but by contractors. This option would relieve the Smithsonian from “violating the principle of letting 

key men choose their projects.”318

Carmichael was mulling over Sterne’s lengthy position paper when he received a copy 

of Sterne’s and Dieter’s second paper on “The Constancy of the Solar ‘Constant’” and felt 

uneasy about both. Carmichael even withheld approval to publish the article, at least until 

he was assured that Abbot’s reputation would not be tarnished. The solution was to cite his 

observations and not his conclusions. Carmichael heartily agreed with Sterne that “the publication of counter rebuttals and counter-counter rebuttals is unnecessary.”319 Sterne also 

sent Abbot the manuscript, and Abbot responded predictably with an extensive restatement. But it was clear that his energies were spent. He still argued that his correlations 

revealed “the larger features of weather.” And once again, he predicted that when these 

correlations became well enough known to be exploited: “[A]ll over the world, the annual 

production of wealth thereby will many times exceed the whole cost of the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory, and its scores of researches, from its beginning in 1890 until its 

entire modification in 1953.”320

However much Abbot’s presence affected Carmichael, it is clear that both Graf 

and Keddy held the ancient scientist in great respect, not the least as the embodiment of 

institutional legacy.321 And aside from Abbot’s claims, Sterne and SAO staff, Carmichael 

responded, had to “face the facts” regarding the Smithsonian’s ability to share in independence of action. He warned that this applied only to “the core of the Institution, our 

establishment under which the statute of organization was founded for ‘the increase and 

diffusion of knowledge among men.’” This core body of activity, he added, “operates on 

trust funds.” The Smithsonian’s charter did indeed give it “wider authority than that possessed by any Government agency,” but in practical action, the research activities of the 

Smithsonian in the intervening century had far outstripped what the trust fund could support, making it “impossible to take advantage of that wide authority.” The research bureaus 
62 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

of the Smithsonian, including the SAO, operate by federal appropriations, and therefore “do 

not have the wide research authority of the institution.”322

Here was the crux of the matter for Carmichael: Any Smithsonian activity supported by 

appropriated federal funding “must justify their estimates in some detail” and, further, “we 

cannot employ scientists on Federal funds to [quoting Sterne] ‘work with little interference 

on projects of their own choosing within a general broad field like solar astrophysics.’”

323 In 

practical matters, what this translated to at the moment, and what it applied to, was who to 

hire to “supervise the Solar Radiation program.” Sterne sensed this and let Whipple know 

in no uncertain terms that Carmichael’s “peremptory request” had to be answered, and, 

moreover, it was Whipple’s problem, not his.324 So Whipple solved the immediate problem 

by asking one of the remaining field station directors, Alfred G. Froiland, to keep Table 

Mountain open and actively engaged in solar monitoring through 1961.325 His retention did 

not cost Whipple a position, nor did it prevent him from acquiring significant expertise in 

solar and stellar atmospheres.

Dénouement

By 1961, SAO’s existence no longer depended on the continuation of solar radiation 

monitoring. Its large-scale satellite optical-tracking program had brought worldwide 

positive attention to the Smithsonian. And the many areas of scientific investigation 

SAO staff entered, mostly but not entirely by Whipple’s instigation as he responded to 

the opportunities of the Space Age, brought added visibility. Thus Carmichael ended 

Smithsonian’s solar monitoring in the spring, after Whipple assured him that the National 

Bureau of Standards would take up the slack.326 Just two weeks prior to this decision, 

Carmichael had sent Whipple yet another manuscript by Abbot. Doubtful that there was 

anything new in it, still Carmichael wanted it published, “in view of Dr. Abbot’s age,” 

unless there was anything Whipple deemed to be “positively erroneous” in it. Whipple 

responded the next day, agreeing that there was nothing new in the paper, save for the 

fact that Abbot now admitted that the future of solar monitoring lay in satellite-borne 

observations.327

During this era, to help foster communication and hopefully a working relationship 

between SAO and the Smithsonian’s central administration, formal periodic conferences 

were held alternatively in Washington and in Cambridge. The topics for discussion, and the 

discussants, changed over time. By November 1962, welcoming a new Smithsonian assistant 

secretary, James Bradley, and a host of management consultants to Cambridge, Whipple 

introduced his new assistant director for science, Charles A. Lundquist. Lundquist, from 

NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center and with a long record in tracking and orbit determination (Figure 15), outlined the research performed at the SAO, emphasizing the use of 

satellite data to study Earth’s atmosphere and geodetic properties, the continuing studies of 

meteor samples to prepare for the analysis of lunar materials, and plans for orbiting observatories and theoretical astrophysics. Missing from his accounting was any mention of solar 

constant work.
Whither the Solar Constant • 63

During Whipple’s years as director, no effort was made by Smithsonian staff to perform solar constant observations from satellites.328 And no effort was made until the mid1970s by Smithsonian staff to re-examine the half century of accumulated Smithsonian data 

in light of new knowledge collected from space until P. V. Foukal and J. E. Vernazza, together 

with Harvard undergraduate Pamela E. Mack, re-examined the APO data, comparing it 

with radiometer data from Mariner 6 and Mariner 7. They ruled out any relative change 

of the solar constant from space greater than two orders of magnitude smaller than the 

sensitivity limits of the Smithsonian’s ground measurements made between 1923 and 1952. 

Their analysis also confirmed the covariance analysis of Sterne and Dieter, and completely 

discounted Abbot’s arguments, based most recently on his 1958 re-analysis of the effect of a 

large sunspot group crossing the solar disk, which they attributed to chance.329

This result probably would not have stopped Abbot, who until his death in 1973 kept 

his vision alive in his never-ending defense of the APO’s legacy.330 But he and his institution outlasted the times that created them. Carmichael faced a very new relationship 

with Harvard astronomers in his continued effort to rationalize that legacy and uphold 

the Smithsonian’s honor. In the first years of this new relationship, he was not assured 

Figure 15 Charles Lundquist at the Marshall Space Flight Center, sharing insights on orbital 

mechanics with Wernher von Braun and Herrmann Oberth. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 

16-263, Box 7.
64 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

that Whipple would deliver; the lengthy negotiations over staffing, freedom of action, and 

accountability naturally left him wary, especially when there was also concern that Whipple 

would deliver on satellite tracking.

The choices Carmichael made suggest that the program ended institutionally with the 

closing of Table Mountain. But in effect it ended in 1955 when Carmichael chose Harvard 

and Whipple over Walter Orr Roberts’s High Altitude Observatory, for reasons far more 

complex than Abbot’s pressure or evaluating the intrinsic merit of the effort. This chapter 

has addressed the institutional reasons why they lingered at all past 1955. But surely, as later 

commentators attested in light of the spaceborne observations, the covariance analysis of 

Sterne and Dieter had settled the issue. But just as surely, this required confidence in, and 

universal acceptance of, the information gained from the spaceborne observations. That is 

what effectively ended the legacy.331

Indeed, none of the satellite projects the Smithsonian proposed within the next few 

years, ranging from Beacon to Celescope, included any instruments capable of addressing the question of solar radiation. To appreciate why, we need now to turn back to Fred 

Whipple and his goals and passions, and how they propelled him from satellite tracking 

into space.
65

Chapter 5

Optical Satellite Tracking: Establishing 

the Smithsonian’s Central Role

Unconventional from the start. Adapted a meteor camera using Jim Baker 

optics . . . and Joe Nunn, a mechanical engineer, both more at home in industry or 

military than academic world. Hired a staff of non-scientists, Leon Campbell, Jr., 

ex-journalist with a talent for PR, to organize volunteers of Moonwatch, Chief 

Peterson, ex-Navy petty officer and communications specialist to set up . . . international network . . . J. Allen Hynek . . . most unconventional . . . Karl Henize, 

a young, untried astronomer to run operations, a host of wild men, ex-sailors, 

Marines, cowboys. . . . Somehow it worked. On October 7, 1957, nearly thirtynine years and one month ago tonight, SAO stood ready to track Sputnik 1. From 

that point, SAO grew and the Space Age, reaching some 500 staff in the midsixties, stations around the world . . . always FLW pursued the unconventional, the 

risky, the revolutionary, SAO first orbiting observatory, OAO [Orbiting Astronomical 

Observatory], Celescope, early application of computers to astro problems, modeling atmospheres of stars, analysis of meteorites, which would lead to lunar rock 

analysis, and, of course, the riskiest of all, the MMT.

—James Cornell, bullets for Irwin Shapiro, 

circa 1996 332

Unconventional indeed. Whipple’s editorial and public information arm first managed 

Smithsonian Contributions to Astrophysics but then provided editorial services for the burgeoning array of weekly newsletters and occasional flyers issued to manage the central facility in Cambridge as well as its worldwide tracking stations, both amateur and professional. 

This office also had the responsibility, explosively enlarged by Sputnik, to handle media 

inquiries and to prepare proactive press releases. As a quasi-governmental facility, it also 

published both technical and popular histories, which have been deepened more recently 

by historical attention.333 Here we flesh out Jim Cornell’s colorful bullets, especially how 

the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) acquired the responsibility for satellite 

tracking. If there is a gap in this well-covered history at the moment, it is the very question 

of “why the Smithsonian?” At the time of Whipple’s assumption of the directorship, in July 

1955, it was not clear that the Smithsonian would be chosen as the lead institution for 
66 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

optical tracking. That decision would not come for another year after the National Science 

Foundation (NSF) provided seed funds.334 Nor was it known how the technology and the 

infrastructure to handle the data flow would be managed. Recounting what is known about 

both challenges reveals Whipple’s deft gamesmanship as he worked to build his empire.

Positioning

On July 29, 1955, President Eisenhower announced that the United States would 

launch a satellite. The next day, Leland Cunningham, one of Whipple’s orbit specialist colleagues from Berkeley and a kindred spirit over the decades, wrote him excited by the news, 

offering his assistance in orbit computing: “It would seem that there are likely to be spots in 

this project where I could be of use.”335 For Cunningham and others, no matter who would 

ultimately instrument the satellite and launch it, they figured it most likely that Whipple 

would be tracking it. Indeed, Whipple would soon chair a new working group within the 

U.S. National Committee’s (IGY’s) Technical Panel on Earth Satellites (TPESP) that would 

worry about optical tracking.336

Whipple assumed that von Braun’s Orbiter would be chosen and that he would be 

tasked with planning Orbiter’s “optical observing program.” But when the Navy’s Vanguard 

system was picked, he recalled that “I had to start over from scratch with a new satellite 

observing program.”337 Numerous commentators have discussed how this decision left von 

Braun and his Army team, extending to the Jet Propulsion Laboratory, out in the cold.338

But for Whipple, this only meant he had to fight harder for the tracking nod. By fall 1955, he 

was chair of the “Long Playing Rocket” (LPR) committee and was a member of the TPESP, 

so he was in a strong position. Vanguard would be larger and more visible than the redesigned Orbiter, so it better fit the satellite geometry Whipple always preferred, because its 

polished sphere would be more “observable from ground.”339

The NRL Vanguard team, however, promoted its radio-based “Minitrack” system 

aggressively. Some of its leaders openly questioned Whipple’s calculations for the optical 

visibility of a satellite, and there were other options beyond Whipple’s meteor network cameras known to both Army and Navy groups that were equally competitive.340 All participants 

agreed that some form of optical tracking was critical, not only for operational reasons but 

as well for obvious political and scientific value. Radio tracking, of course, was independent 

from local weather conditions and provided instantaneous Doppler data.

Even while he was negotiating with Carmichael to define the SAO and with Harvard 

to acquire staff, Whipple answered virtually every call to speak on his vision for spaceflight. His speeches were no longer long-term forecasts or fanciful portraits. Now they had 

immediate goals, or were updates on the state of play, to “promote public understanding of 

the project.”341 At a meeting of the American Astronomical Society in Troy, New York, that 

November, he addressed the assembly with a fervor reminiscent of wartime. Congratulating 

the NRL on taking the lead for America, he proclaimed that “the artificial satellite symbolizes, along with artificial nuclear fission, the greatest achievements of man’s conquest over 

nature. First matter and energy, and now space will have become the slaves of man.”342
Optical Satellite Tracking • 67

The SAO directorship became Whipple’s bully pulpit. But it was not the only platform he could have taken. Ironically, before the Vanguard decision, he had been repeatedly 

approached to take over the Naval Research Laboratory’s space science divisions, which 

would have potentially offered far more support.343 The NRL would have been the obvious 

place to put in action the disparate plans he had been making to assume the responsibility 

for tracking the artificial satellites that would be flying during the International Geophysical 

Year. That he did not drop the Smithsonian invitation and head to Washington, and he 

preferred to remain loyal to von Braun’s Orbiter indicates that although Whipple was certainly a risk taker and an opportunist, he had his limits. Thus Whipple’s decision to fly the 

Smithsonian banner and push for optical networking, not only utilizing an extrapolation 

of the powerful astronomical cameras he had developed for meteor tracking, but also the 

creation of a worldwide popular network of amateur satellite watchers, can be understood 

best by his penchant for institutional flexibility. He was committed to a technology and 

kept his institutional constraints as loose as possible; his loyalty to the powerful national 

governing panels was unquestioned. Unlike individualists like S. Fred Singer, who evidently broke with the pack, Whipple rarely if ever claimed to be anything but a loyal member, someone who could be trusted to do the right thing for the greatest good.344

All the tracking methods had serious limitations given what little could be launched 

into orbit quickly, and though everyone agreed that optical tracking was necessary, there 

was no a priori agreement as to who would provide it. But Whipple did expect that the 

Army would be the choice. This fact comes clear from the record of a meeting called 

by the Army’s Office of Ordnance Research (OOR) western section, in Los Angeles on 

16 July 1955, which also reveals the degree to which Whipple dominated the field. A note 

taker described how Whipple called the meeting “as head of the ONR scientific use and 

observation program for the proposed Project Orbiter.”345 Whipple indeed spoke as if he 

represented the ONR, but he was really acting as consultant for Varo Research of Garland, 

Texas, a contractor for “designing the ‘Warhead’—the satellite itself.” Austin Stanton, 

the entrepreneurial president of Varo, attended with von Braun and E P. Martz Jr., from 

White Sands, von Braun’s official advisor for tracking. Martz brought along the astronomer Clyde Tombaugh from White Sands and others from the Redstone Arsenal. This 

group met to discuss with OOR staff the characteristics the satellite needed to facilitate 

tracking. Tombaugh, legendary as the discoverer of Pluto and now working for Martz at 

White Sands, presented his “programmed rapid-scan satellite search techniques,” which 

he had developed to try and discover tiny natural satellites in orbits closer to Earth than 

the Moon.

Tombaugh had been developing optical-tracking systems at White Sands Proving 

Ground and at the Lowell Observatory in northern Arizona for years. At White Sands, 

his telescopic systems followed and recorded the gyrations of spinning missiles.346 From 

1950 to 1955, working in the Systems Engineering Branch at White Sands, Tombaugh also 

developed a variety of cameras, including fast Schmidt telescopes mounted on a series 

of ramshackle but functional multiple-axis, motorized tracking mounts. They never 

found a natural satellite, but his system seemed to be a viable option for tracking artificial 

satellites.347
68 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Tombaugh’s technique could pick up faint fast-moving bodies if the camera was tracking the object closely enough. Whipple immediately appreciated this, suggesting that the 

system would be even more powerful with one of his Super-Schmidt cameras. Tombaugh 

eagerly concurred, as long as the Super-Schmidt optical system was mounted on Tombaugh’s 

tracking system. There was much talk of using “super bright” flares and possibly the light 

from Loki exhaust jets as light sources, but this was deemed too chancy. In conclusion, 

Whipple felt that the only solution was to “take his Super-Schmidt meteor cameras to the 

launching site and equip them with variable drives to be used in Tombaugh’s program.”348

Whipple’s advocacy carried the day, even though von Braun and Stuhlinger remained wedded to some sort of flashing light system.349

Whipple secured even greater control of the process when, in early October 1955, 

Joseph Kaplan, who chaired the Executive Committee of the U.S. National Committee for 

the IGY, gave Whipple the task to prepare a requirements study that would describe in some 

detail what was needed to optically track a satellite. How he took advantage of it reveals 

how his core scientific interests in upper atmospheric research and especially in meteoritic 

studies influenced his choice. We now look at how those interests played out at the SAO.350

Meteor Research as Prelude

On the eve of the announcement that he would direct the new SAO, Whipple made 

sure that key staff on his now decade-old Harvard Meteor Project knew that his heart 

remained in meteor research. He had worried in past months that Navy funding would not 

be supplemented, but by April 1955 had secured at least another year of funding from the 

Air Force, and more was promised. Therefore, throughout the years he was building the 

visual and optical satellite-tracking networks, he was also dovetailing these with his meteor 

network efforts. He leveraged his staff as well: Astronomers such as McCrosky were active 

in both arenas. McCrosky always knew, though, where Whipple’s heart lay. The upper atmosphere, hyperballistic ablation studies (“astroballistics”), satellite tracking and geodesy: All 

were vehicles to study the nature of meteors.351

Insight into Whipple’s personal priorities comes not from how much time he spent 

on any one facet of his rapidly growing empire, but on how little. Generally, he wanted to 

secure key people for critical roles in his major areas of interest, and then turn them loose 

with a considerable degree of autonomy. The more competent these people were, the more 

latitude he gave them. Of course, he had great difficulty and frustration trying to get good 

staff because most wanted Harvard appointments with tenure or at least the possibility of 

tenure. He tried first to place his senior staff among the professorial ranks but finally had to 

settle for the non-tenure-track lower ranks of research associate or lecturer. Both Sterne and 

Hynek were quite frustrated with second-class status at Harvard, but John Rinehart did not 

seem to mind at first, adapting to what he recalled was the “Harvard milieu.”352

With degrees from Caltech and the University of Iowa, Rinehart had contributed to 

proximity fuse development and pursued hyperballistic studies at the Navy’s Inyokern 

facility at China Lake, California. He was fascinated with fragmentation and deformation 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 69

problems in terminal ballistics and wanted to “simulate the flight of meteorites,” so he 

pushed for ways to achieve higher and higher velocities to study impacting and crater 

shapes.353 Distinguished in the military world, he was well known to R. N. Thomas and, 

through Thomas, Whipple. Like Whipple’s other targets, Sterne and Hynek, he enjoyed 

a considerable degree of autonomy, and Whipple assured him that this would continue 

as he became assistant director of the SAO. Rinehart was Whipple’s first professional 

SAO appointment, heading up the meteoritics group and searching for patrons beyond 

the Navy.354

Whipple did not fully anticipate the strictures of Smithsonian governance when he 

wrote in July 1955 to Rinehart, describing the position. Whipple assured Rinehart that his 

position came with the authority to “take official action while I am away in Europe this 

summer.” This meant he could hire and fire and that “you will have a real sense of freedom 

of action.” Whipple expected some prudence, lightly joking that he was not expected to 

“fire me or anything of that sort” during his absence. But overall, Whipple expressed great 

relief and comfort that Rinehart would be joining him as a “co-partner in the Smithsonian 

Institution operation” and would be setting up the meteoritics and astroballistics programs. 

In reflection, he blithely admitted: “Gosh, it does feel good to think that you can just go 

ahead and do these things now and I won’t have to worry about them.”355

Rinehart’s responsibilities included, as one might expect given his prior employment, 

contact with the Navy offices funding the program. But Whipple also gave him budget 

authority within limits. Whipple had already worked out a preliminary Smithsonian appropriation for FY1957 with Keddy, allowing for two additional hires and a small motor pool 

as well as funding for Rinehart’s own research. But he left the details to Rinehart. When the 

Air Force picked up the program, Whipple left it to Rinehart to work out the details.

Whipple also wanted to leverage his staff, sharing or moving them between funded 

research lines. He advised his staff repeatedly that no matter where the funding was coming 

from, their work would continue: “So far, my experience has been that we keep on operating 

the stations because of the extremely valuable results that have been coming out. . . . I hope you 

can ride through this current period of uncertainty with optimism, holding the assurance that 

there are other interesting jobs that will be available even if this one should finally fold up.”356

Juggling funding lines, and especially delegating this task to others, led to confusion 

and annoyance in Washington. Rinehart, acting with the experience of a project manager 

in a military facility, where support was fungible, worked diligently through the winter of 

1956 with various agencies interested in or capable of supporting his, in Whipple’s terms, 

“astroballistic studies.”357 In June, however, funding lines got seriously crossed between 

the NSF and the Air Force, which annoyed Keddy. Apparently Paul Klopsteg, associate 

director at NSF, contacted Carmichael about a grant application from the SAO for meteoritic studies, but, as Keddy related the matter to Whipple and Rinehart in June, “they were 

wondering whether such a grant would duplicate funds contained in the Smithsonian 

1957 appropriation.” Carmichael, according to Keddy, was annoyed by the surprise call 

from Klopsteg, as he was not informed of the proposal: “Such a lack of coordination and 

failure to maintain full communications respecting critical administrative matters is 

inexcusable.”358
70 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Keddy demanded that, henceforth, “no such administrative decisions shall be made 

without the approval of this office.”359 Whipple, however, was not about to back down, 

reminding Carmichael just how important this line of research was to the military, and 

thereby implying how important it was that the lines of communication that had to remain 

open were really between the primary players, without the Smithsonian administration 

interfering. Yet another new USAF contract for studying the accretion of meteoric material 

by artificial satellites was in fact the continuation of what was already at least a $1 million 

and decade-long investment by Harvard (from Navy funds) that was still a long way from 

solution, and was “of extremely great interest to the military in these present days of extraatmospheric missiles.”360

Rinehart’s program was the first to develop under Whipple’s new relationship with 

the Smithsonian. As a result, Rinehart experienced most of the growing pains for learning 

how to deal with it, including relations with other Smithsonian bureaus. Edward Porter 

Henderson, the venerable curator of meteoritics at the Smithsonian’s U.S. National Museum 

in Washington, had been listed since 1957 in Whipple’s annual reports as a consultant and 

collaborator to Rinehart’s division. Although their contact seemed cordial enough soon after 

Rinehart was hired as assistant director in 1955, their very different styles led to tensions. 

Keddy made matters worse when he asked Henderson to comment on Rinehart’s papers 

for clearance; one on meteor ballistics and flight markings in March 1958 led Henderson 

to claim that Rinehart’s work was derivative to the point of plagiarism. Henderson asserted 

that Rinehart missed “an important fact” about the flight markings he was analyzing, but 

he was not about to reveal it to him “because I don’t particularly want him to steal it.”361

Rinehart was equally negative about Henderson’s work, feeling that a report in May 1958 

lacked “scientific value” and could not be printed as a product of SAO’s Air Force contract. 

“It is incoherent, verbose, loosely tied together, poor in grammatical construction, and 

needs much reorganization,” Rinehart concluded, an opinion quietly shared by Henderson’s 

supervisor, head curator G. Arthur Cooper.362

This friction may have contributed to Rinehart’s departure in August 1958, but it was 

probably not determinative. Even though he enjoyed comparative freedom, Rinehart found 

Whipple distant and secretive: He “was not about to share his plans and embryonic ideas 

with anyone,” which made his job representing SAO’s administration in Washington frustrating.363 Rinehart left to take up a teaching post at the Colorado School of Mines, later 

becoming director of research for the Coast and Geodetic Survey.364

Whipple’s relations with Henderson remained delicate. They eventually clashed over 

the question of which bureau would be the official repository for meteorites recovered from 

recent falls tracked by SAO’s camera networks.365 What Henderson may have lacked in analytical methods, he more than made up for by his generosity to laboratories, lending samples far and wide, which gave him considerable political weight.366 Henderson was therefore 

not about to share this legacy with Whipple.

Whipple’s meteorite division continued to grow and prosper under Edward Fireman, 

who had worked for Rinehart and by 1959 built a new analytical laboratory boasting equipment like an electron probe microanalyzer. Fireman (Figure  16) was a nuclear physicist 

hired away from Brookhaven where he had been measuring trace elements in metals and 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 71

was using his techniques to age date meteorites from their exposure to cosmic rays.367

Through the 1960s, Fireman’s staff engaged in isotopic meteoritic age studies, micrometeoritic interplanetary dust analyses and general chemical and physical analysis of silicate-rich 

meteorites. The meteor work was in many ways complementary to the development of the 

satellite-tracking program. It not only provided the original infrastructure for expertise in 

tracking, but it also acted as a trial balloon: The missteps that were made building up the 

first program became useful lessons for navigating Smithsonian waters to build the second 

program.

A “Tentative” Optical Observing Program for Earth Satellites

When Joseph Kaplan asked Whipple to prepare a requirements study for optical 

tracking, he added Princeton’s Lyman Spitzer to help out. Whipple immediately set out to 

produce two documents: One, a report with Spitzer, would describe in outline the structure of an ideal optical-tracking program that would be issued as a “request for proposal” 

(RFP) for any qualified agency or organization to bid on. The other was a proposal from 

the Smithsonian to do just that. Both proposals were submitted within days of each other to 

Hugh Odishaw in time for the second meeting of the TPESP in late November.

Spitzer was, like Whipple, among the few ardent promoters of spaceflight within the 

astronomical profession and had provided technical briefings on Earth satellites and their 

Figure 16 Edward L. Fireman added 

analytical laboratory capability to the 

SAO’s facilities. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 3.
72 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

ability to determine upper atmosphere densities for RAND since the late 1940s. He was also 

prominent and highly respected within the various IGY panels associated with rocketry and 

satellites as an expert on the high atmosphere. But he gave the lead to Whipple. “I assume 

that you are preparing your recommendations on optical tracking for the meeting of our 

panel,” Spitzer wrote, implying that he understood that Kaplan’s invitation was symbolic. 

Whipple and Spitzer met in Washington the night before the second meeting of the TPESP 

on 21 November 1955 to go over the report, and Whipple made the presentation to the 

panel the next day.

The RFP described an ideal overall administrative structure to manage, execute, and 

analyze the products of a worldwide optical-tracking system for the Vanguard program. It 

would include a “central organization for satellite position measurement, prediction and 

analysis” within an “Administrative Center” that was responsible for the installation 

and operation of all the stations, as well as for communications to and from the optical and 

radio stations, and for communication with special sections for orbit prediction and analysis. A separate but connected “communications center” would provide direct contact by 

radio between other rapid communications links with the optical observing stations, NRL’s 

Minitrack radio position stations, and other groups that might be engaged to make ground 

observations of the satellite. The communications center would send all information to 

an “analysis center” and in return would receive predictions. The analysis center would 

consist of an “interpretation group,” a “photographic reduction group,” and a “computation 

group” with high-speed computing machines. There would also be a “theoretical analysis 

group.”368

There had to be considerable overlap to facilitate communication: “Theoretical analysis,” for instance, would be responsible for reporting any changes in the orbits of the objects, 

upper atmosphere density fluctuations and distributions, the distribution of mass inside 

Earth, and the precise positions of the stations, all in a consistent fundamental coordinate 

system. “Its research would extend far beyond the observational program, but we need not 

worry about the long range aspects at the moment if the short range current operations are 

clearly indicated.” Next, optical tracking and Minitrack had to work together to achieve 

rapid response. Minitrack would provide an orbit “giving positions to the order of five minutes of arc or better” with time determinations to a few hundredths of a second. These 

data, the instant of meridian passage and altitude of meridian passage, would be radioed 

“immediately to the central communications center,” which would in turn relay them to the 

computing bureau for the immediate calculation of orbital elements. These functions had to 

act as a single unit within one institutional framework, but it did not have to be “physically 

in close juxtaposition to the Vanguard program.”369 Whipple thus created an operational 

space for SAO.

Beyond rapid response, there also had to be highly flexible contingency planning. 

“In case the electronic tracking system fails completely, the best initial orbital elements 

will be taken from the observed data near the point of launching,” which would come 

from traditional tracking stations near the launch point to track the earlier rocket stages 

“to the point that the satellite is actually free in its orbit.” To prepare for any contingency, 

all observing and tracking stations had to be equipped with large column-mounted 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 73

binoculars “and other useful visual optical equipment, in so far as it can be made available without unusual expense.” This last contingency soon became Project Moonwatch, a 

worldwide net of visual observers that could provide preliminary observations sufficient 

for rough prediction.370

The RFP also specified that the system had to be sufficiently sensitive to detect fastmoving faint objects and outlined the types of optical systems and photographic technologies that should be considered. Whipple knew well that the Smithsonian’s present array 

of 12 inch Super-Schmidt meteor cameras could barely catch a magnitude 6.0 object (the 

limit of eyesight visibility) that was trailing at 1 degree per second. If it was moving faster, 

the Super-Schmidt would be unable to catch it, given the sensitivity of available photographic emulsions. There were hopes of acquiring faster emulsions, or utilizing newly 

promised electronic image converters and image-tube techniques, but there were too many 

unknowns and great expense associated with electronic amplification, so for the purposes 

of their “tentative” program, Whipple and Spitzer limited their discussion to photographic 

methods, pushing for a larger aperture Schmidt.371

In their response to their own RFP, considering various combinations of cameras and 

mountings, Whipple and Spitzer opted for a larger Schmidt with a flat field that could use 

roll film that would allow for “extremely quick film changes.”372 This hybrid design would 

be coupled to a motorized mount with “variable-variable rate drives” similar to, but more 

controllable than, Tombaugh’s rapid scanning system.373 To get this all done, Whipple had to 

expand his working group, adding two more astronomers, two optical experts, one mechanical engineer, one photographic specialist, one photoelectric specialist, and one image-tube 

specialist.374

The panel quickly endorsed both the RFP and SAO’s “tentative proposal,” asking for 

a formal proposal from the Smithsonian to engage in the preliminary study. Whipple also 

prepared a budget for the “tentative” program, and tellingly noted that the position of the 

director of the project would be borne by the host institution. Hardly subtle.

The Smithsonian’s “Proposal”

The proposal Whipple presented to Carmichael outlined, in essence, the infrastructure he envisioned for SAO. It was built around a contracting office to manage technologies 

and services they knew they would want to incorporate into the eventual design. These 

ranged from instruments for absolute time standards to acquiring expertise to develop a 

fuller theory for the solutions of the equations for the orbital elements, their variations, and 

perturbations due to air density and geophysical parameters. All this needed calculating 

and computing facilities; design and construction facilities for the specular surface of the 

satellite and its geometry; photographic facilities; optimal observing sites worldwide; and, 

most critically for Whipple, an effective administrative structure.

Carmichael gave Whipple’s draft to Keddy and Graf who immediately set to editing it 

to make it more forceful and direct, with fewer qualifiers, and, most significantly, shifting 

it from being a proposal of the “Astrophysical Observatory of the Smithsonian Institution” 
74 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

to a proposal of “the Smithsonian Institution through its Astrophysical Observatory.”375

Over the next several days, more editing placed the Smithsonian firmly as the contractor and tightened up the budget. Carmichael submitted the proposal days later to Alan T. 

Waterman, the NSF director, while Whipple followed up with Hugh Odishaw to “iron out 

the details.” There was no time to waste. The NSF board would be meeting on 5 December, 

so this proposal needed to be in Odishaw’s hands as soon as possible.376

Keddy and Graf worried what the ultimate impact would be of such a program on the 

Smithsonian. The preliminary requirements study was not large, but the ultimate contracts, 

which would be in the millions of dollars, were far larger than anything the Smithsonian 

had yet handled as a single research program funded by external government resources. 

And further, counseled by Whipple, Carmichael knew that to be competitive for the ultimate job, the Smithsonian had to be ready to coordinate closely with the interests of the 

Army Map Service, the Hydrographic Office, the Coast and Geodetic Survey, and the Naval 

Research Laboratory, all the possible competitors.

Despite his staff ’s concerns, Carmichael agreed to the scope of the proposal, deftly 

rationalizing it as a continuation of an institutional legacy. As he later described it for the 

Regents, the program

follows two traditions that we cherish in the Smithsonian Institution. We are participating as pioneers in the progress of science, comparable to Dr. Langley’s original 

research in the flight of heavier-than-air craft. We are also promoting international 

interest in the Satellite Tracking Program which is in keeping with the worldwide 

pattern of contributions to knowledge by the Smithsonian Institution.377

Carmichael pointed to the same virtues that Odishaw had highlighted for the U.S. 

National Committee’s Executive deliberations on 30 November 1955, as they finalized their 

decision for who would be tasked with the optical tracking, and both were taken verbatim 

from Whipple’s proposal.378

Sharpened by Keddy’s editing, the Smithsonian proposal made clear that it was not 

presuming to be the selected institution, and to make their proposal sweeter, “an appreciable 

part of the cost of salaries in the framework of the proposal will be borne by the Smithsonian 

Institution and will not be charged.” The Smithsonian itself fully intended to engage in scientific research through the satellite program, “including the long-range phases” such as 

upper atmosphere studies and geodesy, and finally, of course, the Smithsonian was an ideal 

institutional home for international programming, in words repeated faithfully by Odishaw 

and Carmichael. There was also the fact that Whipple’s Harvard infrastructure included the 

services of a small staff that managed an international telegram service, which “provides for 

rapid exchange of information about new astronomical discoveries and events.” Another 

advantage Whipple highlighted, presaging his remarks to Harvard alumni in the wake of 

Sputnik a few years hence, was that a “huge reservoir of scientific and technological talent 

in the Boston area will be available for convenient and quick consultation on the varied 

problems.”379 With a ringing endorsement from Carmichael, Odishaw carried it to the executive committee, emphasizing that Whipple’s prominence was critical to the operation and 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 75

illustrating that fact by reciting Whipple’s many honors and awards.380 Odishaw’s support 

won the day. The circumstances and arguments presented throughout this process clearly 

demonstrate how Whipple became the choice—by moving to the center, by positioning 

himself, his technology, and his institution as the most likely combination for success. He 

was playing against many factors, many unknowns, and indeed many technical doubts and 

concerns.

The Lingering Question of Visibility 

Whipple well knew, along with everyone involved with the overall effort, that the 

object they lofted into space had to be bright enough to be seen visually, as well as optically 

and electronically. Maximum public impact was the goal, so visibility was critical for political as well as physical reasons. The NRL/Vanguard faction was committed to radio as the 

best way to obtain physical information, if the little transmitter survived the launch. But 

optical and especially visual reconnaissance would provide the most widespread political 

impact.

Vanguard team leaders developing the launcher and payload had always been skeptical about optical tracking, but their own technical advisors in the NRL’s Optics Division 

had checked Whipple’s visibility estimates and supported them in theory. Even so, Richard 

Tousey, the lead physicist in the division, who was experienced in practical aspects of visibility during the war years, felt that the chances of catching anything with present cameras 

“were only one in a million.”381 There had to be a way to predict visibility accurately enough 

to increase the chances that the faint fast moving object might be recorded in the restricted 

fields of even wide-field telescopic cameras. Aside from the weather, there was also only a 

narrow time slot when the object would be illuminated by sunlight and when the sky would 

remain dark enough to see it. Bright stars are not visible in daylight and they are thousands 

of times brighter than what was expected of the first small satellites. And later at night, satellites in low Earth orbit would be dark, shrouded in Earth’s shadow. The Sun had to be at 

least 5 degrees below the horizon to make the sky dark enough to reveal stars, and at more 

than 5 degrees, Earth’s shadow extends to more than satellite height. One possible solution 

would be to equip the payload with some form of optical beacon, a flashing light as Martz 

and others were suggesting.

Whipple did not favor flashing beacons, but if they were going to be added, he wanted 

to take advantage of them. Early on, he asked Robert Davis, a graduate student, to look into 

such matters, and fostered continuing studies of the use of flashing light systems for geodetic 

research.382 His task for Davis illustrates the breadth of Whipple’s readiness. In September 

1954, Davis, a former Harvard undergraduate, announced he would return to Harvard 

from military service for graduate work. Whipple immediately recruited him to stop in 

at the Varo company in Garland, Texas on his way back to Cambridge to meet its founder, 

Austin Stanton. He wanted Davis to learn more about the Navy’s plans to launch a satellite 

and what their needs for optical satellite tracking were.383 Whipple was already consulting 

for Stanton, and suspected that Stanton, like Davis an electrical engineer, would provide 
76 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

deeper insights into possible detector technologies he was then developing for spaceborne 

miniaturized electronics systems as well as low light level “night vision” devices and various 

electronics systems for guided missiles and general military application.384 Whipple wanted 

Davis to do a bit more digging into Stanton’s involvement with miniature vacuum tube electronics and imaging systems for his tracking cameras and also to see whether image tubes 

were anywhere near viable. All options were on the table for Whipple.

In 1955, however, photography still seemed the most promising technology, but even 

then Whipple did not close the door on some form of electronic imaging. The one design 

element that Whipple definitely had decided on was Tombaugh’s active three-axis tracking 

system. Whipple’s own proposal did not cite one design over another, only that no “off-theshelf ” optical or timekeeping equipment was at hand. He was ready to devote almost half 

his budget to contracts for detailed engineering designs and capital equipment.385

NSF took only nine days to inform Carmichael that the Smithsonian’s proposal for 

$49,910 was granted and would be paid in full within another two weeks.386 At 15 minutes before midnight on Friday, 30 December 1955, Whipple gleefully telegrammed Hynek: 

MONEY AVAILABLE. HURRAY. USE YOUR JUDGEMENT ON PUBLICITY.387

Working within the Smithsonian: “Gaining Fiscal Control”

As Whipple recruited staff, he also came to grips with what working with Smithsonian 

upper management was like. On 30 December Keddy instructed Whipple to show up 

in Washington on 10 January for congressional budget hearings. There would also be a 

Smithsonian regents dinner later that month at which Whipple was expected to present his “New Horizons” vision. But he also had a lecture to prepare for the American 

Academy in Cambridge, at least one PhD defense, an IGY meeting in Washington, lectures 

in Cleveland and New York before the Institute for Aeronautical Sciences, and finally the 

Satellite Symposium of the Upper Atmosphere Rocket Research Panel in Ann Arbor at the 

end of the month. Keddy, reminding Whipple that he had to have “flexibility” in his travel 

schedule, which meant be available for presentations in Washington, also insisted on prior 

approval for all travel plans.388 Keddy also laid out the rules of the road for making longdistance calls. Whipple and Rinehart were using the phone freely. Keddy assured Whipple 

that for emergencies, the phone was fine without prior permission from the Office of the 

Secretary. But in normal communications, the directive was that airmail was preferred for 

precision and accountability.389

Keddy exerted his manifest power by strictly enforcing all government rules. All federal procedures and guidelines for staff hirings, travel, office furniture, supplies, and services 

had to be followed.390 From the start, then, Keddy demanded that Rinehart and Whipple “set 

up fiscal control” of the various contracts they were accumulating. Whipple and Rinehart 

were leveraging support from the U.S. Air Force with the NSF satellite-tracking planning 

contract to align the Meteor Project with satellite tracking. This required not only flexibility 

but also leeway securing staff who recognized and were comfortable with dual funding lines 

from complementary but not identical projects. Keddy, always concerned about limits to 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 77

any discretionary action “for the prudent administration of the funds involved,” sent them 

directives and boilerplate guidelines that were more confusing than enabling.391

Staff Building

Hynek jumped at the chance to take a two-year leave, feeling that Ohio State should be 

happy to donate something to the IGY effort, “namely me!” He relished the chance to travel 

the world setting up tracking stations. It would be “frosting on the cake.”392 Hynek did not 

express specific research interests, though he once toyed with the visibility of stars in the 

daytime. Whipple well knew that Hynek had eclectic interests; he had achieved some visibility as editor of an influential review of astrophysics in 1951 and evidently was interested 

in more visibility.393

Whipple expected Hynek to drop everything and show up by 4 January. He would 

have no secretary at first, but his office was ready: “We have been trying for about a month 

to add to my current staff and still have no luck at all.” There was a “pool” available and 

everyone would have to “temporize for a while” and manage the place because Whipple 

would be constantly traveling between Cambridge and Washington. On the bright side, 

Whipple reported, “It is extremely exciting and the interrelationships with the international 

groups of various types will be one you will enjoy as well as the technical aspects.” Hynek 

could draw on the vast pool of local talent in Cambridge and also had available at least 

two established stations: a New Mexico site at Organ Pass, “where we can make all sorts of 

tests,” and the Agassiz Station. Above all, Whipple wanted Hynek at hand, even if on temporary duty, to get the program “on the road.” He asked Hynek to convey his apologies to 

Mrs. Hynek and family, “but perhaps she will forgive me in the long run.”394

After Rinehart, and, of course his continuing dance with Sterne, securing Hynek was 

his top priority. But he had at least five other major positions to fill. Hynek was able to secure 

a three-month leave from Ohio, but was duty bound to return to teach a popular course in 

the spring. Working with what he had at hand, Whipple outlined duties: Rinehart would be 

involved in instrumentation, preparations for building stations, and overall administration. 

Sterne would evaluate the old APO solar constant work and articulate what research meant 

in the new organization, but he would also be involved in the tracking program, most of all 

the computing and analysis. Hynek would be involved in everything else. From the Harvard 

side, “Mac” McCrosky was running at more than full speed, helping to organize the instrumentation and identify possible observing station sites.

Whipple tried to attract Gerald Clemence, who led the Navy’s Nautical Almanac Office, 

to provide overall scientific administration, from site selection to the management of the 

computing and analysis section. Whipple also approached Ivan King, William Sinton, and 

William Baum, specifically for electronic detection techniques.395 He failed with all of them, 

first because there was too much red tape to shift a high-level government employee, and 

second because, once again, Harvard appointments were not forthcoming.396 McCrosky, 

on the other hand, was deeply devoted to the type of work he had been doing under 

Whipple’s guidance, and with his Harvard PhD soon in hand, remained loyal to Whipple as 
78 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

his “scientist in charge of the SAO Meteor Photography and Recovery Program.” Over the 

years, the two had engaged in many fruitful campaigns for the Harvard Meteor Expedition 

based at the Las Cruces station and elsewhere. McCrosky had distinguished himself in providing many innovative field techniques for rapid data reduction and analysis.397

When Clemence proved too hard to attract to organize the orbit computations and 

find new and more rapid means of analysis, Whipple turned to Leland Cunningham, his 

old friend from Berkeley, “to derive working theory of artificial satellite in IGY program,” 

as he described it in a hasty telegram. He needed Cunningham immediately to prepare 

for a meeting Whipple was organizing in Washington with agencies invested in operations 

related to optical tracking. Whipple knew, of course, that Cunningham did not have the 

prominence of others he was trying bring to the meeting, but he had the competence, which 

was critical to convincing these agencies that the Smithsonian could do the job right. Above 

all, Whipple knew that Cunningham would fit in positively with his staff, and that they 

would be comfortable with his advice and counsel.398

Establishing SAO as the Central Agency for Optical Tracking

Writing to von Braun in early January, Whipple sought his counsel for the meeting and also concurrence with his bid to compete for the big money. He noted that the 

SAO network would have at least eight stations shared with NRL Minitrack and Army 

Microlock stations. This collaboration would create a worldwide geodetic framework of 

at least 30 foot accuracy and be operational by 1 July 1957, Whipple predicted with a 

flourish, signing off “with . . . best wishes for the conquest of space.”399 Von Braun quickly 

and forcefully advised Whipple that he should keep his optical tracking separate from the 

“missile end of Vanguard.” He endorsed the optical tracking as a backup system to radio, 

but more critically, he advised that it should be sold as a means of achieving higher positional accuracy, which was of course of great interest to “our high altitude re-entry missile 

test program.”400

To make a final decision, the TPESP had created a new oversight panel for optical 

tracking, asking Spitzer, who was not proposing on any team, to chair it. Their first report in 

January described optical tracking as “primarily for scientific objectives,” whereas Minitrack 

would monitor Vanguard itself. It also directed the SAO to initiate the operational program, 

adding that it was its intention, “subject to further deliberation, to ask the SAO to continue 

management of the optical program throughout IGY.” The report also endorsed the public 

element, enlisting “professional and amateur astronomers throughout the world.”401

In effect, Spitzer’s panel assumed that unless Whipple and the SAO faltered in some 

way, optical tracking was theirs to lose. Whipple was well along in establishing the overall 

structure of a system elaborated from his and Spitzer’s original specifications, and finally by 

February 1956 felt secure enough to call on other agencies to join in, including the Army Map 

Service, the Coast and Geodetic Survey, the Aeronautical Chart Service, the Naval Research 

Laboratory, and the Geological Survey.402 Whipple advised Keddy that the Smithsonian was 

“contractually committed” to collaborate with them and that the Smithsonian should host 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 79

a conference in mid- to late February when a number of acknowledged orbital mechanics 

experts and geodesists would (coincidentally) be in town, including Leland Cunningham, 

and that this meeting should include representatives from military photogrammetry 

units.403 This would not be a public meeting, Whipple advised, but institutional players in 

Washington needed to be notified, including NSF, ONR, the National Geographic Society, 

the Office of Chief of Engineers at Andrews Air Force Base, as well as Hugh Odishaw and 

his staff at the National Academy.404

The meeting was a political formality, but it did put critical specialists in contact 

with each other, and did jumpstart a stream of studies by Cunningham, culminating in a 

paper, “The Motion of a Nearby Satellite with Highly Inclined Orbit,” that he delivered at 

an American Astronomical Society meeting in Berkeley. Whipple felt this strategy served 

as a “shot in the arm,” not only for his program but also for Cunningham’s energies. By the 

spring, Cunningham had provided a systematic structure that could be applied quickly to 

utilize the approximate observations of the amateur network to direct tracking cameras 

to follow a wide range of satellite motions. However, questions remained: What kind of 

satellite would they be following? And even more pressing, how would Whipple and the 

Smithsonian manage the operation?

The Shock of the New

At a meeting in April, Spitzer’s Working Group on Tracking and Computation 

endorsed the Smithsonian’s overall plan for a two-pronged optical-tracking program. With 

a total budget amounting to $3,380,610, Whipple, Hynek, and their rapidly growing staff 

would form two groups: one to find the satellites and one to track them with the highest 

precision possible. This was not money in the bank yet; Whipple and Hynek still had to submit formal proposals for the project in stages, and each had to be vetted by the Smithsonian. 

Just at this critical time, however, Hynek had to return to Ohio to meet his obligation to his 

university and his family. Saying that he was “very grateful indeed” for Hynek’s willingness 

to drop his work at Ohio and spend the last three months with them, still Whipple made it 

clear that his departure was “very unfortunate” but unavoidable. Hynek did take the leave, 

continuing to work remotely with undiminished energies.405

McCrosky started to explore possible sites for observing stations in Panama and 

other countries in South America, following the north-south fence of the Minitrack sites. 

Just getting the paperwork rolling came as a shock. Early the previous March, even before 

the money was assured, Keddy complained that the “$3.5 million program is $1 million 

more than the amount required to run our day to day operations per year, so you can see 

managing and servicing the proposed program will be a Herculean job.” Keddy insisted 

that Whipple secure the services of a full-time business manager, because just then the 

Smithsonian itself was in need of staff to open its new Museum of History and Technology 

by 1960. Keddy advised Carmichael that he doubted Whipple could handle such a program, 

even without the momentary loss of Hynek. Keddy also did not appreciate why it had to be 

a “Crash Program,” suggesting it build gradually from 1956 to 1959.406
80 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

As Keddy heckled, John Graf dickered with Whipple over wording of the final proposal. Whipple dryly appreciated that Graf had taken so much care with the many revisions 

to be sure that it was the Smithsonian and not the SAO that was the actual contracting 

agency, and even tried to reinstate the original wording, but Keddy would have none of it. 

Frustrated but resigned to it, Whipple admitted that it might make the “contractual operation easier to do.”407 Looming over everything, though, as Whipple warned Graf, were 

rumors that Congress might reduce the overall satellite program by several million dollars, 

which Odishaw hoped could be recovered if contracting institutions waived overhead.408

Keddy’s gradualist demand was unacceptable. Whipple had demonstrated urgency 

and had shown that immediate action was needed to build two prototype stations along 

with the core elements of the communications network.409 To placate Keddy, Whipple 

emphasized that the Smithsonian Institution was central to all aspects of satellite tracking. 

Not only would it be deeply involved with the gathering of information necessary for predicting the orbital trajectories of satellites, but it would also take those predictions and use 

them to produce, through a photographic-tracking system, highly precise orbital data, and 

from that would analyze the data to obtain geophysical data “available in no other way.” 

Confident that he had obtained the sanction of all possible competing parties, Whipple 

hammered home that the “present proposal” collected into a “unified whole” all the aspects 

of the optical-tracking program including analysis.410

Shaping Vanguard and Building an Optical System to Track It

The original NRL proposal called for a conical 21.5 pound payload, some 20 inches 

at the base. This design would minimize weight and be resistive to heating issues. But by 

October 1955, largely after the TPESP endorsed Whipple’s objections, the NRL changed 

the configuration to a 30-inch sphere, claiming it would better suit scientific studies of air 

resistance and provide constant optical visibility. But NRL’s John Hagan “was irked” by this 

modification and by others after it.411 The extra weight of this design also reduced the payload weight for the scientific instruments, which required James Van Allen to fit his cosmicray instruments into simpler and lighter cylindrical structures.

The 30-inch sphere persisted through early 1956 but was ultimately reduced to a 

20-inch sphere when engineers from the Martin Company who were building the launch 

system protested. It would not be reduced further, however, given the possibility that the 

Minitrack system might fail, and they had to ensure optical visibility.412

This decision also reinforced Whipple’s call for a larger telescopic camera. The Harvard 

12-inch Super-Schmidts could definitely track a 30-inch sphere, but not a 20-inch.413

Whipple at first considered a 16-inch f/1 system but, advised by James Baker (Figure 17), 

increased the aperture of the Schmidt correcting plate to 22 inches, with a 31-inch spherical 

primary, giving a 30-degree usable field.

By spring 1956, at least, Whipple felt that he owned optical tracking for Vanguard. He 

accomplished this goal not so much by competing with other contenders but by co-opting 

them, incorporating all the best elements from his own meteor network with those from 
Optical Satellite Tracking • 81

others such as Tombaugh. Whipple also knew how to parlay his elite civilian academic 

status, responding vigorously to all requests for public statements and pronouncements 

supporting spaceflight, and in one instance, at least, arguing that establishing a worldwide 

tracking system for any American satellite would be greatly facilitated by a connection 

with the IGY, and hence with civilian academic interests.414 Whipple, however, had also 

initially envisioned that most of his foreign optical stations would be co-sited with military Minitrack or Microlock stations, so his claim for their civilian status, most likely, was 

another example of his facile entrepreneurship.

In the year since becoming director of the APO, Whipple had built up an infrastructure that looked and behaved civilian but had roots well-established within military agencies. He had gained the confidence of military colleagues and government patrons, and 

most critically, by accepting the central role of the Smithsonian Institution as the fiscal 

manager of the operation, he gained Carmichael’s full support. His rapidly growing staff 

certainly expressed its own enthusiasm for the job when they submitted some 77 entries 

in an internal contest for what to name the project. What was initially called SPOT for 

Smithsonian Precision Optical Tracking, however, would very soon pose very serious technical and managerial problems for the Smithsonian and for Whipple, especially after the 

Soviets surprised the world.415

Figure 17 James Baker and a model 

of his Baker-Nunn camera. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 6.

83

Chapter 6

Satellite Tracking: Building 

and Operating the Program

SPOT would soon be renamed the Baker-Nunn tracking network to honor the chief 

designers of the optics and mounting, because the greatest challenge would be to build the 

first tracking instruments and send them around the world. Although the network and program were originally conceived as serving the finite goals of the International Geophysical 

Year (IGY), these goals were abruptly recast by the American reaction to Sputnik.416 As a 

result, what had been a finite crash program to demonstrate a capability soon became, for 

Whipple, a roadmap for establishing a new kind of astronomical institution, one based ultimately on a continuing national commitment to spaceflight. In this chapter, we explore how 

the satellite-tracking network was established and the crisis caused by having to answer the 

Sputnik challenge: making it work and parlaying it into a bold initiative to create a permanent institution.

Baker’s Challenging Optics

When Whipple approached James Baker about the upgrades needed, Baker was painfully aware that the many innovations he had built into the original Super-Schmidts took 

some five years to make them operational. If satellites had to be tracked that were launched 

within the IGY, that gave him far less time. In 1956, Baker was working at Harvard on 

a half-time appointment and was consulting for optical firms like Perkin-Elmer. He was 

well equipped to generate a design that, in theory, would fit Whipple’s needs, which meant 

quickly operational.417

Baker’s designs in the summer of 1956 reflect not only the increased demand for optical sensitivity and speed caused by the shrinking dimensions of Vanguard, but also the fact 

that after almost two decades of refining and extending the basic optical design developed 

by Bernhard Schmidt in the 1930s, Baker was definitely not out of new and ever-more creative ideas. By the end of the year, he had a small staff of Perkin-Elmer optical specialists on 

his team, and access to a high-speed computer that could rapidly churn out ray tracings of 

complex multi-component optical systems.418

Baker also knew that, unlike the meteor cameras, the tracking telescope had to take 

multiple exposures rapidly. This required a flatter field. He had already experimented 

with a cylindrically curved focal plane that would produce a long and thin field of view 
84 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

on a filmstrip, and suggested this as a direction to take for the satellite tracker.419 With a 

supplemental grant for more computer time approved in June, Baker and his colleagues 

plowed through combinations of primary reflective mirror dimensions and figures coupled with various combinations of multi-element transmissive correctors, some cemented 

and some air spaced, and finally decided on a three-element, air-spaced corrector feeding 

a 30-inch aspheric primary mirror.420 It was far more complex and physically far larger 

than had been anticipated, and was going to be far more expensive. There were problems 

from the start.

The German manufacturer Schott provided the glass for the corrector plates, and 

Corning provided its Pyrex-brand mirrors. As expected, the corrector plates posed the 

most demanding challenge for Perkin-Elmer in Connecticut, the general optical contractor. Baker designed the plates to be as thin as possible to reduce ultraviolet absorption and required that four of the six optical surfaces have complex aspheric properties. 

Starting in summer 1957, in what was yet another example of the support provided by 

military agencies to the IGY, the U.S. Air Force (USAF) Military Air Transport Service 

started flying the rough optical components from Schott in Germany to Perkin-Elmer. 

Hardly uninterested bystanders and facilitators, the Air Force would continue to watch 

the progress of the Smithsonian’s satellite-tracking network, ultimately adopting it in 

the 1960s.

The first camera was promised to be ready for testing by late September 1957 and be on 

view at the National Academy soon after for a major conference. Carmichael duly approved 

an “immediate crash” program, which included a $20,000 incentive to Perkin-Elmer. The 

cash also required that Perkin-Elmer accept the presence of another Smithsonian contractor, Steve Sydor, an expert in the properties of optical glass and manufacturing techniques, 

at its Danbury plant to help create a special optical facility to turn the glass blanks into 

optical elements.421 Sydor’s tasks included “daily reports” on all progress.422 Sydor quickly 

assessed the situation and warned Whipple that there would be delays. Whipple, however, 

had already been called to Washington in August 1957, as we have seen, to address the status of solar monitoring and to air growing frustrations with the satellite-tracking program. 

Perkin-Elmer was complaining, demanding more funding to expedite the optics, and there 

were rumors that satellites would be orbiting before the end of 1957. Whether they were 

Army, Navy, or Soviet satellites made no difference. By the time the satellites were flying, 

there had to be a tracking system in place. Now, despite his earlier reticence, Keddy went 

on the attack.423

Despite his original ignorance of the need for a crash program, at the August meeting 

Keddy accused Whipple of being an incompetent manager. The delay in optical fabrication 

was only one problem. There were also serious problems with manufacturing the mountings and with other elements of the satellite-tracking program. Keddy charged that both 

Whipple and Hynek have “abdicated their jobs,” hiring too many people and contractors 

and giving them free rein over their progress. Indeed, there had been several dozen hirings 

by then and it was far from clear what many of them were for. Keddy could not distinguish 

between Sterne and Hynek, for instance, but pointed his finger directly at Whipple for not 

keeping either of them in check. “Hynek has proved to us,” Keddy asserted, that he was not 
Satellite Tracking • 85

an operator, adding, “We are only continuing an organization that is the cause of the mess 

we are in.” There would be no hope of recovery, he told Carmichael, “until there is some 

centralized administrative control there.”424

Nunn’s Mounting Problems

Almost everything about the new camera required more than extrapolating known 

optical and mechanical capabilities. Tombaugh had built and tested small experimental 

cameras, but nothing of the size or sophistication and standardization needed to drive 

Baker’s cameras was known in the civilian world.425 All three axes, for instance, had to 

be driven independently by highly accurate variable rate motors that could be adjusted 

quickly through wide ranges of speed. Moreover, the precise time of each exposure had to 

be recorded, unambiguously, to 1 millisecond (0.001 seconds). The best solution was to find 

a way to imprint the time information directly on the image, which required a source of 

time information in the form of a visible readout that could be projected directly onto the 

photographic image.

Advised by Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) staff and Baker’s contacts 

at the Perkin-Elmer Corporation, Whipple engaged Joseph Nunn of Pasadena, California, 

as consultant to design and construct just the prototype for the mechanical parts of the 

camera system mounting, not manufacture the dozen systems needed to establish the network. Nunn ran a small design firm that had worked for Caltech to maintain and improve 

instrumentation for Palomar Observatory and had also recently designed a radically 

new mounting for a 36-inch reflector that was built by Boller and Chivens of Pasadena, 

California.426

Keddy had placed Earl C. Eisenhart in Pasadena to keep watch on progress. Eisenhart 

was impressed with Nunn’s technical competence, but harbored deep concerns about 

Nunn’s financial and managerial abilities. After a visit to Boller and Chivens, Eisenhart felt 

that this firm, though also small, was large enough to handle the manufacturing.427 By late 

August 1956, however, even this arrangement was questioned, because there were growing 

concerns in Carmichael’s office over the propriety of engaging Boller and Chivens without 

an open bid, as well as Nunn. This put Hynek in the hot seat because as contracting officer, Eisenhart and Keddy wanted him to clarify just where the liabilities and obligations 

lay. Hynek blithely viewed Nunn “as a member of our team” and became exasperated and 

confused when Nunn claimed that he, with Boller and Chivens, had already contributed 

“novelties of the art” to the design of the mounting and so warranted sole source status. 

The matter grew only darker when Hynek tried to distance himself from the business or 

legal side of the problem, telling Eisenhart that “I am not competent to judge such matters.” 

He preferred to let “legal minds wrestle with such problems.” Even so, Hynek defended his 

actions: Both he and Whipple were stretched to the breaking point and neither had the 

time or energy to keep track of multiple lines of development. On top of that, he was due to 

return to Ohio to teach in the summer quarter. Hynek well knew that hopes of securing the 

prototypes by the end of the year were very dim.428
86 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

By the end of September 1956, Nunn provided construction drawings and full blueprints to finalize contractual arrangements with Boller and Chivens in early October.429

And by the end of the year, Whipple expected the delivery of the first camera from Boller 

and Chivens in June 1957 and the optics from Perkin-Elmer a month later. He did not raise 

the question of how long it would take to integrate the two. Meanwhile, Hynek, along with 

McCrosky and Karl Henize, a young astronomer who had recently been hired, selected the 

sites for the first 10 stations around the world and installations were expected to commence 

soon after delivery (Figure 18).

The Stations

Along with the optics and the mounting, site selection for the network proved complex. There were intensive recruitment efforts to find and train observing staff who could 

be sent around the world to lead the stations, as well as extensive negotiations establishing 

the many sites on foreign territory. Geographical coverage was paramount, but there were 

also political sensitivities arising from the need to balance technical requirements standardizing the sites with accommodating the wide range of cultural and technical standards the 

host countries possessed.430 During the September 1956 meeting of the IGY in Barcelona, 

Whipple interviewed representatives from countries that had petitioned to host a station. 

Figure 18 Whipple, with Karl Henize and J. Allen Hynek, against a 

recording studio backdrop of their worldwide network of Baker-Nunn 

cameras. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 7.
Satellite Tracking • 87

He reported that they are “extremely enthusiastic and they are giving us a great deal of support, very real support.”431 The Smithsonian initially wanted to share control with countries 

that could meet their criteria for the operation. But when some of the selected countries 

failed to meet deadlines, Smithsonian management again questioned Whipple’s management skills. A station in Nainital, India, was especially worrisome owing to construction 

problems and jurisdictional confusion.432

Given the compressed time frame and the delays, there was no chance for prototype 

testing or even component testing. The cameras were effectively built en masse and “the first 

one completed had to work.” Boller and Chivens devoted over half of its resources to the 

project, and still had to subcontract out many of the larger components.433 Finally, months 

behind and ever slipping, the first Baker-Nunn was assembled for testing in the Boller and 

Chivens shops in September 1957 but was hardly ready to be demonstrated. This was weeks 

after the acrimonious review session in Carmichael’s offices, where Whipple was lambasted 

for failing to have an operational camera system on view before the IGY’s conference at the 

Academy in October.

Sputnik

If Keddy needed any more evidence that the satellite-tracking program was in trouble, 

he got it soon. The upcoming academy conference in late September and early October 

that was expecting to examine a Baker-Nunn camera was in fact the very meeting that 

ended with the news that America was not the first to go into space. At about 6:40 PM 

on 4 October 1957, Moscow radio announced that a Soviet satellite had been successfully 

launched. A few minutes later, a New York Times reporter reached Lloyd Berkner and 

other conference attendees at a cocktail party at the Soviet Embassy, and Berkner made 

the announcement to stunned silence. There was much finger-pointing, including some 

directed at the Smithsonian.434

September and early October 1957 had not been pleasant for Whipple, who faced 

“grueling” meetings and much criticism. Even before Sputnik, the “lean-faced, high-domed 

Fred Whipple lost his calm.” Trying to deflect the concerns of R. W. Porter, chair of the 

Satellite Panel on 3 October, Whipple asked why the fuss, since Vanguard itself was hardly 

ready and was behind schedule.435

The events of the evening of 4 October, however, forever changed the landscape; there 

are indeed multiple perspectives on what happened that night, and what it meant to the 

world, but the general agreement seems to be, for space scientists like Whipple, that Sputnik 

“drastically altered the debate” not only over the question of support for an American program, but also over the necessity of pursuing all options, from optical tracking to releasing 

the hold on Army Ordnance to prepare to orbit something.436

Whipple had already left Washington that afternoon and was headed back to 

Cambridge. By the time he reached his office, it was filled by SAO staff who had rushed 

back to work as the word spread. Immediately deluged by reporters asking for a statement, 

possibly his most memorable and revealing remark was to the Harvard Crimson: “It is a 
88 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

great achievement on the Russians’ part, and I commend them for it. We won the first round 

with the H-bomb; they won the second with the space satellite.”437

Whipple had been prepared for an event of this magnitude. He had already placed 

his staff “on alert” for any launch, by any nation. The Harvard Announcement Card telegram network got the word out rapidly. They had not yet installed a new teletype system, 

but they had telephone patches and the Moonwatch teams had been practicing for months 

and some had been practicing that night438 (Figure 19). The only Baker-Nunn in existence 

was still being tested at Boller and Chivens. It had been assembled for tests, and key components were found wanting, including the optics. Karl Henize was on site and wanted to 

put it together and start searching, but preliminary predictions from initial Moonwatch 

data told him that Sputnik would not be visible from Pasadena for more than a week439

(Figure 20).

Naturally, there were recriminations, and Whipple received his share. No matter, however, because Sputnik now gave people like Whipple, Porter, and literally everyone associated with the American satellite program an unassailable bully pulpit. At the fourteenth 

Figure 19 Another common configuration for Moonwatch observers. Each small telescope was 

equipped with a tiltable mirror to monitor a different portion of the station’s north-south meridian 

line. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 3.
Satellite Tracking • 89

meeting of the Technical Panel of Earth Satellites (TPESP) on 6 November 1957, all eyes 

were on Moonwatch. Hynek addressed the panel, “pointing out that it has developed into a 

more important operation than was intended or even thought of at the time.”440

Sputnik accelerated the installation of the Baker-Nunn stations as well as the search 

for any means to track the satellite. The TPESP called for all available tracking systems 

at American test ranges to track satellites with whatever they had at hand.441 For example, Porter pushed Hynek and Whipple to contact the Chief of Ordnance to transfer two 

small missile-tracking cameras with its essential personnel and appropriate gear to the 

Smithsonian stations at West Palm Beach and on the island of Curacao.442 But those closer 

to the action, such as Karl Henize, knew this would only cause confusion. He advised Hynek 

strongly that this would “involve a whole new order of policy making; personnel hiring, 

training, and scheduling; and general management in an organization which up to now has 

been hard pressed to properly administrate the installation of only one type of instrument, 

the Baker-Nunn Satellite Tracking Camera.” Porter also called for the India and Iran stations to be operational quickly, but both were far from ready.443

In the panic, Porter joined Keddy’s call that Whipple hire a “competent management consultant” to rectify operational weaknesses at SAO. When Whipple balked, 

saying no one was immediately available, Porter turned his request into a demand.444

Figure 20 The first operational 

Baker-Nunn being tested by Karl 

Henize in Pasadena at the Boller 

and Chivens plant. A Norman Time 

Standard Clock is in the background. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Image # 82-3366.
90 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

In desperation, Whipple tried to switch his Harvard-MIT-Lincoln Lab radio meteor program manager to the larger job, but the man abruptly resigned early in December.445

When Carmichael learned of this, he added his voice to the call and ordered Whipple to 

hire a clearly designated executive officer for the observatory. There had to be a secondin-command, especially after the Academy itself called for an IGY-wide management 

survey. Carmichael urged Whipple to comply, advising that “the selection of the right 

man for this position will relieve you of the tedious detailed administration which the 

Director should devolve on the second in command if he is to continue effectively in the 

scientific field.”446

In January 1958, Porter and his panel members feared that the SAO Baker-Nunns 

would not be available “in time for the bulk of even the earlier USA firings,” which now 

included two Jupiter C flights from the Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA) as well as 

the hoped-for Vanguards. Thus the TPESP, despite Henize’s concerns, called for a detailed 

“action plan” based on Porter’s request to have “loaned equipment expedited to key sites,” 

including USAF cinetheodolites sent to India, Iran, and Peru. Small missile telecameras 

from the U.S. Army facility at White Sands would be sent to Curacao and to Florida, and 

even some Super-Schmidt meteor cameras, contracted to the SAO by the USAF, would be 

sent to Argentina and Hawaii. This was an all-out effort to have a worldwide optical system 

in place by early February 1958.447

But who would be in charge of this system? Would the SAO maintain the lead? Setting 

up the system; equipping each station with adapted makeshift cameras, keeping the data 

flowing from and between Moonwatch networks; and keeping all lines of communication 

open between the observers and the SAO’s computation center, the radio networks, and 

the stakeholders in the Army, Navy, and the National Academy of Sciences (NAS) was a 

nightmare. There were hassles establishing a working relationship within the Smithsonian 

between the SAO public information unit and its lead office in Washington, as well as keeping the lines of budget authority straight.448

Finally, but only after Odishaw and his U.S. National Committee (USNC) for the IGY 

authorized additional funds, Whipple acquiesced and engaged a management consultant 

recommended by Porter. Carmichael was relieved, assuring Porter, Odishaw, and the panel 

that the Smithsonian was actively seeking and was now developing “more and more effective administrative procedures.” But these were unprecedented challenges, and a competent 

consultant was needed to survey the organization, ascertain its strengths and weaknesses, 

and recommend improvements to ensure greater economy and efficiency in the operation 

of the SAO, particularly the optical tracking of satellites.449 Perceptively, Carmichael asked 

that the consultant’s study also include “sufficient time for a personnel study in Washington 

on the contribution made to the administration of the Astrophysical Observatory by our 

officers here.”450 The review began on the very day, ironically, that President Eisenhower’s 

office telegrammed congratulations to the SAO for being designated the central nervous 

system for satellite communications. That endorsement, and the management report 

delivered by the consultant later in April, may have lifted spirits. But the system still had 

to work.451
Satellite Tracking • 91

Achieving Operational Status

Amid a constant stream of speaking engagements and dealings with Keddy and 

Odishaw, who Whipple classed together in less-than-complimentary terms, by March 1958 

Whipple started feeling that he was making some headway through the National Academy 

Foreign Affairs offices and other agencies concerned with foreign relations. A big step came 

when he and Hynek clarified policy on the amount of “self-determination” the satellitetracking stations would enjoy overseas.452 Writing to McCrosky, then in Hawaii valiantly 

rendering a newly arrived Super-Schmidt useful while continuing to oversee the computational efforts, Whipple rejoiced,

The acceleration in the satellite-tracking stations program is simply terrific. The 

pressures are almost too much to bear but the results I think will be satisfactory. The 

third optical system appears to be practically as good as Jim Baker hoped for!!! I will 

be out in Pasadena to check over this one before it goes on its way.453

Beset by all the pressures, Whipple missed having McCrosky in the office next door to 

commiserate. More than once, Whipple wrote to thank McCrosky for his help with tracking, but added: “Life is rather dull without meteors next door. After all, they really are my 

heart’s blood, and progress in these directions seems somehow more important than some 

other types of progress.”454 Once the Baker-Nunns were delivered and their quality hailed, 

Whipple’s spirit improved. There were continuing skirmishes with Keddy and Carmichael, 

but none as difficult as those in June/July 1956 and August 1957, though the effects were 

still lingering.

Throughout spring 1958, with the overseas stations established and relationships 

warming with the locals, Karl Henize reported to the NAS and the State Department that 

“political feelings have subsided and we can now continue with our scientific program.”455

His station managers in India and Iran reported that the latest optical systems were giving 

“unprecedented performance;” some 80 percent of the light was falling within a 25 micron 

image.

Next to Whipple, no one could have been more gratified than James Baker. Baker 

wrote to Richard S. Perkin in May praising “yourself and the Smithsonian staff too” for 

having faith in his design, in spite of the many well-intentioned doubters.456 Whipple more 

than confirmed Baker’s triumph, reporting soon that the Air Force is going to “buy a number of them now we have demonstrated that they are the best way of tracking faint earth 

satellites.”457

By the summer 1958, one dozen Baker-Nunn stations were operational around the 

world, staffed by varying mixtures of Americans and locals, and Whipple was becoming a 

household name (Figure 21). Because there were as yet hardly a half-dozen satellites to track, 

although all were highly newsworthy, the system, including the tracking, communications, 

computation, and analysis sections, was able to return critical information even though 

technical problems remained and bugs were still being tracked down and squashed.458
92 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Figure 21 A page from Parade, highlighting Whipple home life in June 1958. Note the 

padlock on the filing cabinet. Courtesy Parade.
Satellite Tracking • 93

Even before the Baker-Nunn network was complete, the Smithsonian’s Moonwatch 

teams were providing a constant flow of data to help direct interim cameras. They produced the earliest knowledge of the behavior of the satellites and hence the first hints of 

the nature of the high atmosphere and the varying gravitational potential of Earth. By 

October 1957 there were about 150 Moonwatch groups officially activated around the 

world and staffed by thousands of volunteers.459 The SAO had succeeded in establishing 

its command center for communications, computation, and analysis by the end of the 

year as well, and, most critically, Whipple and Hynek established the policy, celebrated 

by Nelson Hayes and his cohorts in the SAO’s public affairs office, that “no question 

would go unanswered if the answer could be found.” In the end, certainly also due to 

the efforts of Hayes’s staff, the public came to know the Smithsonian through Whipple’s 

open-door policy to the media. In December 1957, a vice president of the venerable 

Shawmut Bank in Boston wrote Whipple: “Since [S]putnik, you and Dr. Hynek have 

been interpreting the astrophysical world to the people through the media of press, 

radio and television.”460

In late April through early May 1958, the first solid results were aired at meetings of the 

American Geophysical Union and in publications soon thereafter. Although overshadowed 

by James Van Allen’s announcement of the existence of a belt of trapped particle radiation 

around Earth, based upon his team’s cosmic-ray counters on Explorer I and Explorer III, 

Sterne, in collaboration with Gerhard Schilling and Luigi Jacchia, presented revised formulae for determining atmospheric densities from Earth satellites and used them to make 

some preliminary conclusions about the density profile of the high atmosphere, noting carefully that the reliability of the results could be compromised by ionization effects and the 

non-spherical shape of Explorer. The densities were also far higher than those determined 

from rocketsonde ionization measurements and were also higher than the Air Research and 

Development Command’s standard atmospheric tables. Sterne suggested that the ARDC 

tables required revision.461

Jacchia (Figure 22) concentrated on anomalies in the motion of Vanguard I, showing 

they were similar to those seen for Sputnik I and Explorer I. From this, he concluded that 

they were not due to the non-spherical shapes of the latter two, but were caused by 27-day 

density oscillations in Earth’s upper atmosphere, possibly linked to the Sun’s rotation and 

to the orientation of the satellite’s orbit with respect to the Sun. Most significant, Jacchia 

and his team, including Naval Research Laboratory (NRL) staff and SAO members George 

Veis and Stephen Maran, ferreted out secular accelerations and sporadic fluctuations of the 

satellites’ motions caused by terrestrial atmospheric changes induced by solar phenomena 

like flares.462

Along with their atmospheric work, Jacchia, with Veis and Sterne, also developed 

techniques to derive Earth’s gravitational potential. Jacchia’s first results were based on data 

organized and published very rapidly by the Royal Aircraft Establishment at Farnborough, 

which had been gathering in all observations, optical, visual, and radio, of the Russian as 

well as the American satellites. They used these observations to show how the orbit of the 

satellite changed over time, specifically, how the point in its orbit that crossed Earth’s equator drifted in space and time. And then they equated these secular changes to derive the 
94 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

shape of Earth and how it differed from the ideal case of a rotationally flattened ellipsoid. 

They were able to separate perturbations by the atmosphere from those caused by Earth’s 

shape, because the former were a-periodic and the latter periodic.463

Establishing Institutional Identity

The SAO’s press office was already issuing a rapid and continuous flow of “special 

reports,” keeping track of the new satellites. These reports had to be reviewed by Carmichael’s 

office, which became perfunctory for technical works. But Carmichael did insist that popular articles, like one Whipple sent to the Saturday Evening Post titled “Eyes in Space,” carry 

only his Smithsonian affiliation, and not Harvard’s. Whipple coyly resisted, reminding 

Carmichael that “only a few months ago . . . you were asking me to avoid mention of the 

Smithsonian with regard to my public relations.”464

Carmichael insisted on a clear institutional identity for the work of the Astrophysical 

Observatory. He was reacting in part to the recently commissioned management study by 

the firm of Bigelow, Kent, Willard & Company of Boston. Its “Administrative Analysis of the 

Optical Satellite Tracking Program” evaluated organizational structure and administrative 

methods at the SAO as well as in Washington.465

The so-called Willard Report recognized that Sputnik had accelerated what had been 

a “carefully calculated timetable” into a “crash” program.466 It celebrated the “extraordinary 

enthusiasm” of the staff, which deserved “a great deal of credit for the work accomplished 

to date.” It put a positive spin on the Baker-Nunn history, happy that by February 1958 

Figure 22 Luigi Jacchia. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Acc. 16-263, Box 7.
Satellite Tracking • 95

at least four of them had passed muster. While it lauded the technical side of the enterprise, 

it singled out what was “a potentially unstable administrative situation” owing to the crash 

nature of the program that threatened the long-term health of the SAO. Identifying only 

“external forces beyond the control of the Observatory” as the cause for this instability, 

the report recommended, first and foremost, that “lines of responsibility, authority, and 

communication between Washington and Cambridge . . . be re-defined and clearly spelled 

out in writing.”467 Next, the study recommended that the observatory establish long-term 

goals and an organizational structure to meet these goals. Finally, operating procedures in 

finance and communications needed overhaul, and had to be placed in writing, giving the 

director and his “immediate Executive staff . . . greater, more positive, and more accurate 

control of the Observatory’s operations.”468

Whipple resisted any suggestion of more shared authority with the central Smithsonian. 

However, deeper in the details, he found bright spots. The Willard Report identified multiple and redundant levels of review, and some were even conflicting. It just made no 

sense that the administrative officer at SAO had to approve “all matters passing between 

Cambridge and Washington, in either direction.”469 It made more sense to change this office 

to “special assistant, Washington Affairs” to focus “on all matters requiring a special knowledge of Federal or Smithsonian regulations and policies.” A newly defined executive officer 

and assistant, reporting to Whipple, would decide which requests needed attention from 

Washington, and which could be handled internally in Cambridge. The trivial matters that 

had clogged operations, such as travel orders and approvals to make long-distance phone 

calls, would be at the discretion of decision makers and budget staff in Cambridge. Local 

authority would suffice for hirings of clerical and technical staff and minor contracting, 

depending on which funding lines were being tapped.470

Willard analysts gathered evidence from staff testimony. Gerhard F. Schilling, recently 

hired away from the National Academy’s IGY staff as executive assistant, felt that Whipple 

was trying to formalize institutional structure.471 But others testified that there was more 

structure inferred on the organization charts than actually existed.472 The Satellite Tracking 

Program did have an executive officer, but the position was vacant during the review. The 

Willard Report recommended that the SAO director report directly to the office of the 

Smithsonian secretary, and that the rest of the organization report to Whipple through 

an executive officer (EO). The EO would also direct a full and relatively autonomous 

“Administrative Service Section,” empowered to perform triage without burdening the 

director’s office. Another equally significant change was to separate the Satellite Tracking 

Program from what would now be called the Upper Atmosphere Studies division. But 

both would report to the same associate director, Hynek, and Hynek would now enjoy the 

backup of a second executive officer to manage the tracking program itself. There would 

also be administrative assistants in each of the tracking subdivisions.

Willard analysts also noted the unending flood of public inquiries, from the media, 

from individuals, and especially from the members of Moonwatch. Of course, they were 

making the study at the worst possible time, the very month that “1958 Alpha,” or Explorer I, 

was in orbit after launch on 31 January. They calculated that the time staff spent taking 

phone calls alone amounted to 1.5 labor years. Concerned that this necessary activity, if not 
96 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

managed, would lead to an overworked and irritated staff that might dispense information 

improperly, the report recommended steps that would prevent damaging “the reputation of 

the Observatory.”473 Those steps meant: more staff.

But the Willard Report also recommended that Whipple delegate more and limit his 

number of direct reports, making lines of authority clearer. It found that job descriptions 

did not accurately reflect roles and responsibilities and how each impacted others above 

and below. Supervisory ground rules were too loose and ill defined. Staff members were 

certainly enthusiastic for the job at hand, but Willard analysts sensed that “this enthusiasm 

is due largely to the nature of the work rather than the surrounding conditions under which 

the work is performed.”474 This was a very unstable condition and made long-range planning and stability unlikely. In the long run, it would lead to “ineffectual performance and 

the gradual deterioration of organizational morale.”475

Most critically, “operating methods and procedures” in finance needed to be “completely re-worked.” Accounting and bookkeeping reviews were too infrequent, and there 

were too many cases in which the numbers differed between Cambridge and Washington. 

The Willard Report observed darkly that it was “quite apparent that this lack of control has 

created doubts at the Washington level regarding the total of administrative capabilities in 

Cambridge.” Even with these “doubts,” however, the Willard Report did not condemn, as 

Keddy had urged, “an entire barrel on the basis of a few bad apples.” There was certainly a 

lack of control, but applying the term poor administrators to the entire SAO executive hierarchy was “wholly unjustified.”476

The Willard Report did not try to rationalize how, why, or where the observatory existed, as a bureau of the Smithsonian or as a department of the Harvard College 

Observatory. It did recognize that the service and science functions of the institution had 

to be administered separately, or at least distinctly, and reported independently. Indeed, 

the National Science Foundation (NSF) regarded support for tracking as a service function 

and the upper atmosphere work as a research function.477 It also did not examine relations 

with Harvard and how that relationship factored in the growth of the institution. Whipple 

knew he had to walk a delicate line between the institutions he served. The incident over 

institutional identity with his Saturday Evening Post essay was symptomatic. So was his 

address to Harvard alumni in Boston in late December 1957, noted in the Introduction to 

this book. There were, indeed, complementarities between Harvard and Smithsonian interests, but there were also discordances, not the least what Harvard would do with an SAO 

permanently in residence, constantly redefining and extending the boundaries of scientific 

opportunism stimulated by Sputnik.

The End of the IGY, Transitioning to NASA Support, 

and the Rise of James Bradley

Sputnik created pressures for some form of “national space establishment,” which led 

ultimately to a bill signed by Eisenhower in July and the creation of NASA in October 

1958.478 As NASA grew by acquiring older institutions in military and government spheres, 
Satellite Tracking • 97

to obtain the wide range of talents and properties required to execute a national space program, there was a question about what role academic institutions would play, to say nothing 

of what was still, technically, a quasi-governmental entity like the SAO.

During the last months of 1957 and through spring 1958, stakeholders followed 

the deliberations over what would become NASA. On various occasions and in various capacities, Whipple was asked to state his case for, first, what this national space 

establishment should look like (see the next chapter), and then, with NASA established, 

argue for the SAO’s retention of optical satellite-tracking functions. He did the latter 

successfully, but not the former. Showing political savvy, he finally strongly endorsed 

the bill that would authorize the creation of NASA. Carmichael relayed Whipple’s 

endorsement to Congress not only in his capacity of secretary, but also as vice chairman 

of the National Advisory Committee for Aeronautics, the foundation NASA would be 

built on.479

In December 1958, Odishaw informed Carmichael that additional funds Smithsonian 

had requested for the coming years would be partly provided by the NSF and the balance 

by the new NASA.480 NASA thereafter assumed fiscal responsibility from the NSF for the 

Smithsonian’s satellite-tracking programs. Moonwatch remained active, though the initial 

excitement waned along with the workforce. Those who continued through the 1960s substantially improved their techniques, precision, and productivity.481 The Baker-Nunn stations, in contrast, increased their staffing and constantly improved instrumentation in the 

NASA years. Initially, with the end of the IGY, there was “a sense of insecurity among the 

personnel” at the SAO stations over the future of the program.482 Whipple darkly appreciated that the emergence of a new federal institution meant a renegotiation of territory and 

a juggling of power relations.

Publically, Whipple never gave any hints that the program would not continue. 

Throughout 1957 and well into 1958, as he and Menzel constantly plied Harvard alumni to 

fund a dedicated administration and laboratory building as a visible laboratory for space 

research, Whipple highlighted the SAO’s satellite tracking, so critical in the ongoing competition between the United States and the USSR.483 The federal government would support 

programming and staff, but he hoped Harvard alumni and friends would build the facilities that would house them. Whipple envisioned brick and mortar to house activities well 

beyond tracking, including the development of a centralized capability for designing, building, and testing Earth satellites, and then operating them once in orbit. Case in point was 

the space telescope he, Hynek, Davis, and others on the staff were then proposing directly 

to Army Ordnance, prior to NASA’s emergence: what would become Project Celescope 

at NASA.

There were indeed transitional glitches, and so Carmichael’s newly designated assistant secretary for management, James Bradley (Figure 23), soon became critical in helping Whipple through the process. Bradley distinguished himself as an unusually adept and 

capable administrator. He had been a civil engineer, had valuable experience and insights 

working in the Bureau of the Budget, and had spent six years as administrative assistant to 

the assistant secretary of the interior. He proactively kept Whipple informed of all actions, 

assuring him that the Smithsonian was positively engaging the new NASA administration.484
98 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Bradley quickly won Whipple’s confidence, making it clear that he appreciated the fact that 

even if the tracking waned someday, there was still the question of continuing support 

for “post-observational projects,” namely, reduction and analysis.485 For the present, however, tracking operations dominated, and keeping them operational and having new staff 

and new equipment for faster and more efficient on-site reduction and analysis were both 

paramount.486

Bradley also helped to stabilize relations with the press, and, most of all, with Congress. 

Hynek got into hot water again after being quoted by the Washington Post in early March 

1959, saying that if the Air Force had been more forthcoming about a recently launched 

Discoverer satellite it might have been tracked optically by the Baker-Nunn network. 

Discoverer had been in the news because its radio signals were not immediately detected 

after launch and when they were, they were erratic, caused most likely by tumbling. Hynek’s 

remarks provided fuel for the reporter to call for a “unified program” in tracking these 

things, even if they were classified programs, as was Discoverer. “The reasons for suspicion 

and misgivings are many,” the reporter went on, stirring the pot, given that “certain space 

projects dealing with communications, navigation and weather had been assigned to the 

military” but now parallel responsibilities were being considered for NASA. This could have 

led to a “serious and crippling splintering of the American space program,” the reporter 

claimed, and it had to be stopped before the “vested interests” of NASA and the Pentagon 

became any more entrenched.487

Bradley, acting to reduce confusion within the Smithsonian, advised Whipple that 

it was not wise to criticize another government agency and then equally quickly assured 

Figure 23 Leonard Carmichael and Assistant Secretary James 

C. Bradley, ca. 1959. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Image 

# 84-13887.
Satellite Tracking • 99

Carmichael that “Dr. Whipple was quite understanding of your viewpoint and agreed with it 

readily.” He confirmed that Hynek’s statements were factual; the Air Force’s SPACETRACK 

had not provided prior information on the launch, the expected orbit, or initial tracking. 

Still, Bradley also assured Carmichael, Whipple appreciated that Hynek should not have 

spoken to the press in this manner, and also added that “all concerned [at the SAO] had 

learned a lesson from this incident.” Bradley also reduced tensions by having Hynek assure 

the House Committee on Science and Astronautics on 12 March that it was all only a simple 

misunderstanding.488

Unlike Keddy or Graf, Bradley made real headway rectifying the administrative problems Whipple faced. He convinced Whipple of their practical necessity, assured him that it 

would not weaken his autonomy, and then provided Smithsonian slots for SAO administrative personnel. Bradley was Whipple’s strongest ally in Washington, helping him, Whipple 

recalled, to “get the basic support out of the congressional budget instead of out of the 

grants.” Whipple had been working successfully, using what he termed his “brinksmanship principle” wherein “we would finance the entire administration and support activities 

through the grants and hire the scientists and their support direct on the congressional 

appropriation.” And as grants got more competitive and money scarcer, Bradley knew how 

to make the Smithsonian more attractive for funding, helping Whipple secure access to 

more federal slots. With Bradley’s help, Whipple found he could get better people if he 

offered permanent civil service positions rather than finite contracts. So the relationship 

really started to click by the early 1960s.489

Bradley also succeeded in aligning the observatory’s management procedures (“personnel, supply, fiscal, accounting, auditing, contract negotiating, overhead”) with those of 

the central Smithsonian. He had managers from Washington train the staff in Cambridge, 

and then reversed the seminar, inviting Cambridge staff to be in residence in Washington. 

He promoted this “interchange on the administrative side in order to bring the fledgling 

organization into an understanding of Federal processes.”490

It was indeed fortunate that Bradley appeared just as the animosity between Keddy 

and Whipple was peaking and further when the management consultants delivered their 

report in April 1959. Feeling frustrated and abused by the intense scrutiny of his management style from Carmichael’s staff, Whipple drafted a letter in which he resigned his post. It 

was never sent, but hints at Whipple’s state of mind.491 There was further relief when Keddy, 

69 years old, announced his planned retirement from the Smithsonian in 1960. Bradley 

replaced him.

Whipple’s first full-time business manager was Carlton “Carl” W. Tillinghast, an MIT 

graduate in nuclear engineering who had worked at Pratt and Whitney, served in the Navy, 

and spent two years as a research engineer at the Mitre Corporation in project management. 

He came to the SAO in 1959 to administer the computational division of some 30 staff, and 

within the year Whipple saw his talent and made him assistant director for management. As 

Richard McCrosky happily recalled, this was a most rational decision: “Anyone who treated 

me the way Fred treated me certainly needed a business manager.”492 McCrosky was happy 

enough being left alone, but knew that some management, especially accountability, was 

required.
100 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Whipple’s hesitation to hire purely management personnel in the early years was, 

he later claimed, partly a problem of achieving adequate support. But his resistance went 

deeper. When R. W. Porter had pestered him to find a management consultant for the 

Baker-Nunn fiasco, Whipple marked the passage of his letter with five dark lines and a 

question mark, scribbling in the margin, “How does he get that way?”493 Similarly, calls 

from Keddy and Carmichael for establishing a management structure did not bring with 

them funding or slots at first. As Whipple recalled, “The federal funds paid practically 

nothing for administration. I always got that out of grants and contracts.”494 Increased support for management, first from Odishaw, and then from Bradley, slowly changed this situation, and once NASA was on the scene, project and program management dominated, 

but they were paid for.

The First Years of the Satellite-Tracking 

Program: “Big Science”

In a letter to his staff on the first anniversary of Sputnik, Hynek recalled the saga 

of 4 October in dramatic detail. On that fateful evening, Harvard and Smithsonian staff 

rushed back to their offices and pitched in selflessly. Charles Whitney, Mac McCrosky, Ted 

Sterne, Gerhard Schilling, Luigi Jacchia, and others joined Hynek and his staff to execute 

contingency plans created months prior by Henize and Leon Campbell. Babette Whipple 

and other wives supplied coffee and sandwiches over the next several days, as John White 

commandeered offices, telephones, and staff to create a press room capable of handling the 

reporters who were knocking on the SAO’s door. C. M. “Chief ” Peterson built a “worldwide nerve center focused in one room on the second floor of Kittredge” across the street, 

and led a staff that since then had handled, by October 1958, some 5 million words of text 

reporting on the data from some 535 Baker-Nunn photographs guided by 6,784 reports 

from Moonwatch teams. “Those were stormy days on the technical sea,” Hynek recalled. 

“Both the ship and crew came through—but not unscathed.” Hynek rejoiced that what 

started out as “cut and try . . . was now perfectly routine” and ended his pitch with a promise: “If it moves we’ll track it”495 (Figure 24).

Within the year, Hynek’s staff had grown from 37 people to more than 100. It’s the 

growth of the institution because of the satellite tracking that bears notice here, and how 

the “crash” program mentality of the first years eventually stabilized into a long-term operational view. Whipple was creating new lines of investigation or reviving older lines of interest constantly. James Bradley described the growth in February 1959, poignantly reminding 

a NASA Procurement and Supply Division official that they were covering “the reduction 

and analysis of low velocity meteors, whose velocities approach those of man-made missiles.” He also outlined the project to build an astronomical space telescope and Hynek’s 

study of stellar scintillation from piloted and robotic balloons, which involved the “activation of the ‘Cat Eye’ project for the detection, tracking, and recording, by electronic means, 

of celestial light sources.”496
Satellite Tracking • 101

By the end of 1958, there were 129 people employed at the SAO, still variously called 

the Smithsonian Institution Astrophysical Observatory but more and more frequently the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory. There were 16 “research professionals,” 27 “supporting professionals,” 38 “technical aides,” and 48 in “administration.”497 By far the majority 

of staff were either employed directly in satellite tracking or were involved in areas (upper 

atmosphere research, meteoritics, geodesy) that depended on the data flow.

In October, Whipple revived his campaign to establish a distinct, permanent physical space for his empire. He appealed to Dean Bundy, describing the “symbiotic relationship” that had developed between Harvard and the Smithsonian. That relationship had 

now matured sufficiently, he claimed, to “visualize the course of the future with some certainty.” Invoking Joseph Henry, Whipple asserted that the Smithsonian initiated new lines 

of research and developed them to the point they were operational, but then turned them 

over to others rather than “be caught in the trap of continuing work in a scientific area 

once its basic nature had been well explored.” Ignoring the fact that the 60 years of Abbot’s 

APO hardly fit this model, Whipple stated only that “changes in the practice of research 

[that] have occurred in the last few decades” had extended the scope of the enterprise 

such that the “structure of the fully completed programs may, literally, encompass the 

Figure 24 Janice Turner and Chief (Charles M.) Peterson in the satellite-tracking 

communications center, ca. 1958. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 8.
102 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

globe, particularly when the research concerns astronomy, geophysics and the space sciences.”498 The message Whipple drove home was that

research projects on this more massive scale now [seem] the best possible approach 

to finding the answers to the new problems posed by modern science, because the 

methodology requires the combined help of so many diverse science and techniques. 

Thus a large organization is now necessary to provide the modern equivalent of the 

small laboratory only a decade or two ago.499

This was Whipple’s blueprint for the SAO, clearly an expression of what historians call 

“Big Science.”500 Whipple’s vision included many complex institutional phenomena such 

as the scale of the enterprise, the importance of coordinated goals, and the control of the 

research that is done. In Peter Galison’s words, the “‘big’ in big science connotes expansion 

on many axes”: geographic, economic, multi-disciplinary, and multi-national.501 Nowhere 

were these facets more apparent than in the satellite-tracking program, nicely illustrated by 

an SAO staffer’s attempt to illustrate the connectedness of multiple tracking stations with 

satellites overhead with drinking straws (Figure 25).

Indeed, the new SAO was made possible by a new kind of service function that aligned 

with national needs and priorities. This new means of life support was very much welcomed 

by both institutions. In November 1958, Menzel took pains to explain to Bundy just how 

the Smithsonian has “come to our rescue,” providing staffing for a wide range of Harvard 

functions from research to teaching to administrative infrastructure.502 The Smithsonian, 

and satellite tracking, were, in Menzel’s mind, at Harvard to stay.

Figure 25 SAO staffers used bent drinking straws to visualize how satellites 

could be simultaneously “seen” by two or more tracking stations on a Mercator 

map of the world. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 2.
Satellite Tracking • 103

For instance, when the first NASA administrator, T. Keith Glennan, faced the House 

Committee on Science and Astronautics in 1960, he singled out satellite tracking as a bright 

spot in NASA’s efforts toward international cooperation, because “agreements with several nations have been negotiated covering the installation, manning, and use of tracking 

and data acquisition equipment.” He celebrated the fact that “our policy of frankness and 

our adherence to the tradition and well-understood policy of prompt disclosure of scientific results is building good will throughout the world.”503 The satellite-tracking program 

continued throughout Whipple’s tenure in the 1960s and early 1970s, bringing Whipple 

notoriety and personal acclaim (Figure 26). Although Hynek had referred to it happily as 

“perfectly routine” in October 1958, he did so only to convince the Bureau of the Budget 

and other critics that the Smithsonian was well organized. However, as the techniques stabilized, they were also constantly refined, just as the optical network was constantly repaired 

and upgraded with the addition of laser-based tracking in the late 1960s, which kept the 

program effective and competitive. Moreover, once stabilized, the tracking did far more 

Figure 26 The family gathers at the White House in June 1963 to celebrate Fred Whipple’s 

“Distinguished Federal Civilian Award.” (L to R ) Earle Whipple, Carmichael, Whipple, Laura Whipple, 

Babette Whipple, Harry Lawrence Whipple, Sandra Whipple, Celestia Whipple. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 8.
104 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

than provide improved ephemerides. Smithsonian staff would soon employ the data to 

improve geodetic knowledge, laboring to establish, in true Smithsonian fashion, what came 

to be known as the “Smithsonian Standard Earth.” The orbital data were also employed to 

improve knowledge of the upper atmosphere, again leading to another large SAO initiative 

to upgrade and extend the “standard atmosphere.”

In the 1960s, these two areas remained very competitive and institutionally profitable, given that they were both critical to ballistic missile operations. But SAO was periodically challenged by other organizations eager to assume larger roles in this lucrative 

service function. There were also concerns over the classification of this type of knowledge, 

and by the end of the decade, concerns over relevancy of such functions for what was an 

astrophysical observatory. Satellite tracking stood alone as a purely Smithsonian activity 

in what was otherwise a growing effort to combine interests and expertise in a stronger 

Harvard-Smithsonian relationship. Throughout Whipple’s tenure, satellite tracking was 

central to the continued relationship between Harvard and the Smithsonian, given that its 

overhead helped to sustain much of the operations of the two observatories. This was not 

an explicit issue until Menzel retired and was replaced by Leo Goldberg as director in 1964. 

But before we cover that transition, we turn to the parallel paths Whipple chose for building 

his institution.
105

Chapter 7

Organizing for Space Research504

On 4 February 1958, just days after Explorer I was launched and declared fully operational, Whipple excitedly called a group of Harvard and Smithsonian astronomers into 

the classroom in Building A of the Harvard College Observatory for an all-day meeting to 

explore the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory’s (SAO) further involvement with satellites.505 The SAO was already heavily involved, of course; its networks of Moonwatch teams 

were valiantly catching Explorer and the Sputniks in flight and feeding the information to 

the SAO’s nascent data processing centers. And the SAO’s promised optical-tracking network was still embarrassingly months away from full operation. Even so, Whipple wanted a 

bigger piece of the space pie. The question was, what to do?

What to Do?

Donald Menzel and Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin joined Whipple and about a dozen 

SAO senior staffers including Hynek, Sterne, and Schilling, as well as junior staff members 

such as Robert Davis. Davis was by then completing a thesis in radio astronomy under 

Bok. Whipple asked all of them to consider how the SAO and Harvard could get involved 

designing, building, and flying scientific instruments on satellites and how they could organize to track the satellites, receive the data streams, process the data, and publish it as new 

knowledge. Whipple cast his net wide, hoping to gather in as many ideas as possible and 

find affinities among his staff. His asked them to form special interest groups and report 

back in a few weeks.

The sense of the meeting, as Davis recorded, was that “we are looking forward to a real 

space platform.”506 Whipple’s burgeoning SAO staff had expertise in geodesy, as well as in 

meteoritics, cosmic rays, the outer atmosphere, and meteorology. But the Harvard astronomers gathered by Whipple were also interested in the Sun and stars, as well as galactic 

structure. They generally agreed to stay out of the competitive fields of meteorology and 

space medicine. They were certainly strong in geodesy, but Whipple urged them to think 

further. He drew tables on the blackboard organizing possible problem areas into categories where their combined talents possessed either “a certain degree of proficiency”; some 

proficiency; or, most important, where “we have an operational advantage as of the present 

moment.”507

The group agreed that they would start with a “small space platform” and then work 

toward a “big space platform.” They knew that the Russians had already orbited a 1 ton 
106 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

satellite “and more will undoubtedly follow quickly from both the U.S. and Russia.” But 

they sensed that it would be years before anything large could be done, so they should plan 

for a step-wise developmental program that included the creation of a university-based 

infrastructure for the payloads and even the satellites, fed by government contracts. Among 

many suggestions, Davis recorded that “we will concentrate most on the space telescope, 

since the people with the most proficiency in this field are astronomers: it is the field that 

is most apt to be neglected if the astronomers keep quiet.”508 Sometime after the meeting, 

however, Payne-Gaposchkin cautioned everyone that “a Telescope in Space” was not “effectively related to the program of astronomy” at Harvard, although, she added emphatically, 

it is a “scientific must.”509

The group organized into teams to explore some 13 overlapping problem areas, and 

reconvened on 25 February. The largest team, Payne-Gaposchkin, Whitney, Hynek, and 

Davis, pondered the space telescope. Others focused on spectroscopy (Payne-Gaposchkin, 

Hynek); corpuscular and cosmic radiation (Fireman and Krook); solar, stellar, and planetary atmospheres (Menzel); the Moon (Schilling and Rinehart); magnetic fields (Krook, 

Schilling, and Layzer); space navigation (Sterne); image tubes (Hynek); and meteoritics 

(Rinehart).510 Davis once again was the recorder and most of the original group appeared, 

as well as a few new onlookers, like Tom Gold. They all were given time to speak and two 

studies were circulated prior to the meeting: “Studies of Lunar Planetology” and “A SatelliteBased Astronomical Telescope.”

They debated all aspects of a satellite system—the housing, stabilization, telemetry, 

and ground stations—and decided that TV techniques were essential for pointing, setting 

on the object, and focusing. They were well aware that Martin Schwarzschild of Princeton 

was “building a television system for his future balloon flights, [even though] he has a much 

simpler recovery problem.” Davis added, echoing Hynek, “that we should put all our eggs 

into the television basket,” adding that “present experimentation with photoconductive 

image tubes looks very hopeful.” No one on the staff had any particular history or expertise with TV systems, however, but Davis knew that Whipple, and especially Hynek, had 

been aware of the decade-long effort by the Air Force’s Aeronautical Research Laboratory’s 

Project Cat Eye and the progress they had made creating a system that could amplify light 

“over twenty billion times” as well as suppress sky brightness.511 Hynek agreed to manage 

the project, leaving the detail work for Davis.

Cat Eye was the stimulus that convinced Whipple, Hynek, and Davis to look closely 

at image-tube technology. The German scientist Radames K. H. Gebel, who worked at 

Zeiss-Ikon during the war on optical control systems, was brought to the United States 

under Project Paperclip, and by the early 1950s was leading research projects at the 

Wright-Patterson Air Force Base under this code name. He was a passionate promoter 

of image-tube technology who was claiming some astounding successes.512 In November 

1956, Gebel’s superiors had contacted Whipple about using the device for satellite tracking. The beauty of the system was that it could suppress sky brightness and so promised the 

ability to see objects during the day as well as at night.513 Whipple and Hynek joined Major 

David G. Simons, chief of the Air Force Space Biology Branch of the Aero Medical Field 

Laboratory at Holloman AFB, to find ways to apply Cat Eye. Simons was a strong advocate 
Organizing for Space Research • 107

for balloon platforms as staging grounds to train humans for spaceflight. In November 

1957, they met in Cambridge to discuss plans to make balloon-borne observations of stars 

and together they hatched a scheme to employ an f/4, 8-inch, off-axis paraboloid to feed 

a Cat Eye system to perform, in Simons’s words “precision observations from space type 

vehicles.” The tests would be done initially by a manned balloonsonde system flown up 

to 30,000 feet. The Cat Eye would be pointed to bright stars by the balloonist, and would 

provide sufficient sensitivity to track scintillation patterns in stars as well as suppress sky 

background.514

Hynek obtained a version of the Cat Eye image-orthicon made by General Electric 

that used RCA electronics. He attached it to a 10-inch Baker cinetheodolite mounted at 

one of the Smithsonian’s stations at Organ Pass, New Mexico. In his tests, he found that 

the purported amplification factors were wild overestimates; what had appeared to be a 

500 times increase in sensitivity over standard Kodak 103aO emulsions was due to “the 

phenomenon of memory” affecting the image orthicon. It was not true latent information accumulated over time, and so “real results” were estimated to be about 30 times, and 

useful amplification only in the range of 10 times. Still, this was promising; Hynek and his 

co-authors, including William A. Baum from Mount Wilson, were confident they could 

achieve at least a 100-fold increase in amplification.515 Their optimism for the new radical 

technology led Whipple and his staff to adopt an image tube for their space telescope, what 

became “Celescope.”

By spring 1958, SAO staff coalesced around a small space telescope for measuring the 

ultraviolet brightnesses of stars. It was similar to Hynek’s payload for the Simons’ balloon. 

In June Whipple wrote to Hugh Dryden at the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics 

(NACA) outlining their plan, and Dryden expressed interest. By 1 July, after contact with 

William H. Pickering at the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), Whipple and Davis sent a formal proposal to the ABMA to support a feasibility study for a small orbiting telescope that 

would secure, in the simplest way possible, ultraviolet brightnesses of bright stars. Their 

goal was to extend knowledge of stellar spectral energy distributions to better calibrate 

bolometric data acquired from ground-based telescopes.

Why an Ultraviolet Map? Why Robert Davis?

This was a useful goal, but it was not a part of Whipple’s primary research agenda apart 

from his interest in spaceflight. However, he had long been thinking about what might best 

be done with first-generation satellites. In 1956 he had asked Davis to construct a map of 

the sky in the ultraviolet, specifically at 1,249 ångströms, near Lyman Alpha. Assuming 

stars behaved like ideal “black bodies” according to Planck’s energy distribution law, Davis 

calculated what the brightnesses of selected stars should be, trying to account for interstellar absorption and reddening. He generated a list of 218 bright stars he hoped “should 

prove valuable in the selection of the most interesting regions for study when extraterrestrial photometry of high resolution, either from rockets or from artificial satellites, becomes 

possible.”516
108 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Davis was already familiar with photographic photometry techniques from Harvard 

classes and also had extensive practical training and experience in electronics from his military work, securing top secret clearances as a first lieutenant. Two tours on the USS Atka

gave him supervisory experience in communications, electronics, and cryptanalysis.517 His 

study of the ultraviolet sky was a typical assignment during his graduate years, along with 

a stint working for Hynek from September 1957 through June 1958 on the Cat Eye project. 

This last assignment introduced him to television systems generally and how they might 

provide improvements over “conventional methods of astronomical measurement.”518 His 

thesis for Bok in radio astronomy was also a mapping project.519

Davis realized that Whipple was preparing for a satellite mission, not for the solution 

of a specific question about the nature of the stars. While working on the Baker-Nunn 

project, Davis recalled frequent conversations with Whipple and others about what could 

be done with a telescope in space. But nothing formal took place until the February 1958 

meeting.520 Given Davis’s experience, it is not surprising that Whipple turned to him in 

early 1958 to manage the details of what was to become Project Celescope. But what sort of 

world would Davis be competing in?

Organizing for Space Research I: Collegial Competition

After their February deliberations, Whipple prepared a position paper, “Notes on 

the Development and Operation of an Astronomical Telescope in a Satellite Orbit,” which 

in June he distributed in confidence to trusted professional colleagues. He described 

the feasibility stages, then development and procurement, and finally operation and 

data analysis, each with a rough timeline. An 8-inch, off-axis, reflecting telescope would 

employ a television-type device as an imaging detector with various dispersive elements 

to create spectra. He hoped to deliver the instrument in configurations for direct imaging 

and spectroscopy ready for multiple flights starting in less than two years. After breezing 

through the engineering aspects of the problem, Whipple focused on “coordination and 

management problems,” in which he highlighted the fact that the SAO and Harvard were 

“well equipped” because of the high concentration of “highly able technical organizations in greater Boston.” He said nothing about his planned appeal to the ABMA later 

that month, ending his “Note” only by saying, “All we need now is the ‘green light.’” He 

sent a copy of his paper to Princeton astronomer Martin Schwarzschild, who passed it 

on to his observatory director, Lyman Spitzer, with the understated comment, “For your 

perusal.”521

Whipple’s declaration of interest was prescient. After the National Academy established the Space Science Board in spring 1958, in a 3 July letter the chairman of the board, 

Lloyd Berkner, appealed to hundreds of scientists to get involved in the space program by 

proposing problems to solve with instruments aboard spacecraft. Payloads would be in the 

range of 100 pounds, and payload space could be shared by smaller experiments. He needed 

answers within a week and payloads for testing by mid-1959. He asked each respondent to 

list specifics, including purpose, weights, and total costs, noting that time was very tight.522
Organizing for Space Research • 109

Among the some 200 scientists and institutions Berkner queried, about 100 replied: 30 from 

astronomers for solar and stellar UV studies and at least 5 were for stellar UV surveys.523

By September, Berkner reported to Menzel that the “response was voluminous.” He had 

found “laboratories and groups where suitable hardware can be developed to carry on the 

more sophisticated experiments.” So as a result, he felt, “the scientific aspects of the space 

program are not forced into a single government bureau for lack of competent facilities and 

men outside the government.”524

Berkner’s efforts confirmed that the SAO was not alone in its interests and capabilities 

and that there was competition. They had chosen the space telescope option at their first 

and second meetings in February because they thought if no astronomers spoke up, they’d 

lose out. Now they knew that others, such as Arthur D. Code at Wisconsin, Lyman Spitzer 

of Princeton, and Leo Goldberg at Michigan, all very well qualified and some more experienced in instrumentation, were also making bids.

Envisioning the Space Telescope

Before Berkner’s appeal, Whipple felt confident that the ABMA would approve the 

SAO’s feasibility proposal, partly because they had already approved a large contract for 

the SAO’s services for optical tracking of ABMA missiles and payloads, and could tack this 

on as a supplement. He was confident enough to respond to an inquiry from the National 

Science Foundation (NSF), who was obviously interested as well, that they found “an immediate supporter for a preliminary engineering and scientific study and will be able to talk 

more firmly on the subject in the fall.”525

The proposal to ABMA was for $43,090 to support a six-month feasibility study that 

would lead to launching a small satellite aboard an ABMA missile within two years. The 

SAO would design and construct the instrument, as well as the satellite structure, the telemetry system, its overall operation and control after launch, and the subsequent analysis of 

the data. The goal of the project was “astrophysical,” the proposal claimed, but it might also 

“yield new and rich material to advance our knowledge in the fields of nuclear physics and 

studies of the exosphere. Above all, such observations “in this previously unavailable part 

of the electromagnetic spectrum will also produce totally unforeseeable discoveries of scientific importance.”526

Whitney and Davis would lead the effort, with Menzel, Payne-Gaposchkin, Hynek, 

Gold, and Schilling as advisors. Charles Stark Draper, director of MIT’s Instrumentation 

Laboratory, as well as the physicist T. Tamboulian of Cornell, an expert in ultraviolet techniques, would be external advisors. Support was needed for five additional technical staff 

members: a part-time mathematician and a computer, and full-time design and electronics engineers. Contracted services involved optical and mechanical engineering, computer 

programming, and computer machine time.527

Whipple had drawn together a team that theoretically could provide all phases of 

the operation of conceiving, designing, building, and operating a satellite in Earth’s orbit—

everything save for the launch vehicle. He based his model on the highly successful Explorer 
110 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

program, created under the aegis of the ABMA and the Jet Propulsion Laboratory. In late 

July, Whipple had secured William Pickering’s endorsement, which brought JPL into the 

circle. The JPL director was “responsive and enthusiastic” but worried that Whipple’s preferred electronic detectors would be destroyed by the g-forces and vibrations of launch. They 

would also need pointing accuracy and stability, as well as worldwide radio contact. On the 

political side, Pickering strongly advised informing Ernst Stuhlinger at ABMA before they 

contacted Berkner to get access to the Explorer program infrastructure. Politically, JPL dealt 

with matters relating to civilian “space,” whereas ABMA was responsible for “satellites,” 

although he added that this separation of responsibilities may “change depending upon 

what happens if and when we hit the Moon.”528

Both Pickering and Whipple knew there would be significant challenges to the proposal. Whipple also appreciated that Davis was already overworked and needed another 

electronics engineer to relieve him of the detail work. More personnel were needed for 

almost every phase of the venture, above all, “someone to make intelligent mechanical decisions.” Pickering saw ABMA expertise in the systems design as critical, especially because 

Whipple’s proposal included a “Ground Telescope Control Station.”529 Whipple labeled this 

last requirement “Political”; it would give the Smithsonian a “first rate Observatory . . . to 

deal solely with telescope satellites.” It would promote rapid data acquisition and analysis 

and would, most of all, “make plan complicated and impressive.” Pickering advised Whipple 

to make the facility look as astronomical as possible, giving astronomical names “for different sections and parts.” Accordingly, the plan was to create a ground station consisting 

of two antennae spaced 30 to 40 miles apart so that the telemetry stream could be used 

to “compare refraction of radio frequency with optical refraction” as well as yield precise 

heights and orbital characteristics. Such a facility would be highly versatile: “Handy for any 

other project that interests.” Pickering also opted for existing systems. No doubt elements 

of the Navy’s Minitrack system could be utilized. And because they both believed that the 

Air Force’s Cat Eye had shown promise, possibly the cost of its procurement could be folded 

into the proposal.530

Later in August the team developed a basic cylindrical design for the payload and satellite, considered as a unit. About 10 inches in diameter, larger than the 6.25-inch cylinder 

for the Explorer payload, its weight and length were still well within Explorer dimensions, 

although they hadn’t started serious thinking yet about ways to point or even stabilize the 

telescope. The telescope was kept as simple as possible, quite appropriate for a first glimpse 

of the ultraviolet sky. Davis’s calculations from 1956 served as a constraint to the design of 

the instrument, indicating the level of sensitivity it had to achieve in order to record a representative sample of the stars in the sky.

By the end of the summer, the basic optical system remained the same. They added 

a set of three selectable filters (lithium fluoride, quartz, calcium fluoride) through which 

areas of the sky could be recorded and photometrically compared, overlapping to at least 

10 seconds of arc resolution. They wanted to experiment with a suite of 8-inch and 6-inch 

diameter mirrors made variously of fused quartz, Pyrex, and unspecified ceramic. Each of 

these would be tested with aluminum, beryllium, and platinum reflective coatings. Clearly 

they knew they were entering unknown territory and wanted to do comparative tests of all 
Organizing for Space Research • 111

possible combinations of materials that had promise for good stability and reflectivity in the 

vacuum ultraviolet.531

The detector was key to the system and they described three options, including an 

image orthicon with the specifications of a commercial RCA 6849 tube but modified to 

admit light in the vacuum ultraviolet, replacing its glass enclosure with quartz or lithium fluoride.532 The second and third design options were not based on commercial tubes, 

but specified the needed performance specifications. All had to withstand severe launch 

stresses. One had to be blind to radiation longward of 3,000 ångströms and the other 

beyond 2,000 ångströms. Testing would reveal which system was optimal. Tamboulian at 

Cornell would test and evaluate the ultraviolet capabilities of both the optical systems and 

the transducers.

On the astrophysical data analysis side, Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin would certainly be 

capable of the work. But Whipple wanted to build up his own astrophysical group within 

SAO’s confines. He had already secured Charles Whitney (Figure  27), who transitioned 

to a joint appointment at the Smithsonian in 1958 after being engaged at various times 

with Whipple’s meteor- and satellite-tracking contracts. Whitney, however, had established 

a strong research program in stellar atmospheres and was interested in attracting other 

specialists to build up a group, which Whipple facilitated by forming an astrophysical analysis unit for the space telescope project.533 Whitney’s charge went far beyond organizing 

expertise to analyze star colors and brightnesses. After NASA was on the scene, he had to 

develop a data flow interface between NASA and the SAO whereby the signals coming from 

the space telescope could be converted into astronomical data. Just where that interface lay 

was critical to how the data were to be rendered. As we will find, it would take several years 

before that interface would become stable.

Figure 27 Charles Whitney. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 8.
112 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

“NASA vs. Smithsonian”

Through the fall of 1958, Davis, along with Schilling, Whitney, and Henize, assumed 

that the Smithsonian would be setting up a complete infrastructure for managing scientific 

satellite operations, including ground-based tracking stations and data acquisition. One 

can see this clearly in Whipple’s development of optical tracking, orbit analysis, and computational expertise, as well as in his reports. Acting methodically, in September 1958 he 

and Davis met with the consultant group Arthur D. Little and senior SAO staff to plot out 

management strategies for the project. At the same time—and in response to a request from 

Congress—Whipple prepared a report on what functions the SAO should retain in light of 

NASA’s evolving role in spaceflight.

The political debate over the creation of a civilian space agency has been addressed in 

numerous historical works, as has the question of which organizations would be responsible 

for what—from propulsion to payloads to mission definition—and what would remain military and what would become civilian.534 In early 1958, as Whipple and his staff deliberated 

over the nature of their space telescope and engaged in entrepreneurial brinksmanship, building programs with ABMA and NSF funds and housing them with bricks and mortar from 

private funding, he well knew that the Space Act was circulating through Congress. In late 

March, the Smithsonian’s Office of Legislative Affairs sent him the language drafted by the 

Bureau of the Budget, proposed by the White House and now bound for Congress. Whipple 

read it, suggesting a few clarifications. He dutifully advised Secretary Carmichael that the bill 

“represents extraordinary wisdom and foresight.”535 But at the same time the bill put Whipple 

into high gear to build his empire before it could be defined and constrained by others.

Whipple was among many scientists called to testify before the House Select 

Committee on Astronautics and Space Exploration in the spring. The committee invited 

Whipple to testify because he had direct experience dealing with, and participating in, the 

International Geophysical Year (IGY) infrastructure and broad experience with military 

contracting. He had been a co-signer of a December 1957 proposal from the Rocket and 

Satellite Research Panel for a “National Space Establishment” and he could also describe 

the contracts and agreements the SAO maintained with military and civilian organizations 

funding their IGY activities.

On 16 April, quite aware that the basic pattern had been already laid out, Whipple 

concentrated his remarks on the power relationship between the inevitable space agency 

and academe. He viewed the new entity as a science agency and argued that it had to be 

given status comparable to the Defense Department. More subtle than Lloyd Berkner, who 

had earlier heatedly criticized the Eisenhower administration for “failing to have a ‘national 

policy’ on the support of science,” Whipple wanted to leverage Sputnik as a way to achieve 

support at this level, equivalent to the military, but not necessarily separate from it.536 But 

in tune with Berkner, Whipple knew that while coordination should reside at the national 

level, control of this support had to reside in academe:

I think this national space agency should be the coordinating agency for the activities in space research. That does not mean that it should control this activity, but it 
Organizing for Space Research • 113

should be in a position of coordinating. I do not see any agency that is in that position at the present time.537

Space exploration should not be under the control of the military, Whipple added, 

nor should scientists engaged in space research be “under the control of the Government.” 

Rather, “space exploration should be under civilian scientific control,” as the best scientists resided in academe. Coordination, not control, by an informed civilian government 

agency, letting contracts to universities and industry, and even to the military, was the best 

solution.538

As the House Committee continued to debate the responsibilities of the new space 

agency over the summer, Carmichael worried that NASA was probably going to want 

to swallow up satellite tracking. He asked Whipple to supply him with ammunition to 

argue why the SAO should retain this responsibility.539 Whipple’s first draft, “NASA vs. 

SMITHSONIAN,” argued that the work had to be done in an academic atmosphere devoid 

of classification, as at a university. He predicted that if the tracking responsibilities were 

transferred to NASA, the SAO would lose half of its scientific staff. Conversely, he saw no 

problem with the SAO acting as a contract service “in an academic atmosphere.” Whipple 

insisted here, as he had in his testimony the previous April, that this was the most effective formula for large-scale scientific activity.540 His final draft, however, concentrated on 

the strengths of the SAO’s precision optical-tracking network and its popular component, 

Moonwatch.541 He reviewed its functions, its successes, and most of all the fact that “the 

administrative, operating, and scientific personnel have gained a singular know-how and a 

feel for this project.”542 This was Whipple’s core argument: Satellite tracking was the critical 

agent for infrastructure, and keeping it alive at the Smithsonian would keep the Smithsonian 

itself alive and active, leading a broad program in the space sciences. Whipple went on to 

describe that program: a full listing of SAO’s ongoing projects.543 He included brief mention 

of the SAO’s ABMA proposal for a space telescope and presented it as an exploratory engineering study of how to do such things, rather than as a mapping project.544

The SAO by now had established an integrated systems approach to doing science in 

space that included problem choice, instrument development, tracking, data acquisition, 

and analysis. Whipple recognized its importance to astronomy, but his motives were more 

to build a capability, establishing the SAO as a central player in space research, much as the 

ABMA and the National Academy’s Space Science Board (SSB) were no doubt doing. There 

was something of a gold rush—or better yet, a ‘land grab’—going on, and although NASA 

was no doubt going to emerge as the central player, the scope of its mandate, and especially 

if it was to be a coordinating or controlling agency, was still up for grabs.

NASA Assumes Control 

Between July and October 1958, NASA pushed to establish responsibility for, and control over, many of the functions Whipple envisioned as central to the SAO proposal.545 The 

process was slow and painful, taking some six years “to achieve a coordinated, mutually 
114 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

agreeable program.”546 And Whipple was in the center of the fray, fighting to maintain a 

working relationship with NASA through Celescope and satellite tracking. Astronomers 

had just barely come to appreciate the need for national planning as they slowly adjusted to 

a dominant federal patron. The NSF had finally gotten astronomers to accept the concept of 

national observatories, an acceptance still far from universal. Now there was a new player 

on the block.

The SAO retained its optical-tracking network at first, as the new NASA infrastructure absorbed centers for space activities, such as the Jet Propulsion Laboratory and portions of the Naval Research Laboratory, and one year later, in fall 1959, portions of the 

ABMA. In view of this situation, the SAO recast its ABMA proposal for a space telescope 

and presented it to NASA, hoping that SAO would still retain as many functions as possible.

Among many helpful adjustments, Whipple’s former SAO executive officer, Gerhard 

Schilling, was now Chief, Astronomy and Astrophysics Programs within Homer Newell’s 

Office of Space Flight Development at NASA. In January 1959, Schilling and Newell asked 

the leading scientists who had answered Berkner’s call and proposed ultraviolet astronomical instruments to meet with the SSB to deliberate.547

The Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

Astronomers had sent Berkner some 30 proposals for all sorts of observations in solar 

and stellar astronomy. Whipple, Spitzer, and Code all wanted to conduct ultraviolet stellar 

surveys with space telescopes. Goldberg proposed a suite of solar instruments, Menzel proposed a system of balloon-borne telescopes, and the NRL envisioned a series of ultraviolet 

scans of the interstellar realm.548

They met in February to learn that the sentiments expressed the previous summer 

by Porter and others on the SSB were still at play: The country would launch a few larger 

payloads at first because of the lack of launch vehicles and tracking limitations. This fit Abe 

Silverstein’s vision, NASA’s director of Space Flight Programs and former NACA leader, 

to provide a large generic platform for a variety of purposes. As the scientists sent in preliminary updates to their original proposals, however, it was clear that they did not see it 

that way.549

Newell had to get the major proposers to cooperate, knowing that the astronomers 

were “obviously interested in controlling the project and directing it to meet primarily their 

own needs.”550 He singled out Whipple: “In the early days of getting going on this activity, 

Professor Whipple had in a proposal to undertake the management and conduct of the 

entire job. With this arrangement the proposed satellite would do very well for Professor 

Whipple’s experimental needs”551 (Figure 28). Newell knew full well who he was reporting 

to: Keith Glennan, the NASA administrator who viewed scientists as “a bunch of spoiled 

individuals.”552

NASA would provide no more than three spacecraft platforms at first to make both 

solar and stellar observations. These platforms would be managed by a new center based 

in Greenbelt, Maryland, to be called the Goddard Space Flight Center. Goddard had all 
Organizing for Space Research • 115

responsibility to manage contractors for a range of missions that involved robotic space 

science and applications satellites, including the Orbiting Astronomical Observatory series 

(OAO).553 The OAO was to be an “all-up” venture; there would be no sequential buildup 

from simple payloads on sounding rockets and small satellites to the large vehicles NASA 

envisioned from the outset.554

Prior to Newell’s meeting, Goddard’s James Kupperian, who was to become project 

scientist and technical officer for OAO, visited the SAO to warn them of NASA’s planning. 

He described a 1,000 pound “space observatory” that would fly by 1961, which would act as 

a “standard” stable platform for up to six experiments. Kupperian acknowledged that observations of the Sun and Earth required different platform capabilities, but for the moment, 

NASA offered the single platform. By the time of the general meeting in February at NASA, 

however, owing to pressure applied by the president’s science advisor, George Kistiakowsky, 

based on appeals from the President’s Science Advisory Committee members, Newell had 

added a fourth three-axis, stabilized orbiting platform, a fully dedicated solar observatory 

capable of handling a complex of instruments weighing some 500 to 700 pounds.555 This 

was consistent thinking at the time, expressed in the Space Act of 1958, getting away from 

the conservatism of NACA’s preferring known technologies to a view of creating “larger, 

Figure 28 Celescope was Whipple’s rationale for building an infrastructure for space science 

at the SAO, including all aspects of the operation except for the launch vehicles. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, RU 260, Box 8.
116 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

more versatile—and more expensive—tools.” In its haste, NASA antagonized some scientists, but gave opportunities to others, like Whipple, who thought big, and were attracted to 

new technologies and would take risks.556

After these meetings, Whipple redoubled his efforts to create a comprehensive development program. He was ready to compromise, but in unison with Spitzer and Goldberg, 

still resisted the “cookie cutter” model of a universal platform. The astronomers did not 

share NASA’s mission-oriented philosophy—that all sorts of astronomical observations 

could be performed from a standardized platform. But he also now knew that the original 

SAO proposal was too narrow in scope. NASA had counter proposed a more sophisticated 

telescopic array, and that the SAO should leave all the housekeeping to them. Thus, by the 

spring the SAO came away from the meetings with a battery of four telescopes in a much 

larger payload. As Davis described it to a possible contractor in March, the package now 

consisted of “four parallel 8-inch telescopes” that would allow them to look at the sky 

simultaneously. “We thus have a larger satellite at our disposal than originally planned, 

and will do in one launching what was originally planned for four.”557 NASA also wanted 

to create a centralized engineering unit that would collect and process all telemetered data. 

But reflecting the methodologies astronomers had employed since the discovery and application of the telescope, Davis, echoing Whipple, preferred that “receipt and analysis of 

data should be controlled by the experimenter.”558 There was movement, but the standoff 

continued.

In early 1960, after Whipple and Menzel sponsored a naming contest and “Celescope” 

was selected, the telescope payload had become far more than a single 8-inch reflector.559

The single SAO telescope was now a battery of four 12-inch telescopes—three photometers 

and one slitless spectrograph (Figure 29). The three photometers would each be devoted to 

a single wavelength window as defined by one of the three original filters, and the fourth, 

the spectrograph, was included partly to fill up the space, just as the Wisconsin team had 

to do for their suite of payload telescopes.560 Nevertheless, the three photometric telescopes 

could now work in tandem, allowing for simultaneous scanning of each region. But this 

now required a matrixed form of data reduction to manage the calibration drift of the three 

TV systems.

Through 1960, astronomers continued to press for a rational program, pleading for 

smaller projects to gain “preliminary experience” in how to build and operate spacecraft 

instrumentation.561 But what they got was NASA’s largest and most complex scientific 

spacecraft series.562 The first OAO was scheduled for launch in early 1963 on an AtlasAgena rocket, with the Smithsonian Institution sharing space with the University of 

Wisconsin. The second was reserved for the Goddard Space Flight Center, and the third 

for Princeton, although each one also carried arrays of smaller instruments.563 NASA limited the instrument groups to the instrument payloads themselves and appropriate fine 

guidance systems that would complement NASA’s stabilization system. There was pressure 

on all sides to make each mission payload as large as possible, to think not sequentially, 

but to think “all up.”

Within a year, it was painfully clear that the available electronic detection systems 

were woefully inadequate. Hynek had been working with Air Force sponsorship since 1958 
Organizing for Space Research • 117

to create the balloon program to develop and test stabilization systems as well as Project 

Cat Eye. By February 1959, they had developed a “working stabilization system” for small 

telescopes and were using it to explore both photoelectric and television techniques.”564 But 

when the Air Force did not continue the program at the end of the year, and NASA acquired 

responsibility for the platform, stabilization, coarse guidance, telemetry capacity, star field 

acquisition systems, and ground control functions, the SAO’s Cat Eye balloon program died 

along with its hopes to test systems with sounding rockets.565

An Impasse: Acquiring People and Property

Indeed, even as NASA acquired more territory, Davis knew that his challenges were 

still daunting. In June 1959, Davis had sent Whipple a status report that defined the SAO’s 

limitations. They would focus on stellar astronomy, they would try to purchase rather than 

develop ultraviolet TV camera tubes, and they would begin hiring staff, especially electronics specialists who would work as contractors at various field sites, including industry and 

NASA. And they needed more space, for offices and for laboratory space to do the real work 

of designing, testing, and prototyping.566

Obtaining facilities for the latter was another challenge. Davis reported that Steve 

Sydor, who had been working on the optical instrumentation for the Satellite Tracking 

Project, felt they needed a dedicated facility for the space telescope. He was ready to donate 

his own tools, because SAO personnel typically had to travel to other worksites or beg and 

Figure 29 Celescope did grow over 

time. The single 8-inch telescope 

concept was enlarged to four 12-inch 

reflectors acting in unison. The SAO 

array would look out one end of the 

OAO spacecraft (NASA graphic) and 

the Wisconsin package out the other 

end. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Acc. 16-263, Box 1.
118 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

borrow from current laboratory facilities. Advised by Whitney, Davis agreed that they 

needed established worksites to monitor contractors for the electronics. They did not worry 

about the optics because James Baker was available. But astronomers were not conversant 

with cutting-edge electronics or digital-imaging devices. Whipple was still trying to lure 

one leading astronomical practitioner of image-tube technology, William A. Baum, plying him with promises.567 But Baum was just then applying his Carnegie Image Tubes to 

studying the most distant galaxies with the largest telescope in the world. He could not be 

convinced to alter course.568

The SAO had contracted with Westinghouse in July 1959 to develop an ultravioletsensitive television tube based on the vidicon design created by RCA. Called “Uvicons,” 

their development was slow and costly, partly because of the “evident lack of commercial 

and military applications of these tubes.”569 By June 1960, although some electronics specialists had been secured, there was still no adequate working space, and Davis still felt 

they did not have enough support, or that no one on the staff was sufficiently adept at 

image-tube technologies to be able to vet the contractors. Davis reported that this was 

“the most serious non-financial problem at Celescope” at that time, and something had 

to be done.570

Retaining competent staff and attracting competence in electronics became problem number one by the end of the year. Whipple knew that some of his key people were 

getting frustrated by the lack of a senior Harvard post and had offers elsewhere. These 

included Hynek, Sterne, and Rinehart, all of whom were leaving. As he was courting 

Baum, he learned from one of his staff, who had just returned from an international 

conference, that although astronomers were highly excited about the promise of space 

research, few if any were willing to consider changing course to adapt: “Most astronomers steer away from space research unless it bears directly on research in which they 

are interested.”571

Whipple knew his institution was woefully inadequate to the job but still made the 

decision to build a satellite for which they had neither the problem expertise nor the technical infrastructure to execute without expansion. As exciting as the prospects must have 

seemed in the first months of 1958, through 1959 reality was sinking in. His senior staff was 

restless, NASA was confining the scope of his endeavors, and the SAO still lacked physical 

space and, in effect, the visibility and permanency needed to convince new patrons of their 

promise. In late November 1959, his partner in all this, Donald Menzel, wrote to Leonard 

Carmichael, laying out the situation, pleading for funds to build a 40,000 square foot addition to the observatory: the conquest of space began at home.572

As Menzel petitioned the home front, Whipple took to the national stage, rationalizing the SAO’s goals again when the House Committee on Science and Astronautics opened 

another inquiry in late 1959 into how well government agencies, universities, and private 

aerospace concerns were being coordinated by NASA and the Department of Defense. 

Whipple outlined all the ways SAO was pursuing space research—explicitly, the space 

telescope—noting how it would provide information on “processes in normal and abnormal stellar atmospheres; processes in interstellar space; and abundances of the elements 

in interstellar space.” But he also emphasized that the ultraviolet star catalog itself would 
Organizing for Space Research • 119

be useful for “the practical needs of space navigation.”573 The committee could easily read 

between the lines here: At the time, and for some time to come, the Air Force would be 

intensely interested in such information, for the selection and identification of suitable 

guide stars to calibrate and supplement the inertial guidance systems of intercontinental 

ballistic missiles.574 Along with improved geodetic information, and improved knowledge 

of the resistive characteristics of the high atmosphere, a precise map of the stars as seen in 

space was of great value to Cold War patrons.

121

Chapter 8

Permanency and Authority

Leonard Carmichael most likely could not have predicted the transformation the old 

Astrophysical Observatory (APO) was experiencing at the hands of Fred Whipple and his 

enabler, Donald Menzel. His hope for the revitalization of solar research at the Smithsonian 

was loyalty to the legacy of the institution, if not to Abbot, and, moreover, was resonant 

with his general plan to improve the academic strengths of the institution. He did not know 

Whipple as Bundy did, the determination and passion of his “dear dream.” Nor could he 

have been aware of the fact that the Smithsonian represented to Whipple the opportunity 

of endless landscapes on playing fields far larger than Harvard would tolerate at the time. 

But what Carmichael must have known was that the new arrangement offered Whipple a 

new dedicated path to congressional appropriations, aided and abetted by government and 

military contracts.

The hallmark of Cold War science was, indeed, the government contract. Through 

the late 1950s and into the early 1960s, the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) 

secured major contracts from the National Science Foundation (NSF), the Atomic Energy 

Commission (AEC), the Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA), the Air Force, and then 

NASA, numbering in the scores.575 The rate of growth at SAO was such that by June 1961 

a weekly SAO News started appearing to keep track of new faces among the more than 300 

people now employed and to keep everyone informed of the burgeoning scope and constantly changing landscape of the institution. In fact, on the front page of the first issue the 

lead article proclaimed “Moved Again!”

Many moves . . . many, many moves . . . so many that maybe some of them have been 

forgotten . . . after all, most of us are trackers of satellites, not offices.576

By then just the offices administering Moonwatch had moved five times. Satellitetracking facilities were widely scattered; photoreduction moved three times. What was now 

called Celescope, the space telescope, moved three times, and “Editorial and Publications” 

moved at least four times. The only stable offices were those of the director and his staff and 

those within “special studies,” in other words: the astronomers, physicists, and chemists 

engaged in meteoritic analysis, the upper atmosphere, and astrophysical studies. Only in 

June 1961 did SAO occupy a dedicated physical space, a new building, built expressly as a 

new “Space Science Building”577 (Figure 30).

From the beginning of their relationship in 1955, both parties, Harvard and the 

Smithsonian, acknowledged that office, laboratory, and shop facilities had to be factored in 
122 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

to the plan. Katherine Haramundanis recalled what it was like after she was hired in 1958. 

She and her staff were constantly shifted to various rented spaces that were typically not set 

up for their tasks: Not only was desk space wanting, but the old structure was inadequate for 

delicate measuring machines. She recalled that someone laid out buckets filled with water to 

show, from the constant rippling, how unstable the floors were.578 After she returned from a 

year’s absence in 1961, she found the new quarters much improved, in what was called the 

“IBM Building” on Broadway in Cambridge. This new environment helped convince her 

that the SAO was here to stay and was constantly growing.579

Permanency

From the beginning, Whipple’s and Menzel’s appeals, to both Bundy and to 

Carmichael, highlighted marketable strengths.580 Whipple described his burgeoning 

empire as one that could “cross the boundaries” that once separated the disciplines. The 

SAO would provide an institutional platform for “collaborative efforts of many scientists 

Figure 30 The new “Space Science Building” opened in June 1961. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 4.
Permanency and Authority • 123

and technically trained people” from diverse backgrounds. There would be at least a dozen 

fields in the physical and mathematical sciences that needed to be engaged. These would 

change over time, depending on funding sources, but they always encompassed many disciplines and required infrastructures beyond what had been normal practice in astronomy. 

Laying out all their programs, from satellite tracking to meteoritics, to the physical analysis 

of meteoritic materials, to the space telescope, there was great need for highly specialized 

equipment and working facilities, such as producing atomic time standards for a wide 

range of geodetic applications. All this activity required office space, as well as supporting 

optical, physical and electronics laboratories, a computing center, and specialized machine 

and optical shops.581

Throughout fall 1958, Carmichael and Bundy worked out a plan to rent space in a 

new building being built by IBM in Cambridge.582 They needed at least 2,500 square feet 

to house their IBM 704 computer and office space for its Computation Section of some 20 

additional workers. Longer term, the Smithsonian was ready to rent some 40,000 square 

feet in a new space Harvard would provide.583 But Carmichael could not commit funds for 

more than a year in advance, subject to congressional appropriation.

Renting was only a stopgap. Menzel and Whipple kept pushing for new distinctive 

institutional facilities. Without a permanent facility to point to, they were less competitive 

for Air Force or NASA funding. By early 1959, they had an agreement and construction 

plans and an architect’s visualization had been completed.584 The Crimson announced in 

February 1959 that Harvard would indeed build a new building, especially to house yet a 

larger computing center with an IBM 709. The building was essential, the Crimson editorialized, because “ever since the Russian satellite caught the scientists partly unprepared with 

organizational details and programming plans for the computers, matters have been quite 

confused and decentralized.”585 Publicity like this generated endowment funds of more than 

$1 million by the spring, with ground breaking for the “space science” building to start by 

the end of the year. At last, Whipple rejoiced, Harvard would have a “strong, earthy foundation for space science research.” To symbolize its roots, a small speck taken from the first 

shovel of dirt would be incorporated into the spacecraft “for Good Luck and shall return 

eventually as a meteoritic spark.”586

In addition to a wide array of offices, shops, and laboratories, Whipple singled out the 

“great computing machine” as the key to facilitate the tracking work as well as other applications, as they arose. At the ground breaking, Menzel poignantly pointed to how the “lack of 

inner space” had hampered their studies “in the field of outer space.” Both spoke of how the 

new building would enhance teaching and make the subject more attractive to students.587

SAO News recorded the dedication and opening of the building on 5 May 1961, calling it 

a “Great Day for Space!” a nod to Alan Shepard’s suborbital flight that day as well as to the 

presence of the Harvard Visiting Committee.588

Through the 1960s, the satellite-tracking empire stabilized but the rest of the institution continued to grow to a size unprecedented in the history of astronomy. Although one 

would get a sense of stability by reading the annual reports and pronouncements issued by 

all three institutions—SAO, Smithsonian Institution, and Harvard—this did not translate 

to the working level in the early 1960s, at least in the minds of most of those on the rapidly 
124 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

growing staff. Recent hires by the Smithsonian were typically on contract, distinct from 

those few long timers who had lived their lives within the security of the Harvard College 

Observatory, funded largely by the university and the substantial philanthropic largesse 

of friendly individuals. As Robert Davis described the situation for his NASA monitor in 

August 1960:

Most Celescope professional personnel are working here out of personal interest 

in the program rather than from any consideration of permanent security (which 

does not exist in the present set up). Our experience has indicated that the number 

of people on our personnel budget is just adequate to meet the requirements of the 

program.589

The line workers were mostly contractors, and even though some of them had been 

around long enough to have experienced how management moved staff from project to 

project as funding dried up or as new projects demanded immediate expertise, few felt 

comfortable working in that mode, especially those with academic aspirations. Those who 

were not part of the core family remained unsure of the permanency of Smithsonian support, knowing that it was subject to annual federal allotments and the vagaries of the political process.

In the first few years, both Whipple and Menzel knew they were working on borrowed 

time. Whipple’s vision for transforming Harvard astronomy, via the Smithsonian, into a 

“big science” operation incorporated Menzel’s concept of a “research reserve.”590 Many who 

joined Whipple from Harvard, such as Charles Whitney and Eugene Avrett, knew that they 

had a certain “institutional obligation” to provide a wide range of services, from administration and project management to orbit analysis, all while remaining active in their chosen 

field of stellar atmospheres, which ultimately informed Whipple’s Celescope program.591

But how long could they afford to do this?

Insight into how staff likely viewed their prospects for the future comes from the 

queries of a young staffer, E. Michael Gaposchkin (Figure 31) who with his younger sister Katherine (Haramundanis) and brother Peter were raised at the observatory. Mike and 

Katherine became staff members. Gifted in mathematical programming, Mike was hired 

as a supervisor for Digital Computer Programs within the Computational Division at 

SAO. Starting in 1959, Mike’s job was to develop the satellite-tracking routines initiated by 

George Veis from Greece and Yoshihide Kozai from Tokyo. Both had been attracted to the 

SAO to build up the expertise that would further their scientific goals as well as the service 

functions that supported the entire enterprise.592 Specialists such as Kozai and Veis typically 

stayed for a few years and then moved on to distinguished academic appointments in their 

native lands. But what were future prospects for the junior workers?

In April 1963, during an otherwise typical administrative meeting, the question of 

buying into the Smithsonian retirement system came up. Employees working on contracts 

who were designated full-time Smithsonian could choose a benefits package that was nearly 

identical to those of federal employees. Mike Gaposchkin then “brought up the question 

of what effect the possible temporary nature of SAO might have upon enrollment since 
Permanency and Authority • 125

SAO’s existence is based on a yearly orientation.” Carl Tillinghast took his question very 

seriously; evidently, this was a shared concern of middle managers throughout the program. He assured the staff that there was no longer any basis for discussing the “temporary 

nature” of the SAO. “Washington,” Tillinghast went on, would not approve the long-term 

functions of the division if they were not intending to support it in perpetuity: “We now 

have a firmer base than many businesses which depend on one large government contract. 

We have a small but good base of federal money.”593 Tillinghast wanted to assure staffers like 

Mike and Katherine, who had been moved between projects as their expertise was required 

or as institutional priorities changed, that they were secure. This experience became an 

institutional style in Whipple’s still-new SAO.

As the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory grew in the 1960s, its institutional 

style continued. This would create questions, over time, about the nature of the work itself, 

its magnitude, and its appropriateness as a Smithsonian activity. At first Harvard astronomers and visiting committees started asking questions. Then came voices at the national 

level who were concerned about the definition and scope of national facilities for science. 

And it became a question of the allocation of funds for science and the Smithsonian’s role 

in American science.

Figure 31 Michael Gaposchkin, ca. 1966. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, 

Box 6.
126 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

The Smithsonian’s Role in American Science

To appreciate the existence of a Smithsonian facility at an academic institution—in 

this case, Harvard—and the complex issues raised by this cooperative arrangement, we 

review here how the Smithsonian rationalized its existence as a research institution. It is 

critical to bear in mind that, even though it is not strictly a federal agency, whatever it did 

had to be officially sanctioned and recognized by government. This meant that both the 

executive branch, within which the Smithsonian lived as an independent agency, and the 

legislative branch had to agree on just what the Smithsonian’s role was in American life. 

Moreover, they both had to approve what part of that role would be funded by congressional appropriations.

In autumn 1963, as S. Dillon Ripley prepared to succeed Carmichael as the eighth 

Smithsonian secretary in January 1964, he knew there were numerous problems pending 

that would require his immediate attention. Two in particular bear mention here. First, 

he knew that in 1962, the Smithsonian had tried to submit a bill to Congress to “retread” 

the basic Smithsonian mandate “to put the SI at the center of the Government’s oceanographic activity.” The bill had been deferred by the regents, but it was introduced “by mistake” by a congressional regent in January 1963. This caused confusion as Ripley moved to 

Washington, and though it was eventually resubmitted in modified form in the next round, 

to the 89th Congress, it was again removed because Ripley’s advisors felt that the actual 

successes of the oceanography program more than secured its mandate.594 This stumble was 

fortunately undamaging but it became an object lesson for the Smithsonian administration 

in the following years.

Second, and more disturbing, Ripley knew that there were hearings before the House 

deliberating over the National Science Foundation’s responsibilities. Congressman Albert 

Thomas had introduced a bill that stated that one “Government agency should not transfer funds for research to another Government agency.”595 Carmichael advised Ripley that 

the NSF would take this as a “stop order” for funding individual Smithsonian researcher 

requests. Transfers were possible only when one agency called for services that another 

agency could provide, in response to specific and explicit requests for proposals. But this did 

not apply to proposals for autonomous research programs or research promoted by individuals within institutions whose mandate, or congressional authorization, was not specifically 

indicated. So all proposals engaged by Smithsonian researchers had to fall within bounds 

that had been sanctioned or authorized.

Ripley was up to the challenge. Celebrated as a leading ornithologist, a professor of 

biology, and director of Yale’s Peabody Museum of Natural History, S. Dillon Ripley II had 

served in the Office of Strategic Services during World War II and was extremely adept at 

moving in high-level Washington circles. As a staffer remarked at his death: ‘‘While he was 

a New England patrician and a renaissance man of learning, he had a great popular flair.”596

Soon after Ripley arrived in Washington, he met with Leland Haworth, the new NSF 

director, asking that he endorse the Smithsonian’s plan to appeal to Congress directly to 

allow Smithsonian researchers to continue to compete for NSF research funds.597 He also 

argued that the Smithsonian’s “demi-official” status as a government agency prevented 
Permanency and Authority • 127

it being “considered as a ‘regular’ government agency,” and needed further clarification. 

Ripley wanted language in the FY1967 appropriations bill to loosen the legal restrictions 

that Thomas’s bill had set in place. Even though Congress, prompted by the Smithsonian’s 

congressional regents, had helped somewhat to relieve its problems, “Our minute budget 

gives us no assurances of incremental increases sufficient to measure up to our staff needs 

for research support.”598 What Ripley wanted to establish, more than anything, was “that by 

virtue of the Smithsonian’s unique public responsibilities to the scientific community based 

upon our national collections and curatorial responsibilities, research projects sponsored 

by us automatically fall into the category of national interest programs.” With this done, it 

would be possible to remove the “ban” on support from the NSF so the Smithsonian might 

once again attract the highest-quality staff to generate valuable research and programming.599

SAO and “The Smithsonian Research Bill”

In many ways, Whipple’s grand vision for the SAO paralleled Ripley’s for the 

Smithsonian. He defined the SAO in terms of national interests, as in his congressional testimony for building a National Space Establishment on an academic model in April 1958. 

His comprehensive design for the Smithsonian’s management of Celescope fit this vision, 

right down to justifying the creation of a stellar atmospheres group on the basis that such 

expertise would be needed to analyze the data. Even this level of activity would hardly be 

enough for Whipple, who looked for ways to expand into all areas that could somehow be 

addressed by an astronomical institution. Whipple felt comfortable that the core programs 

he had fostered—namely, the satellite-tracking and geodetic programs—were relatively 

safe even under the restrictions of Thomas’s bill, as they clearly met national interests and 

satisfied the mission-based needs of NASA. He was by now comfortable with the political and managerial support shown by the Smithsonian administration. The frustrations 

he expressed in the late 1950s were now more than assuaged by the effective guidance of 

James Bradley, who became Ripley’s undersecretary. Whipple looked forward to working 

with both Ripley and Bradley (Figure 32). It was a period of high promise and expansion for 

science in the United States, but not a time for complacency. They would remain safe only 

insofar as Whipple could foster sufficient support to make these service functions preeminent and permanent.

As his empire grew in the 1960s—encompassing space astronomy, optical astronomy, radio astronomy, and gamma-ray astronomy, fields quite distinct from his Earthdirected efforts such as satellite tracking and geodesy, and wholly separated from Abbot’s 

solar legacy—so did his concern that it all be sanctioned. Therefore, in the summer of 

1964, with a growing awareness of Ripley’s ambitions, but sensitive to the fact that authorizing legislation for the Astrophysical Observatory was still narrowly defined and outdated, Whipple asked Bradley to advise on the “Statutory Authority for programs of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.” Bradley sent Whipple’s request to Peter Powers, 

the Smithsonian general counsel, and after a long search, a staff lawyer was only able to find 

explicit mention of the APO’s existence in an 1891 “Sundry Civil Expenses Appropriation 
128 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Act” and then nothing specific until August 1949 in a brief statement: “Appropriations are 

hereby authorized for the maintenance of the Astrophysical Observatory and the making of 

solar observations at high altitudes.”600

The 1949 assessment was specifically directed to the Bureau of the Budget (BoB), which 

had now declared that the Smithsonian mandate for “increase and diffuse . . . was not authority for the appropriation of Federal funds to provide for the Astrophysical Observatory.” 

The only other entity to be scrutinized in this way in 1949 was the Smithsonian’s Bureau 

of American Ethnology, which was absorbed in 1965 into a combined Department of 

Anthropology at the National Museum of Natural History. The SAO could not be so easily 

dealt with.601

Reviewing all sources of its funding in late 1964, Tillinghast reported that some 90 

percent of the SAO’s operating funds came from sources other than appropriated Federal 

funds. NSF was important, but nowhere near as critical as NASA or the Air Force.602 No one 

knew how this ratio would change through the rest of the decade; Tillinghast and Whipple 

worried how long the support would last before some congressional staffer started asking 

questions.

Figure 32 James Bradley’s brilliance was recognized by Dillon 

Ripley with the Secretary’s Gold Medal for Exceptional Service, 

presented 16 November 1966. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Image # OPA-953-02.
Permanency and Authority • 129

Responding partly to Whipple’s growing ambitions for both space-based and groundbased national-scale facilities, Ripley and his staff redoubled their efforts to clarify the 

Smithsonian’s role in the federal research establishment. Ripley, Bradley, and others in the 

Smithsonian central administration, in concert with Whipple, saw these efforts as a means 

to once and for all establish a strong, broad mandate authorizing the SAO as a national facility for astronomy. By the latter half of the decade, therefore, the SAO became a test case for 

Ripley and his staff to reconfirm as well as upgrade the Smithsonian’s role in federal research.

The Whipple/Bradley/Ripley campaign began in mid-1965 and produced a series of 

long white papers and proposals by the end of the year. These were then incorporated into 

a series of draft legislative proposals that, through much of 1966, Sidney Galler, assistant 

secretary for science, as well as Bradley and Ripley, used in discussions with congressional 

regents, BoB staff, the U.S. Civil Service Commission, and the White House. The process 

of constructing these white papers reveals that the central administration strategy was in 

considerable flux, whereas SAO’s was fixed.

Whipple engaged his senior staff heavily in the effort. Chief players were Tillinghast, 

as well as J. A. Coffey, manager of the Satellite Tracking and Data Acquisition Department, 

and Charles Lundquist, Whipple’s assistant director for science. In the midst of preparing 

these statements, in late summer 1965, SAO was explicitly cited by the president of the 

United States for “its exemplary role in the fruitful international interchange of ideas and 

knowledge.”603 Support like this emboldened Whipple’s staff as they prepared statements 

titled “Goals and Programs” and “The Role of the SAO” and circulated them in the late 

summer. In mid-December, Bradley sent a draft legislative proposal to the Smithsonian’s 

general counsel, Peter Powers, that laid out the situation, showing that the current SAO 

program was now far larger than its authorization. It now consisted of “radio astronomy, 

gamma-ray astronomy, meteorites and cosmic dust, theoretical astrophysics, optical observatory, flight experiments, geophysics, meteors, exobiology, and lunar research.” Everyone 

in the loop in the Smithsonian agreed that the 1949 statement was inadequate, but everyone 

also had an opinion about what to do to change it, as this was a test case. Galler asked if 

the SAO had proved its national worth, as had the Smithsonian’s oceanography programs. 

Galler agreed that the draft would be “helpful to the SAO” but worried that it was not sufficiently persuasive to overcome the issue that “Congress and the public appear to view the 

SAO primarily as a service organization to the NASA, somewhat similar to the SIE’s service 

to the NSF.”604 Would this be sufficient to justify the SAO’s continued expansion into areas 

that clearly were highly competitive with other organizations, private and federal?

Coffey, Tillinghast, and Lundquist fine-tuned the document while Whipple expanded 

Bradley’s listing of SAO research areas to emphasize how “world-wide basic geodesy” 

depended on their core tracking activities.605 In late January, after the regents initially ratified 

his effort to update the Smithsonian’s research authorization, Ripley sent Joseph Califano, 

special assistant to President Johnson, a new proposal for “legislative reorganization” and 

reauthorization of the research scope for the SAO, adding that the National Museum of 

Natural History would be similarly re-proposed in the near future. Here, once again, the 

Smithsonian re-ordered the research area priorities, this time making them sound more 

mainstream. The SAO “is concerned with theoretical astrophysics, gamma-ray and radio 
130 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

astronomy, meteorites, planetary, terrestrial and lunar research, and exobiology.” The geophysical areas Lundquist and Whipple cared so much about were subsumed in less serviceoriented and more basic disciplinary fields. Bradley had been warned that SAO staff would 

grumble, wanting more specificity, but he resisted.606

This was, after all, an exercise that had all of the Smithsonian’s welfare at heart. Ripley’s 

mandate was to maintain the “flexibility of the Smithsonian’s basic charter” to preserve 

the institution’s “freedom for new departures, employing appropriated funds, so long as 

an objective is within its charter, not in express violation of any statute, and legitimate in 

terms of the public interest.”607 One of his staffers, Phil Ritterbush, advised that they had 

to do all that was possible to counter BoB’s original questioning of the “appropriateness” 

of Smithsonian activities. Among many causes, he speculated that when BoB raised its old 

concerns in late 1963, Ripley was not yet installed and the regents were not very strong. 

Nor had the Smithsonian “mobilized the kind of conspicuous consensus among scientists 

like the NIH, NBS, or the NSF have.” Since then, they had made some progress rectifying 

these weaknesses, like creating an elite academic SI Council in January 1966, organizing 

various high-level academic reviews, and improved networking by Galler and Ripley. But, 

Ritterbush observed, looking at the various drafts of the legislation, they had still not been 

very successful saying why the work must be conducted by the Smithsonian and not by 

another entity. Still, Ritterbush felt the time was right: “Mr. Bradley might want to try a 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory bill this year, experiment with some of the administrative language, and submit a more general bill next year with which we could tidy up any 

deficiencies revealed by our experience with the SAO bill.”608

By March, after confirming that the BoB would be wary of highly specific proposals, 

Powers recommended that only the most general wording be used. The proposal now covered “research in astrophysics and other natural sciences, in history and the arts.” The SAO’s 

mission was described only as “astrophysics and related sciences contributing to knowledge 

of the universe.” Powers admitted that this might appear to be too spare, “but the earlier 

version sounded to me like authority for an organization half as large as NASA.”609 By the 

end of the month, Ripley was campaigning with congressional regents and by May he was 

in direct contact with the BoB for its reaction to their draft proposal, asking if it adequately 

addressed any concerns for how to create a bill to “clarify and extend the basic authority of 

the Smithsonian Institution” and how it would play at the White House.610

Congressional regents also sought out advice from congressional lawyers. Some of 

the regents worried that more specificity was in fact desired, but an assistant counsel in 

the House of Representatives’ Office of the Legislative Counsel advised that it was not a 

legal requirement. In fact, “The hallowed words” to “increase and diffuse” should be legally 

sufficient for BoB. Specificity could be helpful, the lawyers advised, in order to gain political constituents and regional support. But specificity had to be clearly labeled as “basic 

research” if only to “define and illustrate the types of basic research intended.”611

Bills drafted in June had maintained the generality favored by Ripley’s staff, but they 

still dithered over what to include. Bradley grew impatient, reminding Powers, Ritterbush, 

and Galler that the overall purpose was simple: “to provide fresh support for our programs.” 

He added, likely reflecting Whipple’s requests and pressure from Ripley, who was pushing 
Permanency and Authority • 131

more and more for history and art: “I have no brief for pet language—it’s the objective that 

counts. . . . Let’s move on some acceptable bill.”612

Galler, however, still worried that explicit statements could be interpreted as absolute 

and restrictive. Soon, the BoB proved him right, responding officially to Ripley in late July 

and advising him that “changes along the lines proposed whether accepted or rejected by 

the Congress could serve to limit rather than clarify existing authority.” In fact, any specifications could “be construed as exhaustive rather than exemplary. . . . We therefore suggest 

that consideration be given to deletion of the specific fields of science.”613 The BoB even 

advised against qualifying the type of research the Smithsonian conducted: whether it be 

“fundamental” or “basic” was not their concern. If any problem areas were specified, the 

BoB feared, some of the proposed changes would give “an excessively broad mandate for the 

Smithsonian.” In sum, “we request that you reconsider your proposed legislation.”614

Smithsonian officials thus went back to the drawing board, as the SAO’s newest campaign to build a new huge radio facility continued, in concert with MIT, Harvard, and 

other northeast universities, as well as with Lincoln Laboratories (see Chapter 14). Through 

November, however, senior staffers still worried that the stalled “Research Bill” was “our 

biggest internal problem.” Everyone knew it would only be a matter of time before the SAO’s 

expansion would be questioned, especially because of the radio facility, but also because 

Whipple’s new ambitions for a large optical observatory on Mount Hopkins in Arizona were 

becoming apparent (see Chapters 12 and 13), and his various “service” areas, for example, 

satellite tracking and geodesy, were becoming more visible.

The white paper Whipple and his staff prepared best illustrates the magnitude of 

Whipple’s ambitions at this point. It identifies the SAO’s role in the expressed series of everwidening scientific and societal spheres he wanted to play in, and provides a template for 

the programs and facilities Whipple envisioned for the rest of the decade.

The View from Cambridge

It is not clear who actually crafted the framework and content for “The Role of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory in the Federal Structure/Astronomical Community/

Cambridge Complex/Great Society.” Certainly the Smithsonian central administration and 

the SAO shared in the exercise. It is safe to assume that Whipple oversaw the process from 

Cambridge, and that it was executed largely by Coffey and Tillinghast, with input from 

Lundquist. But equally likely members of the SAO’s Public Affairs Office, such as John P. 

White or James Cornell, SAO’s public information specialist, or members of their editorial 

staff, were involved, as they prepared the annual reviews of the observatory for Smithsonian 

Year as well as for relevant professional societies and knew the art of written persuasion.615

They were also preparing an extensive white paper for the BoB and NSF that presented the 

radio telescope initiative.616 This fact will become clear as we move through the document, 

examining the rhetoric rationalizing the SAO’s existence.

First came Role of SAO in the Federal Structure, in which the thrust was to show how 

the Smithsonian had a talent for anticipating the needs of modern society and meeting 
132 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

them as a federal facility. “Earth-Solar relationships” was the first area, in which the SAO, at 

its seventy-fifth anniversary in 1965, could look back on its pioneering legacy of monitoring 

the “effects of solar radiation upon the Earth and its atmosphere.” Other agencies initiated 

“related investigations,” but “the Observatory retains leadership in furthering understanding of solar effects on the high atmosphere, using analysis of satellite tracking data.” Then 

came geodesy, in which the Smithsonian claimed to have initiated inquiry and “has been 

recognized for its innovations and results.” Other emerging problem areas fostered by the 

SAO that claimed relevance to the federal structure included gamma-ray astronomy, the 

joint optical-radio observations of flare stars, all under the umbrella of “astrophysical problems that are judged to be undeservedly neglected by other investigators.” Meteor astronomy fit under this umbrella.617

The white paper cast the SAO as a federal agency that “responds to requirements from 

mission-oriented agencies” such as NASA and the Department of Defense (DOD). Often, 

the goals of the DOD or even NASA mission agencies were narrower than the SAO’s goals, 

so supplementary funding had to be found. This could be from private sources, or from 

the NSF. But in distinction to “the passive function of the National Science Foundation 

to support basic sciences and science education” generally, the SAO is “a center of active 

research within the federal establishment.” In distinction to NASA, the NSF or DOD, then, 

this section concluded boldly:

The Observatory is virtually unique in its ability to pursue pure astrophysics directly, 

rather than obliquely as an offshoot of an applied mission. Hence, the Observatory 

must be viewed as the “national astrophysical observatory” and should be funded 

accordingly.618

The SAO niche was as a hybrid making it effectively distinct from potential competitors. The designation of “national astrophysical observatory,” no matter how bold, would 

never survive scrutiny. Yet this is exactly what Whipple, aided and abetted by Ripley, would 

eventually push for in their campaign for both optical and radio facilities.

Second was Role of SAO in the Astronomical Community, in which the white paper 

celebrated the research output of SAO staff, including publishing more than 100 articles 

per year starting in the late 1950s in some 30 peer-reviewed international journals, entertaining scores of professional visitors providing access to data and facilities and expertise, 

and training well over 100 graduate students by then, from Harvard and other universities. The SAO also had been operating two international bureaus, the International Bureau 

for Astronomical Telegrams (Figure 33) and the Central Bureau for Satellite Geodesy. And 

early on it created its own publications facility that by then had produced hundreds of 

“Special Reports,” not only in the space sciences but also in its “Smithsonian Contributions 

to Astrophysics,” which Whipple started in 1956.619

Role of SAO in the Cambridge Complex situated the SAO within an “evolutionary 

cluster,” borrowing the term from Margaret Mead, “carrying on the business of promoting 

man’s progress.” Harvard and MIT dominated, but were enhanced by scores of smaller institutional bodies, of which the SAO was a “significant link in the exchange and interaction 
Permanency and Authority • 133

of ideas in this community.” The action of moving SAO from Washington to Cambridge 

“fulfilled the historic dreams of John Adams, who hoped to use the entire Smithson bequest 

to found a national observatory.”620

And finally came The Observatory and the Great Society, invoking President Johnson’s 

words at an invocation that year purportedly honoring the “Smithsonian’s bicentennial” 

[sic].621 There, Johnson charged the Smithsonian: “To split the atom, to launch the rocket, to 

explore the innermost mysteries and the outermost reaches of the universe—these are your 

God-given chores.”622 To this, the white paper celebrated how “the Observatory’s study of 

meteorites teaches something of the vast stretches of time that are the history of the universe.” 

Then came encomiums for radioisotope analysis, satellite tracking and geodesy, and finally 

the newly defined field of exobiology, exploring the possibilities of extraterrestrial life: “No 

one can neglect this basic question, for it is at the very heart of man’s philosophy of living.”623

Clearly an emotional appeal, the white paper’s penultimate paragraph declared that 

“the Observatory carries on a lively and informative dialogue with the Great Society.” With 

this as preamble, a second document, “Goals and Programs 1967–1976,” got down to specifics, and ended with an estimated budget line for appropriations for the second decade of 

the observatory.

Figure 33 The Central Bureau for Astronomical Telegrams brought worldwide public 

and professional attention to the SAO. Bureau members in the late 1960s included 

(L to R ) Richard Southworth, Barbara Welther, Brian Marsden (seated), and Owen 

Gingerich. Courtesy AIP Emilio Segrè Visual Archives, Physics Today Collection.
134 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Looking to the Second Decade of the SAO

The white paper lumped meteors, satellite tracking, and upper atmosphere research 

together in a broad mandate that Whipple called “The Earth as a Planet,” giving form to 

what were largely becoming, by the late 1960s at least, routine operations of data acquisition. Accordingly, attention turned to making use of the data to gain geodetic knowledge. 

It would soon became a core activity, driven by the continuing flow of funding from federal 

resources in the first decade.

Over and over, the white paper described growing ambitions in optical, radio, and 

gamma-ray astronomy, initiated in Celescope and elaborated in the 1960s when the SAO 

took steps to establish broader capabilities in optical and especially radio astronomy to 

study quasars, flare stars, and interstellar hydrogen and hydroxyls, areas where radio astronomy was especially promising. The SAO had already enhanced Harvard’s radio capabilities 

at the Agassiz Station, and would use it as a stepping stone to a far more ambitious facility, 

directly linked to Harvard and MIT as a “regional, radio astronomy facility in the next five 

to ten years.”624

Gamma-ray astronomy in 1965 was “still in an embryonic state.” The SAO wanted to 

explore what was to be expected in that region of the spectrum, extrapolating from known 

sources, and engaging theoretical expertise within its ranks, locally, and among those few 

groups interested in the problem. After experimentation with a local solar furnace facility, the SAO would build dedicated atmospheric Čerenkov detectors on a mountaintop in 

southern Arizona, utilizing photoelectric sensors fed by very large mirrors of “modest optical quality.”625 The SAO at the time envisioned establishing this optical facility at an “observing site somewhere in Western North America” and equipping it with “versatile modern 

astronomical telescopes.” A 24- to 36-inch conventional reflector might be the first instrument, followed by larger ones, ranging up to “moderate size” in a decade. Not mentioning 

Kitt Peak or any national facility directly, the white paper acknowledged that the staff did 

receive some observing time at other optical facilities, “but the demand for observing time 

now exceeds that available.”626

Research areas in geophysics, meteors, and exobiology would continue, and funding would be requested for maintaining these smaller programs. The Baker-Nunn trackers 

would, however, require refinement and augmentation with laser-ranging equipment working in parallel from several sites. One new area, mentioned at the end of the white paper, 

was “Lunar Research,” which in 1965 was confined mainly to improving the lunar ephemeris in support of trajectory studies. But Whipple did not leave out other possibilities, indicating that the SAO’s “specific role remains to be defined.”627 And indeed, earlier on in the 

discussion of “Meteorites and Cosmic Dust,” areas closest to Whipple’s specialty and most 

closely tied to his professional reputation, one finds explicit mention of building up a staff 

of specialists who would operate “laboratories that are equipped to investigate the petrography, mineralogy, metallurgy and isotopic composition of meteorites and cosmic dust,” 

adding prophetically that “the same techniques can be applied to lunar samples obtained 

perhaps during the late 1960’s and early 1970’s.”628

Much of what was projected in the white paper became real—some very successful, others stillborn. Even though this series of documents had been crafted to establish 
Permanency and Authority • 135

authority for SAO programs, facilities, and research areas, they also reveal that none of 

them was envisioned as being phased out after some appropriate goals had been reached. 

The only research area abandoned to date was that of the legacy inherited from Washington, 

the monitoring of solar radiation.

The point of the “Role” white papers and the accompanying “Goals and Programs,” in 

their various forms in the latter half of 1965, then, was to demonstrate the centrality and 

the leadership of SAO research and service activities to national life. As a detailed plan of 

action, however, it went far beyond anything the central Smithsonian, BoB, or Congress 

would likely want or tolerate to establish authority for appropriations. Its purpose, therefore, must have been more to offer a vision of a scope of work within areas where the SAO 

believed direct appropriations would be necessary. Even so, what it lacked, quite clearly, 

were boundaries.

The chapters that follow will explore how the established ventures continued through 

the 1960s, like Celescope, and then the new ventures Whipple initiated during his second 

decade as observatory director. They will, in turn, express the breadth of his empire and 

illustrate growing tensions not only between the SAO, Harvard, and the Smithsonian, but 

between the Smithsonian and government bodies concerned with the federal support for 

science. Indeed, the white paper did not address the SAO’s role in Harvard’s own future. 

At the time the paper was written, the Harvard College Observatory was also undergoing profound change. When Menzel (Figure 34) retired in 1964, Goldberg replaced him as 

director and within a few years relations between Goldberg and Whipple deteriorated to 

the point at which a series of deep reviews, both internal and external, led to a profound 

restructuring of the relationship into what is today called the Center for Astrophysics.

Figure 34 Donald Menzel, lecturing ca. 1962. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 7.

137

Chapter 9

Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors 

to Lunar Samples

Whipple’s personal research interests in meteors, their cosmic origins, and their 

interactions with Earth’s atmosphere, all found vastly expanded expression in projects and 

programs he initiated as he leveraged the Smithsonian as his institutional base. His pre–

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) Harvard meteor programs led directly to 

satellite tracking, which led to geodesy and to the Smithsonian Standard Earth, whereas 

his meteor research led first to sampling and analysis of meteoritic samples and eventually 

to the analysis of lunar samples. The Smithsonian’s white paper in 1965 brought all these 

lines together in “The Earth as a Planet,” which was dependent on project funding, mainly 

though NASA and the Air Force.629

Whipple’s leveraging, creating an institutional capability far broader than anything he 

could accomplish on his own as a Harvard faculty member, not only expanded his scope of 

techniques bearing on his particular interests, but also opened up new ways to encourage a 

wide variety of hybrid talents and interests, non-traditional at least in the astronomical profession. These became the areas where the Smithsonian saw its greatest growth in the 1960s. 

They were also areas that remained least integrated into the academic life of the Harvard 

College Observatory.

 Interdisciplinarity at the Harvard College Observatory

Harlow Shapley advocated interdisciplinarity in the first half of the twentieth century: 

“The big opportunities are obviously not in pure astronomy or physics or chemistry or 

geology, but in mixtures.” For Shapley, meteors and meteorites harbored clues to galactic 

evolution. Before Whipple found otherwise, Shapley, influenced by Öpik, was convinced 

that meteors had hyperbolic orbits and so were interstellar. In the early 1930s he parlayed 

this belief into a multi-disciplinary “Institute of Cosmogony” using various schemes including his Harvard Summer School in Astronomy, which he designed to draw in physicists, 

geologists, geophysicists, and meteorologists to expose his faculty and graduate students to 

interdisciplinarity.630

Whipple adopted Shapley’s interdisciplinarity, but not his entrepreneurial strategy. 

Shapley was comfortable and effective with corporate and personal philanthropy, but not 

with government or military options. By the early 1950s, however, Whipple and Menzel, 
138 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

through Air Force and Navy projects, were pulling in more funding for astronomy than 

any other astronomer, and Shapley’s observatory was a beneficiary.631 Whipple, of course, 

was clear in his convictions ever since he had reported in 1947 to the Joint Chiefs of Staff 

that “all basic upper atmospheric research is fundamentally and inherently of value to the 

general problems of national defense.”632

The military certainly promoted interdisciplinarity, but all three astronomers also 

appreciated, and were wary of, the unsteady nature of military funding, especially dangers 

of depending on a single patron.633 When the Navy dropped support for Whipple’s photographic meteor program in the early 1950s, it was due to the fact that it did not provide 

them with information on temperature profiles or other meteorological conditions as they 

had hoped.634 What it did provide was evidence that seasonal effects in upper atmosphere 

densities were not due to the atmosphere, but to the densities and tensile strengths of the 

various meteorite swarms that encountered Earth—some were meteoritic, some cometary, 

like the Geminids. And after losing Navy support, Whipple, with Menzel’s aid, convinced 

Air Force program officers to take it on to gauge upper air wind patterns from the observations of meteor trails to better inform re-entry profiles, and so his growing interdisciplinary 

empire continued.

Physical Sampling: From Meteorites to the Moon

In 1959, Whipple published two major reviews of meteor studies and the nature of 

the lunar surface that nicely illustrate how his penchant for promoting interdisciplinarity 

resulted in institutional growth at the SAO, supported by multiple patrons. The first, in the 

classic discipline-based Handbuch Der Physik, presented what was important about studying meteors, and what could come from the effort. The second, in Vistas in Astronautics,

was titled “On the Lunar Dust Layer” and linked meteoric studies to eventual in situ studies 

on the Moon.

Whipple teamed up with Gerald Hawkins, who had been leading the SAO’s radio 

meteor effort, to make the point that the problem area has “emerged from its isolation as a 

purely academic subject” and was now prospering in a far larger and more complex arena.635

Among many applications, they identified how meteors can affect the lower ionosphere 

and perturb radio communications; that meteoritic dust may have an influence stimulating 

heavy rainfall on a worldwide scale; and that meteoritic materials might well be diffused 

throughout interplanetary space, causing phenomena such as the zodiacal light. Meteoritic 

dust, they added, could be of concern to space travelers, both robotic and human, and 

knowledge from meteoritics would aid ablation studies and terminal ballistics studies that 

would help to better understand the formation of craters and Earth’s crustal history. In consequence, according to Whipple, echoing disdain for the touchy rock-hunting community 

of meteoriticists of the Nininger-Leonard era, meteors “had passed from the hands of the 

amateurs” to a wide range of professional workers, including optical and radio astronomers, 

orbit specialists, ballisticians, electronics experts, and mineralogists.636 In other words, it 

was now legitimate practice.
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 139

For Whipple, the most fundamental cosmic question about meteors had been well 

answered by 1959, following his own efforts in the 1930s that showed there were no observed 

hyperbolic meteors. There were just two major classes that came from two distinct parts of 

the solar system: cometary and asteroidal. So a broad range of disciplinary attention was 

now needed to probe the physical processes generated by encounters with Earth’s atmosphere, a range that did not, in fact, include his personal disciplinary strengths in celestial 

mechanics. A full picture of the interaction required studying meteors of a range of sizes, 

from the sub-micron scale to the meter scale. It also required chemical and physical analyses of meteorite fragments found on Earth via new methods that would isolate primordial 

properties from the effects of weathering and erosion.637

Whipple and Hawkins knew that if physical samples were the primary source of data, 

there was a strong selection effect. Stony meteorites weathered far more rapidly than irons 

and soon became virtually impossible to identify. This conclusion came from sampling statistics: Observed falls were all stony, whereas unobserved falls were irons.638 Unsaid here, 

but articulated in a proposal to the Office of Naval Research (ONR) less than a year later for 

what would soon be called the “Prairie Network,” Whipple argued for a new more powerful 

meteorite recovery program, this time to be optimized to acquire “freshly fallen meteorites 

for laboratory analysis.”639

This was not a new idea. Whipple originally tried to sell it as the “Texas network” 

in the 1940s, “hoping that I could get a rich Texan who would like to back a network that 

would cover the entire state of Texas (which is about a reasonable size), and photograph 

all the fireballs to find out where they came from.”640 Then his goal was to compute orbits 

and establish origins. But by 1959, it was also to improve chemical and physical knowledge 

useful to understanding the forces experienced by the intruder. The ONR had, of course, 

responded strongly in the 1940s which led to Harvard’s Super-Schmidt program. But now 

Whipple hoped for a network that was far larger. When the ONR balked in 1960, he applied 

to NASA and secured funding—not all he hoped for, but enough to create a wide network 

of less sophisticated cameras. Unlike the Super-Schmidt systems, which were designed to 

capture as many trails as possible, bright and faint, for orbital statistics, the Prairie Network 

was optimized for bright fireballs, ones that were most likely to produce recoverable debris 

after impact, and trails long enough to assess deceleration rates with height.641

Whipple knew he was not alone in proposing a collection strategy, especially for fresh 

samples.642 In September 1959, James Bradley had to step in to broker a competing proposal from Edward Henderson at the National Museum of Natural History (NMNH). The 

result was a series of regional and national meetings sponsored by the SAO, orchestrated by 

Whipple, that brought in different groups, especially the meteoriticist John Russell of the 

University of Southern California, then president of the Meteoritical Society and a moderating force in the “small, feud-riven” organization. Whipple also asked Ed Fireman to 

organize another special session, bringing in leading workers familiar with cosmogenic 

isotopes. He even managed to link the theme to the traditional Astrophysical Observatory 

(APO) preoccupation, namely, the question of the constancy of the solar flux.643

Fireman reported from his special session that attendees agreed that the Smithsonian 

was the ideal coordinating body for a worldwide collecting plan. To date, collecting had 
140 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

been “very haphazard,” hampered by many factors: lack of manpower, legal ownership 

when the object landed on private land, and even the idiosyncrasies of the “personality 

of the successful collector.”644 They also called for a coherent large-scale network of linked 

cameras to track falls and determine their points of impact for rapid collection. Only with 

such a mechanism in place could they hope to gather fresh samples within days or weeks 

that would yield reliable mineralogical, metallurgical, and isotopic analysis.

Indeed, the Smithsonian was the ideal coordinating unit. The SAO had an enormous 

international footprint, not only from its Baker-Nunn stations but, significantly, from its 

many dozens of teams of Moonwatchers who were already primed to report falls through 

their existing communications networks. Henderson, too, had his own network of active 

meteoriticists in need of samples. Accordingly, the first order plan was to direct everyone to 

report falls to Fred Whipple, or to Henderson.645

Fireman left to the imagination how Whipple and Henderson would cooperate. That 

was worked out in a second meeting in Washington, again brokered by Bradley, between the 

SAO and NMNH scientists, as they prepared a proposal for outside funding. Henderson, 

they decided, would draft the proposal, which Whipple then would critique. Henderson’s 

proposal was very modest: where field searches would be organized only after casual reports 

of falls. Whipple was far more ambitious, calling for an active plan that would increase the 

chance that more falls would be detected and retrieved. Henderson had no problem with 

that, but left the active element to the SAO. The stumbling block was where the retrieved 

specimens would be housed and shared. Henderson naturally pushed for his museum, 

where specimens would be properly housed and inventoried, and distributed equitably 

through some form of peer process. Whipple vehemently rejected this plan, insisting that 

the SAO have “at least an equal stake” in the collection and analysis process.646 Their differences were never reconciled and caused much confusion at times in the program.

Whipple’s second review paper, “On the Lunar Dust Layer,” appeared in the newly 

established spaceflight-oriented series Vistas in Astronautics. Vistas started as a conference publishing venue for various sponsors, including the Air Force Office of Scientific 

Research and aerospace corporations, and was one of many new initiatives designed 

to create identity, inform policy, and foster communication. Whipple had contributed 

papers to the first volume on “The Meteoritic Risk to Space Vehicles” and “Orbit Accuracy 

and Ranges from Ground-Based Optical Tracking.” In the second volume, he employed 

his knowledge of meteor impacts to ask whether it was safe to land humans on the surface 

of the Moon.

It was a simple but highly provocative question, even for 1959, “whether the physical surface can provide structural support for the landing of space vehicles, the erection 

of shelters, and physical exploration by members of an expedition.”647 His goal was to test 

Tom Gold’s 1955 assertion, based on thermal studies from the late 1940s, that the solidlooking maria were actually deep, unconsolidated layers of soft dust that would not support 

landing craft, and would foul any mechanical instrument that attempted to soft-land using 

conventional rocket thrusters.648 Whipple disagreed, drawing on extensive observational 

studies measuring the Moon’s albedo in infrared wavelengths and short radio waves, and 

estimates of meteoritic bombardment of the lunar surface as well as the chemical reaction 
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 141

to this bombardment as interpreted from explosive cratering experiments called “sputtering.” There was dust to be sure, but it was neither deep nor soft because these processes 

would “cement together dust grains on the lunar surface.” Whipple also presciently argued 

that large impacts would propel a good fraction of the ejecta to high velocities, causing a 

portion to spread across the lunar surface, and even some to escape lunar gravity completely.649 Concluding his statement, Whipple mused, “The author waits with the greatest 

eagerness for firsthand information concerning the correctness of these conclusions, when 

the first landings on the Moon will provide the answers.”650

Indeed, these were exciting times for Whipple. Multiple lines of support, led by NASA 

and Department of Defense (DOD) resources, and buttressed by the direct Smithsonian 

pipeline to Congress, made it possible for him to initiate many collaborations to explore 

just about everything on the forefront of meteoritics. On an Air Force contract, he enlisted 

the talents of an Argentine student at the Harvard College Observatory, Carlos Manuel 

Varsavsky, who had been working at the High Altitude Observatory and then with Menzel 

on the solar corona and opacities in stellar atmospheres. Whipple turned Varsavsky to 

the origin of tektites, which had been debated throughout the 1950s, and he became one 

of the first to argue for their lunar origin.651 In a related line, Whipple engaged SuperSchmidt team members led by McCrosky and Hawkins to show that none or few if any 

of the doubly photographed meteor trails captured with his Super-Schmidts could be of 

lunar origin.652

Whipple’s institution building expanded his passion for meteor studies from traditional celestial mechanics methods to aerodynamics, hyperballistics, and mineralogy. This 

journey took him from the vast open plains of America’s western prairies to the lunar 

surface.

The Prairie Network

Richard McCrosky organized and led the effort to operate an array of small cameras to 

track and triangulate meteor trails to their impact points. One of Whipple’s most adaptable 

and versatile colleagues, “Mac” McCrosky had been active in Whipple’s meteor studies for 

more than a decade, exploring meteor fragmentation using optical and radio techniques 

(Figures 35 and 36). In a 1965 report on the Network, he described how its goals differed 

from the Super-Schmidt program: Now, rather than acting like a “bulimic meteor astronomer” maximizing sensitivity to catch the faintest trails, the Prairie Network staff would 

gather “the most data on the most bright meteors” limited only by finances.653 It would be 

the brightest meteors that had the greatest chance of reaching the ground, so their trajectories had to be precisely determined.

Funding from NASA provided for staff and operations and an expansion of Fireman’s 

laboratory for mineralogical analysis, but left little for instrumentation, which in 1961 the 

Air Force relieved by giving them enough T-11 aerial mapping cameras to supply at first 

13 small stations designed in an array of three nested hexagons with stations separated by 

some 225 kilometers. More stations were soon added, providing three stations at the center 
142 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Figure 35 Richard McCrosky examines bright meteor trails in a time 

exposure from a Prairie Network station. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Acc. 16-263, Box 4.

Figure 36 The Prairie Network time 

exposure shows star trails, a faint 

meteor, and a bright exploding fireball, 

a bolide. A rotating sector in the camera 

produced multiple exposures to record 

speed and brightness changes in the 

meteor trails. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 4.
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 143

of each hexagon and increasing the perimeter station distances to 250 kilometers to provide 

an optimal combination of double and triple stations.654 Each station operated automatically, driven by sensor-driven circuits that could open or close the cameras depending on 

cloud cover, sky brightness, precipitation, and winds. There were two programmed exposure times, a short twilight mode, and a “nighttime” mode, with a standard exposure time 

of two hours.655

The first station opened at a dark site in Havana, Illinois, in March 1963, and the sixteenth station in May 1964. The sites had been surveyed by the U.S. Geological Survey and 

local inhabitants were employed to check in on each station every few days. The exposed 

film canisters (390-foot rolls of 9-inch wide photographic film) were sent to a central station 

in Lincoln, Nebraska, headed by Gunther Schwartz.

Managing the field work for McCrosky and Schwartz was Charles A. (Chuck) Tougas, 

a resourceful ex-Marine who had learned to fly an airplane so he could service the network, which ranged over seven states from Illinois to South Dakota to Oklahoma. James 

Cornell recalled that Whipple regarded Tougas as his “strong man during the frontier era 

of the observatory,” and to Cornell he was the “field guy who’d go out there and get things 

done under adverse conditions, lay up the network, find the surplus material, get the roads 

[ready].” He rented land from farmers and did all the local hiring. “Chuck was here almost 

from the very beginning, and he was a robust, hard-working guy, but a bit of Sergeant 

Bilko.”656 After his work on the Prairie Network, Tougas moved to Arizona to build the 

Mount Hopkins facility.

The chief question in Carmichael’s mind was, where would the recovered meteorites end up? Initially, he favored the SAO as the central coordinator, given its success with 

Moonwatch, but the SAO was, after all, not a museum. He knew that both Whipple and 

Henderson were campaigning to set up schemes for analysis. Henderson understood that 

Whipple’s chief goal was to retrieve and analyze the physical and mineralogical character of the sample as quickly as possible, especially the relatively delicate outer surfaces 

that would reveal the most information about its interaction with Earth’s atmosphere.657

But Carmichael also knew that Henderson’s philosophy, beyond analysis, was to share 

samples far and wide, as he had been doing for years, garnering a powerful community 

of allies among his users. Add to this, Carmichael was very sensitive about where the 

traditional core of Smithsonian research in the geosciences lay. Therefore, Carmichael 

suggested that Whipple keep in mind Henderson’s interests, asking that “a portion of 

each meteorite collected” be given over to NMNH’s Department of Geology “as a contribution to its work and permanent collection.”658 Whipple diplomatically agreed that 

he would provide Henderson with samples, “as much . . . as can possibly be spared from 

immediate study.”659

Carmichael wanted to support Henderson’s facility to make it competitive with 

Whipple’s within a new, larger venue called the Department of Mineral Sciences, adding 

new staff and equipment, also funded by NASA but with significant direct support from the 

home institution. Whipple, of course, was not happy with the obvious favor shown by the 

administration, and so redoubled his efforts, recruiting friends at NASA to reassert SAO’s 

centrality. This led in 1966 to a tripartite committee of Natural History, NASA, and SAO 
144 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

staff, joined by representatives of their legal departments, to decide on specific responsibilities and modes of operation. At stake was who would be designated as the national 

clearinghouse.660

During the first 12 years of the project, from 1963 to 1975, some 334 fireballs were 

recorded and evaluated. But very little was retrieved.661 The lone specimen, from what is 

known as the “Lost City Meteorite,” fell in Oklahoma in 1970 and was retrieved by Schwartz 

less than a week later. It was the first of four from that fall, and the collection became 

something of a test case between SAO and NMNH over who would actually analyze the 

fragments. Plotkin has reviewed the process and concluded that “practical and scientific 

considerations easily took place over jurisdictional prerogatives, resulting in a truly cooperative undertaking.”662

By then, however, members of Fireman’s group and others within Whipple’s empire 

were preoccupied with analyzing the Smithsonian’s share of lunar dust, extrapolating from 

what they had learned from terrestrial samples that came not from the Prairie Network, but 

from a major fall in Mexico.

Allende and Chondrules

Two key staff in Fireman’s laboratory were Ursula Marvin, who began work in 1961, 

and John Wood, who arrived in 1965. Marvin, Wood recalled, was a critical player, having established an interdisciplinary and interinstitutional “Meteorite Discussion Group” to 

reach a wider domain beyond SAO and Harvard.663 In both cases, Whipple provided the 

means.

Ursula Bailey Marvin trained in both history and geology at Tufts University, and 

then took graduate training in geology at Harvard University-Radcliffe, earning an MS in 

geology in 1946. After six years of exploration geology in Brazil and Angola, she returned 

to Cambridge in 1958 and secured a job at the Harvard Mineralogical and Geological 

Museum (now part of the Harvard Museum of Natural History) working for its curator, the noted mineralogist Clifford Frondel. Frondel wanted to keep her employed, 

and so soon asked Whipple if he could support her on Fireman’s grants, and soon she 

was retained as a permanent civil servant.664 She remained at the museum to prepare 

meteorite samples while pursuing graduate studies leading to the PhD in 1969. In the 

early 1960s, she collaborated with a variety of researchers in the Cambridge area, from 

Harvard’s Department of Geological Sciences to the U.S. Army’s Cold Regions Research 

and Engineering Laboratory in Hanover, New Hampshire, exploring the physical and 

chemical properties of dust and rock samples believed to be of extraterrestrial origin 

using a wide range of laboratory facilities in the area, typically electron probe machines 

at the U.S. Geological Survey (USGS) and Fireman’s isotopic laboratory.665 In all this, she, 

Wood, and others at the SAO were preparing for the arrival of lunar samples. In early 

1969 they got a chance to test their readiness, studying recently fallen fragments from 

Allende.666
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 145

A very bright fireball, seen as far north as Arizona, exploded over the village of 

Pueblito de Allende in Chihuahua, Mexico, in the early morning of 8 February 1969. 

Within days, scientists from NASA’s Lunar Receiving Laboratory in Houston, Texas, 

rushed to the site, gathering many specimens, citing the effort as “an excellent rehearsal” 

for the lunar work.667 It was a Type III carbonaceous chondrite, considered very primitive and revealing of conditions present in the original solar nebula. The chondrite family 

includes stony condensates with comparatively low levels of iron, nickel, and silicon but 

rich in calcium and aluminum, often containing calcium-aluminum inclusions called 

chondrules. These are light colored and whitish, roughly spherical bodies typically smaller 

than a centimeter in diameter. They are thought to be the earliest condensates in the contracting solar nebula.

Alerted by the SAO’s newly organized Center for Short-Lived Phenomena, senior 

curators Brian Mason and Roy Clarke from the National Museum rushed to Northern 

Mexico to retrieve samples. Meanwhile, Robert Citron, who headed the center, used his 

connections to secure a sample from locals on site and had it shipped to the SAO. The center was a “new service” of the SAO, created by Whipple at Ripley’s request, that combined 

SAO’s satellite-tracking infrastructure with several Smithsonian research bureaus that specialized in rapid collecting.668 This was yet another instance in which Whipple exploited the 

Smithsonian’s ability to alert diverse communities to all sorts of unpredictable events, from 

meteorite impacts to volcanoes to floods and earthquakes.669

When Citron’s Center for Short-Lived Phenomena got the news, it contacted the Air 

Force, which dispatched a B-57 over the Gulf of Mexico to collect airborne dust suspected 

to be lingering there after being ablated off the original body. Citron also notified people 

who had recovered specimens and kept everyone informed of progress. Within weeks, the 

U.S. National Museum (now the National Museum of Natural History) had collected samples and was in the process of distributing them widely. Fireman received an 85 gram sample from Citron within a week of the fall and larger samples soon after. Allende turned out 

to be the largest carbonaceous chondrite to be quickly retrieved.670

As with Marvin, Wood’s career and experience, and his seminal role in analyzing 

meteorite and lunar samples, best highlights Whipple’s interdisciplinary institution building (Figure  37). Trained in geology at Virginia Tech and then MIT, receiving his PhD 

in 1958, Wood also took a minor concentration in astronomy, coming into contact with 

Whipple. At Harvard he learned meteorite thin section techniques from Frondel, and 

decided eventually to pursue dissertation research in meteorite petrography, supported by 

Whipple with SAO funds. Inspecting the meteorite thin sections, Wood recalled, “I loved 

the chondrules, each a unique igneous rock, and tried to picture how they could have 

formed in the early solar system.”671 Whipple placed him under Rinehart to study ablation, 

hyperballistics, and radioisotopic techniques. He also learned methods of applying x-ray 

fluorescence techniques and metallography from Marvin.672 Wood was exposed to many 

diverse analytical techniques and became adept at bridging both disciplinary and cognitive 

boundaries.

Variations seen in chondrules, Wood suspected, might reveal the nature of the solidstate processes that led to the formation of these bodies. He pursued these interests at 
146 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Cambridge University and then the Fermi Institute at the University of Chicago, where he 

studied under the radiochemist and meteoriticist Edward Anders. There he became familiar with techniques in metallurgy and the use of a new technology, the electron microprobe. 

Anders in particular encouraged Wood to focus these techniques on carbonaceous chondrites for his analysis of their metamorphic nature, which he described through a physical 

system of classification. By the end of his postdoctoral years, Wood was becoming known 

and respected in a widening circle beyond the bounds of meteoritics. Whipple, of course, 

had kept in close touch with him through his postdoctoral years and frequently reminded 

him that he was welcome back at the SAO at any time. By the time he returned to the 

SAO, he was a member of the Space Science Board’s committee on planetary surfaces and 

interiors.673

Campaigning for Lunar Sample Returns

As a member of this committee, Wood helped to draft and deliver a petition to NASA 

in January 1962, urging it to restore the planned robotic Prospector mission. These were 

heavily instrumented landers and rovers including one to scoop up some soil and return 

it to Earth for direct analysis. When it was cancelled, Wood was among those objecting 

Figure 37 John Wood and Ursula Marvin in their lunar sample analysis laboratory. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, SIA Acc. 16-263, Box 5.
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 147

strongly, stating that returning lunar samples was “of greater scientific importance than the 

achievement of sending a man to the Moon and back.”674

The cancellation relegated any possibility of sample return to human lunar lander 

missions.675 So over the next several years NASA issued ever-more-detailed, open-ended 

requests for proposals for lunar surface science experiments, including sample return 

analysis. A fourth announcement in May 1966, asking for definite proposals from anyone ready to perform “sample analysis by the spring of 1968” attracted hundreds of proposals, including Wood and Fireman.676 Wood proposed that the SAO would develop 

a laboratory facility to handle Apollo materials while he and his colleagues continued 

with their analysis of chondrites and their metamorphic properties. He recalls that there 

was enough support at the SAO for regular projects, but to gear up for Apollo, he had to 

start seeking funding to build a larger team and a dedicated facility. Apparently, he had 

little problem obtaining support and definitely no problem recruiting people because, as 

he recalled, there was an atmosphere of open interdisciplinary interaction. In the atmosphere generated by Marvin and Whipple, Wood recalled that “collaboration seemed like 

the logical and gentlemanly thing to do.”677 One of the first people he asked to join his 

NASA-sponsored group was, in fact, Marvin, whom he first encountered through her 

meteorite discussion group.

Whipple’s networks were informal, yet they were so complex that Wood did not realize for some time that Marvin was already an SAO staffer. With Marvin, Wood’s group 

obtained samples from the Allende meteorite fall. This work, and especially the fact that 

the meteorite community was warming to Wood’s metamorphic classification, gave him a 

certain status that made him competitive for Apollo samples. And though he succeeded in 

being designated as a “lunar sample Principal Investigator,” he proceeded cautiously, acting 

as if he, Marvin, and their newly hired postdocs “understood clearly that our position in 

the lunar program was at the bottom of the totem pole.” He rationalized this as due to his 

age, “lowly stature in the field, and maybe the fact that I wasn’t on a university faculty.” He 

sensed he was now in a field much larger than the meteorite community, namely, the “terrestrial geosciences, a very different population from cosmochemists.” He also felt like an 

outsider, claiming that all he could hope for were leavings.678

In fact, though there was a general perception that status distinctions existed between 

geochemistry and field geology in the study of the Moon and planetary surfaces, opportunities for analysis were spread far and wide.679 Among those obtaining samples from the first 

successful Apollo mission, there were elite American, Canadian, European, and Japanese 

universities. But there were also dozens of groups selected from the U.S. Geological Survey, 

Oak Ridge National Laboratory, and NASA’s own centers. There were four separate programs approved for the Smithsonian alone. In addition to Wood, Fireman was waiting for 

samples to conduct isotopic studies. There were also projects at the NMNH and at Harvard 

under Frondel. Wood’s program, with Marvin identified as Co-PI, was titled “Mineralogic 

and Petrologic Studies by Optical Microscopy, X-Ray Diffraction and Electron Microprobe 

Measurements.”680

Through the years that NASA issued various requests for proposals, 1964 through 

1967, Wood’s reputation had most certainly become very solid. His recent papers had 
148 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

already garnered some 70 citations and he was firmly established in his specialty with 

two review papers in respected volumes.681 This was not only an indication of the quality of his work, but also the size of the community now interested in the problem areas 

being addressed.682 And of course, Whipple widely reported that Fireman, Marvin, and 

Wood now had “laboratories for the isotopic, mineralogical, and petrological study of 

lunar materials to be returned by the Apollo mission.”683 The SAO was ready for the 

main event.

Returns from Apollo

NASA had devised a complex process for proposing and then evaluating scientific 

experiments for NASA missions, starting in 1960 with the creation of the Space Sciences 

Steering Committee and its numerous subcommittees, and in spring 1964 with the creation of selection criteria that provided metrics for choices. There was to be sure much 

“stress and strain” and it took some time to achieve equanimity or balance between scientists, their institutions, and NASA.684 It was within this overall process that the new 

Manned Spacecraft Center in Houston formed committees and subcommittees to evaluate 

proposals. In March 1967, Homer Newell informed Wood and Marvin that they were 

among the selected groups and invited them to Houston in September where all parties 

would get a chance to examine the new Lunar Receiving Laboratory. There, they would 

make sure that “all problems of handling and distributing samples” were properly aired 

and discussed.685

About a year after the Houston meeting, as they built up their laboratory, Wood 

and Marvin stated what they wanted: 1 cubic centimeter “or less” of “lunar soil” to 

study “on a grain by grain basis.” They were still gathering in equipment, including an 

x-ray radiation source capable of producing an extremely fine beam some 0.1 millimeter in width, for “micro-techniques new to our laboratory.”686 Both Marvin and Wood 

expected to devote at least half their time over the next year through FY 1971 on this 

project, with outside support through current funding. Marvin would have primary 

responsibility for setting up and operating the x-ray probe, whereas Wood would focus 

on mounting and analyzing the samples on the electron probe, with the aid of postdoctoral fellows.

Despite Wood’s claim that they were left with the detritus: not the rocks, but the soil 

and the dust, there is good evidence that he well knew that it might yield the most important clues to the nature of the lunar highlands, and indeed to the overall nature and history 

of the lunar crust and the existence of a magmatic ocean, if the fragments retained the 

structural complexity of their origins. After all, Whipple had made this point, envisioning 

impact cratering sending debris everywhere. Their Allende work had been geared to studying the same regime, tiny mineral grains, and they had been using these samples in their 

simulations of how they would analyze the lunar materials. In addition, among her many 

interests at the time, which included assessing continental drift rates from satellite geodesy, 

Marvin was a key player in Fireman’s efforts to collect and analyze dust from the Greenland 
Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors to Lunar Samples • 149

icecap, and she was very familiar with dealing with dust.687 So, when they got their share of 

lunar regolith after the return of Apollo 11, they were ready.688

Apollo 11 lunar samples arrived at the Lunar Receiving Laboratory (LRL) in late July 

1969, just as a Conference on Lunar Science was being held there, which brought many if 

not most of the hopeful samplers to a sweltering Houston. Wood recalled seeing the rocks 

through thick glass, but it would not be until September that he could revisit Houston to 

receive about a tablespoon full of sieved material, dust and soil that had passed through a 

1 or 2 millimeter sieve fraction. And as it did with other groups, NASA’s LRL also lent Wood 

various thin sections for inspection and analysis.689

Wood’s team quickly found happy surprises. Indeed, they did not find only mineral 

fragments, but also tiny fragments of rocks, “sufficiently fine-grained for almost all of them 

to be polycrystalline, polyminerallic, and fairly representative of the rock it had been broken from.”690 In effect, they had a “huge collection” of coherent rock types, and so they 

started looking for population types. His team soon detected impact-melted glasses in the 

rocks, declaring “the truth,” as Wood described it: “That’s an anorthosite composition!” To 

a meteoriticist, this was a big deal, and as a cosmochemist, he speculated that these specks, 

distinguished by their color that was lighter than the majority, “might be pieces of the white 

highlands of the Moon.”691

They found anorthosites, intrusive igneous rocks characteristic of magmatic origin, 

in abundance at the Apollo 11 landing site. This fact indicated at once that this granular 

material came from all over the Moon, and was a result of continuous meteoritic impact 

and erosion by cosmic rays, just the inferences drawn by Whipple in 1959. Wood knew that 

other groups at Chicago and Goddard and California would be able to make these conclusions, but these groups would be looking first at the basalts of Mare Tranquillitatis: “The 

terrestrial geologists among lunar investigators thought it their first duty to understand that 

basalt, and they worked in that direction.”692

Wood felt he was in the right place at the right time, and that he and his group had the 

right training, equipment, and experience. They were meteoriticists, not terrestrial geologists. USGS workers, in addition, were subject to hierarchical review and to conservatism, 

and would not have been free to make such speculative leaps. In tune with followers of 

meteor trails like Whipple, and meteorite hunters like Marvin, Wood lived in an institution 

that knew that the “samples had to have a context and a history.”693

So instead of local origins for the white pieces from some outcrops and the dark 

basalts from the site, Wood speculated that they came from an original magma ocean. He 

had plenty of clues, from Surveyor lunar lander analyses, to the detection of asymmetric 

contractions of mass inside the Moon, discrete “mascons.” If indeed the Moon possessed a 

magmatic interior, the lunar highlands had to be a product of isostatic compensation, just 

like on Earth.

Wood’s group continued their analysis of Apollo 11 samples. As later Apollo missions 

brought back a wider sampling, they were able to confirm and strengthen their view of 

the highlands as thermally differentiated clumps of less dense material floating on a magmatic ocean that had been created by repeated asteroid-sized impacts early in the history 

of the Moon. Wood attributes his success bringing all these clues together to the mixing of 
150 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

disciplines at SAO fostered by Whipple. In their various reports, his group acknowledged 

both Whipple and Lundquist for “stimulating discussions of lunar theory,” and well as both 

SAO and Harvard for facilities to conduct microprobe analysis, handling and mounting the 

microscope slides, and extensive computer studies of heat flow.694

Wood, Marvin, and their teams of associates continued through the 1970s along lines 

established during the Whipple years. They continued to gather correlative evidence to 

develop a refined picture of the many processes engaged in the formation of the early solar 

system. This included a better understanding of the nature of the parent bodies fostering 

meteorite falls, their origins and ages, and what they could say about the nature of the original interstellar nebula that gave rise to the Sun and planets, very much a mainstream topic 

in modern astrophysics.695
151

Chapter 10

“Project Celescope”: SAO’s Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory

In his August 1958 Saturday Evening Post essay “Eyes in Space,” energized by SAO’s 

satellite-tracking success, Whipple proclaimed that from space, “Great telescope mirrors 

can focus ultraviolet or infrared radiations on television pickups, to send back pictures of 

the universe that the human eye will never see directly.”696 New technologies were beckoning and Whipple introduced the “Cat Eye.” As a new technology, it symbolized both the 

promise and the risks of spaceflight. Embracing both, Whipple marshaled forces to build a 

space telescope for humanity.697

Unlike the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory’s (SAO) meteoritics and lunarsampling efforts, Whipple’s role in Celescope was as facilitator. It was, for him, a way to 

build up staff and resources and to build an institution. It was not a personal scientific 

passion. Celescope also had a very different history than the analysis of lunar samples by 

Wood and Marvin. First, it was just as well that NASA assumed the bulk of the responsibility for the mission development beyond the instrument packages. The scientific groups 

that had been selected to provide instruments knew that they had their hands full just 

delivering their payloads. Because it was an institution builder for Whipple, the technical 

and managerial choices the SAO made, and the subsequent problems these choices raised, 

created considerable friction between Goddard and the SAO in the mid-1960s. Following 

the course of the friction will provide insight into the risks inherent in technology choice, 

as well as the challenges Whipple faced as he built his empire. It will also shed light on 

NASA/university relations.

At the outset, both the Smithsonian and Wisconsin groups lacked in-house resources 

to build the instruments themselves.698 However, Wisconsin had already established a 

Space Astronomy Laboratory in 1959, and its leaders were highly adept at the photoelectric technologies they would apply. They also contracted locally with small-instrument 

specialists to keep control over everything and opted for telescope designs not so different 

from point-source photoelectric techniques that were familiar tools of the observational 

astronomer.699

Whipple and his staff, however, made different choices. They certainly knew that they 

suffered from a profound lack of in-house facilities to create and test the components, but 

they also chose a particular technology that no astronomer in that day had mastered. Every 

facet of the project required breaking new ground, obtaining staff with expertise in areas 

not before encountered, building new laboratories, and creating a communications and 
152 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

liaison structure able to keep in touch with contractors as well as NASA. And, in stark contrast to the Wisconsin group, and the local expertise surrounding Wood and Marvin, they 

lacked local personnel with practical knowledge of photoelectric technologies, and chose to 

contract with large corporations at great distances from campus.

There are many facets to the Celescope story characteristic of the challenges facing 

emerging technological fields: the challenge players face to construct specifications for an 

instrument adequate to the task, and then to deliver that instrument with those given specifications to perform the task on time. This was true for almost every facet of the project, and 

it was shared by SAO staff, NASA staff, and contractors alike. This applied to the satellite 

payload design, the television detectors, the television telemetry antenna systems, and even 

the choice of the optical systems.700

Celescope presented myriad dynamical, mechanical, and optical challenges, most if 

not all of them common to first-generation space projects, such as persistent electric arcing and the shorting-out of the high-power supplies that plagued the early Orbiting Solar 

Observatory (OSO) missions and weather satellites.701 What was unique to, and important about, the Celescope program was the challenge of building suitable low-light-level 

image detectors that provided reliable photometric precision over the life of the mission. 

Whipple’s decision to employ this new technology and the results of that decision are, once 

again, key to his institutional goals.

Technical Challenges: The Detectors

Celescope needed a detector to measure the ultraviolet brightnesses of the stars. 

Such a system had to meet three prime requirements: extreme low-light-level sensitivity; 

full calibration over time of photometric, spectral, and spatial information; and sensitivity to the far ultraviolet with relative insensitivity to visible radiation. Choices were 

photography, which required either the physical return of the film, or a processing system on board the craft; fixed or variable iris photometry with conventional point source, 

photoelectric photometers; some form of two-dimensional electronic scanning like television; or electrostatic imaging. The latter two required a combination of on-board electronic storage, a high-speed data stream, and appropriate electronic algorithms for data 

processing.

In the early 1960s, even the most optimistic provider of electronic imaging devices, 

J. D. McGee of University College London, urged caution. In 1958, he felt that “there was 

still a long way to go,” and as late as 1962 he still felt that “television signal-generating 

devices are still of limited use to the working astronomer.”702 He envisioned that they would 

eventually come into their own for satellite observations, but they were not ready yet. As 

experienced instrument-oriented astronomers like Wisconsin’s Art Code knew well, adapting vidicons to precision photometric UV detection at the time was “beyond the state of 

the art.”703 McGee actively promoted the new technology, but often expressed private frustration that the “problem of making tubes still remains a chancy business” or, quite bluntly, 

“no satisfactory tube has yet to be made.”704
“Project Celescope” • 153

There were, to be sure, television systems in use in satellites in 1960 for high-light 

levels. These were applied variously by NASA and by both American and Soviet military 

reconnaissance programs, and were successful on Luna 3 in October 1959 and by the 

weather satellite series TIROS. But none other than the military had the peculiar demands 

that astronomical application required, mainly extreme low-light-level sensitivity, spatial 

and photometric stability, and tight physical calibration. And even the military, as far as is 

known, did not require detectors for the ultraviolet. To make a commercial tube sensitive 

to the UV required special transmitting optics. Quartz would be good only to 2,000 ångströms, and beyond that something like a lithium fluoride window was needed. Also, the 

composition of the cathode had to be optimized for the UV range, and preferably made 

insensitive to visible light.

Given the state of the technology, Davis had his hands full just searching out commercial sources that were willing to develop detectors. This was only one of his many responsibilities, especially as Hynek, who had championed the electronic image detector option 

and Cat Eye, soon left the SAO for the Dearborn Observatory of Northwestern University. 

Starting in spring 1958, Davis found manufacturers willing to discuss the technical issues 

and provide estimates of costs and timelines and delivery schedules, but none was assuring 

that success would be at hand without considerable experimentation over a long period of 

time. One, however, offered an interesting alternative.

R. P. Haviland, at General Electric’s Missile and Ordnance Department in Philadelphia, 

was very anxious to be of service, but did not think much of electronic detection and telemetry. Haviland was part of a large team at G.E. that was developing “a 50-pound film package 

returned from an orbiting satellite” that would be ready “within 9 months.” G.E.’s “device” 

could keep orientation to within 1 minute of arc of the true zenith, and give the coordinates to 1 second of arc and cover the whole sky from its polar orbit “by moving the film 

to keep up with the motion of the image.”705 Davis was intrigued, but both he and Whipple 

remained wedded to electronic data retrieval. Davis even admitted that “photography 

would give higher quality information” but still opted for the telemetry scheme, which he 

felt had a better chance of success.706 SAO astronomers also rejected the option of on-board 

photographic recording, processing, and optical scanning, akin to what was to become part 

of Lunar Orbiter in the mid-1960s.707

Davis also contacted vendors ranging from RCA’s new Astro-Electronics Product 

Division, various divisions of Westinghouse (Air Arms Division and its Research 

Laboratories), Perkin-Elmer, the University of Rochester and Kodak, the CBS Research 

Laboratories, and Bausch and Lomb. Some, for example, Fairchild Camera and Instrument 

Corporation, like G.E., suggested physical retrieval of photographic film or “the use of film 

and storage with subsequent readout.” Even when some, more familiar with the electronoptics field, like Rod Scott at Perkin-Elmer, openly questioned Whipple’s claim that off-theshelf detectors and electronics could be found, Whipple and Davis remained firmly focused 

on image tubes.708 In late 1959, they contracted with Westinghouse Research Laboratories 

to produce an electrostatic detector modified to work in the far ultraviolet. Their decision 

is another indication of Whipple’s ultimate goal—to build up institutional capabilities 

unavailable elsewhere. After all, NASA was encouraging new technologies, and Whipple 
154 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

wanted to be as competitive as possible. Whipple also had the support of his closest staff. In 

June 1960, McCrosky eloquently advised: “Observatories of the stature and size of SAO and 

HCO [Harvard College Observatory] should be actively participating in this next generation of observing techniques.”709

Westinghouse adapted its “EBICON” tube (electron bombardment induction conductivity) by installing an ultraviolet transmitting window, but after six months of effort 

had little to show, which worried Davis.710 The first sample EBICON they were shown in 

August was only a dummy, and had serious leakage problems in the seams between the 

ultraviolet transmission windows and the glass walls of the tubes. The engineers knew that 

whatever they came up with had to withstand 10g with vibration levels of 2,000 cycles, 

the conditions of launch and orbital insertion. By late August, the SAO admitted that the 

detectors “are presently the major obstacle to the progress of the program.”711

Westinghouse soon changed the tube’s name to “Uvicon” to better market a new 

cathode formulation and to suggest a new and fresh course of action. But reliability and 

sensitivity continued to elude them. Even though the SAO did not need long-lived tubes 

for its tests with sounding rockets lofting a small photometric telescope, which they hoped 

for at first, Westinghouse still could not provide suitable examples.

Meanwhile, Whipple managed to complicate matters by proposing to fly x-ray telescopes on the sounding rockets to perform quick surveys, collaborating with P. C. Fisher, 

an experienced nuclear physicist and x-ray investigator at Lockheed Missiles and Space 

Co.712 But this additional goal increased costs, and NASA flatly objected during budget 

negotiations in Washington on 20 September. SAO had asked for some $1.32 million 

for FY 1961 but was approved for $700,000. The meeting grew contentious when Nancy 

Roman, program scientist from NASA HQ for the Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

(OAO), questioned the size of the SAO staff, and Goddard’s James Kupperian flatly stated 

that a project of this magnitude was better within NASA’s walls at Goddard, believing that 

in-house projects were less expensive than out-of-house contracted projects.713 Not only 

was the program far too expensive, but the reduced budget would also be locked up in 

problems with NASA’s overall 1961 budget.

Throughout the rest of 1960, nothing seemed to go right. Westinghouse was still 

unable to produce a stable detector that could resist acceleration and vibrational forces. 

Two new SAO engineers who visited Westinghouse in October to inspect 10 Uvicons 

found only one that was “ready to work in the laboratory.” It could detect ultraviolet light 

but there were defects, including random arcing, lack of sensitivity, and loss of resolution. 

They tried to be optimistic, reporting to Davis that although there were serious issues, “no 

insurmountable problems are being faced.”714 On NASA’s side, some sounding rocket flights 

from Wallops were in the works, but they too were delayed. NASA had momentarily agreed 

to fly an SAO payload mainly to test its own pointing controls on their Aerobee sounding 

rockets.715

The story remained the same through early 1961. When Westinghouse failed to 

meet promised delivery times, or reported a failure in a certain development process, 

SAO staff began looking for alternative sources of acceptable image-tube detectors. They 

went back to the Cat Eye at one point, still being tested at SAO’s Organ Pass station 
“Project Celescope” • 155

for satellite tracking.716 They also were interested in an orthicon being developed by 

General Electric for the Air Force that could reach 16th-magnitude stars at the focus of 

a small telescope.717 By March, however, Westinghouse reported progress in hardening 

the tubes, and despite NASA’s call for some kind of quantitative reliability factor, which 

it did not define precisely, and Westinghouse’s initial willingness to speculate on it, SAO 

engineers knew that it was not a meaningful effort: “This is a new tube; it has not been 

built before, other than in extremely limited quantities, and statistical data is not available in any way, shape or form regarding this tube.” They needed something, but what? 

“It would be equally foolhardy, of course, to simply blindly say to Westinghouse, ‘give 

us some tubes to put in here.’ ”

718 The SAO was on a steep learning curve, and it was not 

a smooth one.

All sides were griping. Spring brought budget reviews and more NASA scrutiny as 

it prepared its FY 1962 budget. The Goddard OAO project manager followed up Nancy 

Roman’s September 1960 threat that the whole program should be brought inside. Davis 

remained obstinate, but even his own staff complained, writing an open letter warning that 

there were problems everywhere, and that what the project needed was a general contractor 

the SAO could trust.719

Westinghouse also demanded a longer lead time and more money. They claimed 

they now had to produce more detectors than they had planned for, since the OAO 

required four telescopes, not one. But when James Kupperian reviewed Westinghouse’s 

request, he realized that the development costs had more to do with commercial production than to providing an acceptable detector for Celescope. Members of Davis’s 

team had known this, but the SAO did not act. This caused all sorts of trouble, leading 

to a meeting in June in Washington between NASA, SAO, Westinghouse, and the central Smithsonian. NASA added lawyers because Westinghouse was now making claims 

about patent rights. At the meeting, as Davis reported to Whipple, Westinghouse 

admitted it was padding the budget, but it was a matter of a complex “transfer of information from a research to a manufacturing organization.” Initially the scale-up from 

one to four telescopes had been a mutual consequence of NASA’s payload requirements 

and the SAO’s ambitions, and Westinghouse had eagerly agreed. Now, however, realizing the magnitude of the challenge, Westinghouse balked. Only after a good bit of 

haggling did Westinghouse reluctantly agree that despite the number of tubes needed 

by Celescope alone, they had to treat it as a research activity and not a manufacturing 

enterprise.720

With the original development contract due to lapse in October 1961, and with every 

technical report negative, NASA once again threatened to pull the project inside. In desperation, the SAO decided to place the manufacturing contract on open bid rather than 

sole source.721 Westinghouse expressed “surprise and distress” but still bid, and in the end 

offered a significantly better deal. Goddard project managers still felt it was too expensive. At $2.3 million, “Celescope is the largest and most expensive aspect of the Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory experiments,” Davis reported. “We get the impression, although 

NASA continually denies it, that the scientific purpose is no longer the controlling factor in 

this experiment.”722
156 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Westinghouse won the contract again, but this time it was backed up by General 

Electrodynamics Corporation, suppliers of various forms of vidicons for commercial 

use.723 Westinghouse performance improved slowly, very slowly. And there were other 

problems.

Predicting the Brightnesses of the Stars in the Ultraviolet

Throughout these years, the theoretical analysis group under Whitney and Krook was 

using Davis’s rough brightness estimates to create stellar atmosphere models that could 

predict the ultraviolet behavior of the stars observed by Celescope. “An important aspect 

of Celescope,” an early report stated, “is its ability to give observational confirmation to 

these results; the Celescope Program is being continually re-evaluated with these models 

in mind.”724

The big question was, would the Uvicons be sensitive enough to detect the stars? At 

first, Davis’s estimates gave a safety factor of about 20 times. But in May 1961, Davis learned 

from the Wisconsin astronomers that ultraviolet fluxes for hot stars (blueward of 1,600 ångströms) gathered from sounding rocket flights were “at least 30 times fainter than expected.” 

Davis remained optimistic: “I don’t feel that these new numbers appreciably affect our 

expectation of success with Celescope.”725 But, in fact, no one knew for sure. Still, Davis 

remained committed (Figure 38).

Figure 38 Robert Davis in front of his 

display of Uvicon detectors at the General 

Assembly of the International Astronomical 

Union, Berkeley, August 1961. IAU 

News Bulletin no. 5, 21 August 1961, 9. 

Courtesy IAU.
“Project Celescope” • 157

Senior SAO staffers did not share Davis’s initial optimism. They called for an increase 

in Uvicon sensitivity at least by a factor of seven to meet Celescope’s goal of building a 

representative star catalog. But there were bigger problems at hand. In March 1962, the 

first payload was ready but was waiting for an acceptable detector. In June, there was a reassessment of technical and financial problems because they still had not been able to get all 

parts together and in working order at the same time, which made it impossible to gain a 

specific slot on an Aerobee at Wallops Island. And then NASA cancelled the Smithsonian’s 

Aerobee flights.

The failure to test the payload on a balloon, or an Aerobee, was symptomatic of the 

problems Celescope faced, right up to launch. The loss of test flights was a significant 

blow to gaining experience in integrating components into a flyable package, but just 

as important was the fact that first glimpses of the ultraviolet universe now belonged 

to others, at Goddard and Wisconsin, using Aerobee sounding rockets. The Wisconsin 

group preparing the telescope array that would complement SAO’s Celescope had been 

testing its components on balloon flights since 1961, and had secured successful tests of 

their photometers with Aerobees in 1962 and flights aboard NASA’s X-15 rocket plane.726

The First Stable Uvicon: Too Little, Too Late

In June 1962, Westinghouse reported that it had a tube with good resolution and uniformity with long lifetime. It still did not meet NASA’s requirement for a one-year operational lifetime, but there was hope. Westinghouse also promised to deliver some tubes soon 

to SAO’s contractor for integration, the Systems Division of Electro-Mechanical Research, 

based in Sarasota, Florida. EMR was responsible for incorporating the optics, electronics, 

and mechanicals into the actual flight payload, along with general systems design and integration of all subsystems.727

Relieved but wary, Whipple called for a full assessment of the program that summer, 

coming away hopeful that success would come in 1963. But budgets were getting tighter, 

there was less room to maneuver, and Westinghouse could not produce a sufficient number 

of tubes that survived testing. The tubes remained the project’s nightmare throughout 1962 

and into 1963. By August 1963, all the components were now on hand and ready for integration, save for the tubes.728 “Reliability reviews” called by NASA that had sent Booz-Allen 

examiners to Westinghouse made no substantial difference. In response, NASA Goddard 

started pressing the SAO team again. A Goddard contracting officer criticized the SAO, 

claiming it was not managing contractors adequately and was inept at technical management.729 He was not confident in NASA oversight either. Charles Lundquist, then newly 

hired as Whipple’s assistant director for science, agreed, but saw an even darker problem.

Lundquist, hired away from NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center in late 1962 by 

Whipple, brought deep insight into NASA project management. He advised Tillinghast 

that much of their problem with specifications was due not only to Westinghouse’s or 

EMR’s limitations, but also because the original specification directive issued by NASA “is 

a remarkably poorly written document.” The problems they were having now with EMR 
158 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

stemmed from that fact and should have really been corrected by NASA. It was now up 

to the SAO to demonstrate to both NASA and EMR the proper course to take. Lundquist 

knew it would be an “onerous task” and he was “by no means optimistic that it will be 

concluded soon.”730

Lundquist’s prediction was correct, and his guidance led to more effective oversight. 

By the end of the year, Westinghouse finally succeeded in producing a sample tube “as yet 

unique,” which provided sufficiently high target potential and sensitivity. Throughout 1963 

and well into 1964, the major focus remained on the tubes, but EMR’s integration of the 

many steps—testing them, integrating them into their flight casings, and the casings integrated into the telescopes—was still elusive. Progress reports no longer mentioned sounding rocket tests.

Coming to Terms in Late 1964

In August 1964, just as the SAO team received Westinghouse’s samples for flight acceptance testing, Nancy Roman, Newell’s deputy, made it painfully clear that she was worried. 

Speaking before the European Space Research Organization, she publically criticized the 

program’s inability to make good:

Five years ago it did not appear too difficult to build a television camera that would 

work in the ultraviolet. There were good television cameras for the visible and 

photographic regions and it would be necessary only to change the photocathode. 

Experience has proved this assumption to be naive.731

Roman was expressing NASA’s general frustration with OAO because it was behind 

schedule and over budget. The first OAO was originally scheduled to launch in late 1963, 

which now slipped to sometime in 1964 or 1965, with attendant cost overruns and unforeseen technical challenges.732 This only sharpened, as Goddard director Harry Goett warned 

Whipple in July 1964, “the gravity of the situation with the SAO experiment.” He wanted 

the SAO’s full assurance that it was rectifying all problems and that the flight package would 

be ready for space.733

What little optimism Davis and his team had at this point was wiped out in October 

when three separate accidents damaged both the prototype package (at Goddard and at 

EMR) and one of the mirrors (at Bausch and Lomb).734 This brought another site visit to 

the SAO, led by Harry Goett. Goett threatened once again to move Celescope to Goddard 

and also to slip it from the first OAO flight. Whipple ruefully agreed that a slip would well 

be necessary, but it would be painful and would raise the specter of flying a payload with 

ageing components. By the time of its flight, many payload components would be more 

than two years old. And the alternative, to provide a substantially improved package and 

deliver it later, he felt, was prohibitive in time and cost. So Whipple pleaded that NASA fly 

Celescope at its earliest opportunity, promising to make an “all-out push to complete the 

flight Celescope experiment.”735
“Project Celescope” • 159

Five days later, Goett reported that the Wisconsin experiment was now at Goddard 

and being integrated. For the SAO to remain on the first flight, the SAO had to deliver 

the Uvicon assembly to Goddard no later than February 1964, and the entire experiment 

by late September 1964, less than a year hence.736 But Goett was soon to be overruled 

by the NASA Space Science Steering Committee, which summarily removed Celescope 

from the first OAO spacecraft in late December 1964, “to avoid an additional six to nine 

month delay.”737

A Goddard-supplied gamma-ray payload joined x-ray and gamma-ray telescopes 

from MIT and an x-ray package from Lockheed to fill Celescope’s berth on the first flight. 

These were payloads tested on sounding rocket flights. One of them was, in fact, a payload similar to what Whipple had originally wanted flown on an Aerobee as a prototype 

Celescope package. These groups were by then well-experienced and in fact, along with the 

Wisconsin group, were the most prepared to provide payloads that would not further delay 

the already seriously delayed first flight of the OAO.738 The SAO was losing out.

Revised Plans 

Charles Lundquist gently and firmly took the lead in 1965, strengthening project 

management overall at the SAO and improving communications with NASA. One of his 

first tasks was to attend a status meeting at Goddard in January to set a new timeline. If 

the SAO promised a flight unit by 1 April 1966, NASA could launch in the third quarter 

of 1967. What worried Lundquist was that by then, ultraviolet packages would have been 

flown by both Wisconsin and another Goddard package, a moderate resolution ultraviolet 

spectrobolometer.739 Thus Lundquist knew that many of the goals for Celescope would be 

superseded by the time of its flight. At the meeting, Lundquist rhetorically asked himself, 

“Are we willing to wait until 1967 for results? The answer is a definite ‘no.’ ”

740

This message went up the ranks in the Smithsonian to the Secretary’s desk along with 

a plan to launch the Celescope package immediately on a series of balloons, followed possibly by sounding rocket flights. Being first was all important.741 These flights would not only 

test the detectors but would also search for “interesting objects” for pointed experiments 

on the first OAOs. Access to the near ultraviolet spectral range at typical balloon float altitudes might yield as many as 800 hot blue O and B type stars. Most of all, they pleaded, “it 

is essential to the scientific vigor of the program to have actual, useful data available for 

scientific studies before 1967.”742

NASA refused to play ball, judging the proposal to be a new project or an unsolicited 

proposal, not a change order. NASA also rejected the SAO’s proposal for a documentary film 

on Celescope for the historical record and for educational purposes.743 These SAO actions, 

whether they were tactics or stress-induced appeals for attention, failed to impress Goddard 

managers, who remained focused on the payload problems of the ultimate satellite. There 

was no clear sailing through the spring and summer of 1965. Review and planning meetings at Goddard continued to raise serious management issues with the SAO’s prime contractor, EMR, and deepening communications breakdowns between the SAO and NASA. 
160 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Goddard  managers took a firm line, Davis reported, that henceforth “GSFC will decide 

among themselves the manner in which to document our agreements concerning these past 

costs, and then inform the SAO what further action is required of them.”744

In June 1965, when the SAO submitted a new cost estimate to complete the entire project, which included costs for terminating EMR, Goddard called for another showdown.745

The very idea of shifting major contractors at this late date angered Goett. Some two hours 

of interrogation ensued at Goddard, with Davis, Lundquist, and Whipple facing Goett, 

John W. Townsend, head of the space science division at Goddard, and their staff. Goett 

came down hard, but Townsend admitted that many of Celescope’s problems were shared 

by other projects, like the high-voltage arcing problems that were plaguing OSO flights. 

Townsend pointed out that there were few industries with “experience in orbit. Around 

here this seems to be a sine qua non. Experience in orbit is necessary.” This gave Goett his 

opening to threaten once again to bring Celescope “in-house” at Goddard so they could 

perform an “in-house review by someone aware of what gets others into trouble.” 746 Despite 

Townsend’s observation, Whipple asked for help finding contractors who could do the job 

and also thanked Goett for “stirring up [EMR] top management” in a way that SAO had 

not been able to do. Goett, however, shot back that the SAO needed greater commitment: 

“You have to be manned more heavily than I think you are for managing them.” He then 

vented: “A year ago we decided that SAO should be left on their own, sink or swim.”747 And 

clearly they were sinking. So once again he tightened the screws, calling for a new “review 

committee” of both Goddard and SAO staff with Goddard now effectively in control.748

Goddard now controlled all actions, including who called visits with whom: “we have found 

that uncoordinated visits are detrimental to effective project management.”749 In December, 

Newell confirmed that all project management was now centered at Goddard, “including all 

contractual and spacecraft interface matters.”750

The OAO-1 Failure and Reassessment

Goddard had its own problems with manpower shortages, especially because by 

spring 1965 NASA Headquarters was focusing on the manned spaceflight program. Goett 

hotly resisted, but lost when Newell pronounced that OAO was now only Goddard’s third 

priority, behind developing and maintaining the “Manned space flight network” and developing the TOS (TIROS Operational Satellite) system.751 Headquarters now had not only 

downgraded space science programs, but had also replaced Goett with John Clark in July.752

Clark was preoccupied with manned spaceflight matters, and left OAO to program managers like John Townsend, now Goddard deputy director, and James Kupperian.753

OAO-1 was launched on 8 April 1966, carrying payloads from Wisconsin and 

Goddard that would have performed ultraviolet, x-ray, and gamma-ray observations. After 

seven minutes of orbital flight, however, severe electrical arcing and battery failure ended 

the operation before any of the instruments saw first light. Now Goddard came under 

attack from Headquarters. Management overhauls and a slipped schedule facilitated not 

the science, but the “primary objective of demonstrating flight operation in support of 
“Project Celescope” • 161

the experiments for a minimum period of 30 days and a secondary objective to obtain 

scientific data.”754 No longer expecting a one-year lifetime, the launch of OAO-A2 was 

set for the second quarter of 1968 to give Goddard enough time to go through “extensive 

reevaluation.”755

Congress also took notice. In March 1967, Newell testified before the House 

Subcommittee on Space Science and Applications, trying to give OAO a positive spin. But 

Rep. Joseph E. Karth (D-Minn.), chair of the subcommittee, did not share Newell’s optimism.756 Karth attacked the program at many levels, from the design philosophy to the performance of the prime contractor, Grumman. He even told an industry reporter after the 

hearings that “if we had to do it all over again . . . we would propose using greater numbers 

of single spacecraft in the Explorer class and sounding rockets to do the work of observatories.”757 Karth pushed to establish stronger congressional oversight of the space program 

while harboring sympathy for robotic Earth-orbital missions and low-Earth orbit human 

missions.758 James Webb and Newell responded in various ways, tightening lines of project 

management while trying to appease the affected scientific disciplines.759

The OAO disaster led to many months of failure analysis, which included recommendations for changes in some of the Smithsonian components. And once again, the component of greatest concern was the Uvicon. Some 11 samples had been selected for flight, 

and they had already been subjected to new rounds of testing through summer 1966. More 

than half failed because of arcing, outgassing, and vibration, just the issues that plagued 

the first OAO payload. One SAO staffer stated the obvious: the Uvicon was “the focal 

point of concern . . . because it is a major new sensor development which will not have the 

depth or breadth of ground-based observatory experience as has, say, the photomultiplier 

tubes.”760 With Celescope’s launch slipped to 1968, at least they had more time, and maybe, 

just maybe, wouldn’t be scooped. Westinghouse was constantly refining the design, finding 

ways to improve photon efficiency. But implementation would cost more, with overruns 

mounting into the millions.

The SEC Vidicon

By the mid-1960s, Westinghouse researchers at its Pittsburgh Research and 

Development Center were excited with their new Transmission Secondary Electron 

Multiplier, an elaboration of a new design first created in conjunction with the Electronics 

Laboratory at the Wright-Patterson Air Force Base, Gebel’s Cat Eye. In testing since the 

early 1960s, it was still noisy and was subject to electronic “avalanche” effects.761 But 

Westinghouse found ways to reduce the noise by looking more closely at how electrons 

migrated through various formulations of thin films and targets. In what would be called 

the “SEC” (Secondary Electron Conduction), the backside of a lithium fluoride entrance 

window was coated with a UV light-sensitive layer that released electrons when UV energy 

struck the front. The emitted electrons were accelerated and magnetically focused onto a 

thin-film target that amplified each of the impacts by releasing secondary electrons that, 

depending on the potential difference, amplified the stream by 200 to 300 times. These 
162 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

secondary electrons then conducted through the permeable layer to a metal screen that 

stored the accumulated charges and duplicated the original image on the entrance window. 

The rest of the system was essentially a TV scanning electron beam producing an electrical signal that varied with its position on the film and could be read out in sequence.762

By the mid-1960s samples were being tested by astronomers at Princeton and Allegheny 

Observatory, and the results were positive.763

But would the SEC Vidicons be ready by the time Celescope had to be delivered? 

This question could not be answered by SAO staff, who focused on getting the rest of the 

payload ready at Goddard and then at the Cape. One bright spot came when EMR secured 

Department of Defense (DOD) support for some 80 percent of the additional costs of final 

testing and monitoring near launch. The SAO still had to worry about building communications and data processing in Cambridge to handle the science operations once the telescope was in orbit. What had been eventual requirements became immediate needs. Every 

hand was needed, and more.

Another Path to Space?

NASA’s zeal to place humans in space prompted a four-month study in the mid-1960s 

by the OAO prime contractor, Grumman’s “Advanced Systems/Space Science Group,” to 

propose flying the “OAO in Association with a Manned Space Station.” The “Smithsonian 

Sky Mapping Experiment” was considered an ideal candidate for a one-year mission.764

The Grumman study concluded that OAO had to be a free flyer for undisturbed observing 

runs, but it would be periodically serviced from a nearby “hangar” made from parts of the 

“Apollo Extension System” lofted by a single Saturn I booster. OAO would be deployed on 

a tether after orbit insertion, tested fully, and then released, servicing it every two days to 

retrieve and resupply film canisters.765

One person who really liked this idea was Robert Davis. It would be hard to imagine 

a more difficult, frustrating, and complex job than being project scientist for Celescope—

especially so if the holder of the job had barely completed a PhD thesis and then was thrust 

into the effort, not only to manage the science, but also initially to define it and see to it 

that the technology served the science. Regarded by colleagues as a very hard worker, conscientious, and serious, Davis paid attention to everything in the project, deeply concerned 

about the lot. As Charles Whitney observed, “He felt tremendous responsibility for this 

project.”766

A sense of the pressures he faced can be gleaned from his response to an October 

1964 NASA recruitment call for astronauts. He stated in his application that while the scientific objectives of the Celescope mission had remained unchanged since its inception, 

“my responsibilities in regard to the hardware and the administrative aspects of the Project 

have developed along lines not at all foreseen at that time.”767 Sensing a shift in the nation’s 

space program from robotic craft to human-tended platforms, he did not want to be left 

behind and so applied to be a part of a “more flexible program of astronomical observations from orbiting laboratories, with on-board participation of the astrophysicist.”768
“Project Celescope” • 163

Davis was over the age limit in the first round, but reapplied in September 1966 when 

the National Academy took over recruitment and relaxed the rules. He passed the first 

screening in February 1967 and told the National Academy that he would like to “extend 

my present studies of ultraviolet stellar radiation” because “despite many recent improvements in electronic measuring techniques” there were still many problems best addressed 

by photographic methods. Further, as an astronaut, he felt he could transcend “many of 

the present operational limitations of the OAO” by examining firsthand how “to accompany and control that satellite in orbit.” Davis also speculated about investigating the use 

of astronomical telescopes on the Moon.769 He became one of 69 finalists but was not 

selected.770

Davis later rationalized his motives: “Remember, 1967 was that period when 

Celescope was having all the problems, and this was a good way to escape from it.” He 

thought this effort would succeed, whereas Celescope would most likely fail.771 Celescope 

had absorbed over eight years of his life by then; all of his publications to that point had 

concentrated on some aspect of Celescope’s operation and the problems it would address. 

None addressed new contributions to astronomical knowledge. And now, what was still 

facing him on Earth, by the latter half of 1967, had taken on a life of its own—and not an 

easy one.772

Flight and Post-Flight: Performance Evaluation and Review

In the months leading to launch, the SAO had still to transfer the payload officially 

from EMR to Goddard, and had to have staff in residence there. The SAO and Goddard 

also had to establish a technical presence at the Florida launch site. Not surprisingly, once 

these groups were formed they had difficulty working together. Roles and missions were 

not clear; lines of authority were not distinct. Telegram wars commenced. Continuous fault 

blaming and a general lack of clear lines of communication even between work shifts from 

one team to another remained unresolved management problems right up to launch. And, 

because the payload had to be sealed and delivered long before launch, detector development had to be frozen, even though, as Davis later reported, they knew there were problems 

with charge buildup on their still evolving SEC targets.773

NASA finally launched OAO 2 on 7 December 1968 with an Atlas-Centaur, inserting 

the Wisconsin and SAO payloads into a nearly circular orbit some 760 km high. With all 

systems “go” within a week, SAO staffers threw themselves a party as SAO News cheered 

“Celescope Works! OAO Is A-OK” (Figure 39). By late June 1969, Whipple reported that 

“the reliability and performance of the Celescope experiment in orbit have followed almost 

exactly the prelaunch predictions.” By then, Celescope had secured 2,500 star fields in 900 

positions, a good fraction of the total (some 1,250) needed to complete the first selected area 

survey.774 One of the three cameras failed after 77 days, however, and by then the remaining 

cameras were “exhibiting loss of sensitivity, owing partly to the effects of space radiation 

on our optics and partly to the effects of prolonged operation on the performance of the 

camera tubes.” Preliminary data indicated, oddly, that stars in areas where there was more 
164 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Figure 39 SAO News celebrates Celescope, safely in orbit and producing data. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, Acc. 13-120, Box 1.
“Project Celescope” • 165

obscuration, in the galactic plane, were brighter than expected and hence more of them 

appeared than was predicted. This was certainly an unexpected result and, in fact, caused 

considerable confusion in coming months and years.775

Just as he was tasting some success, Whipple learned that NASA was going to cut back 

his tracking programs. Bradley had been assured by the Tracking and Data Acquisition 

office that NASA still “considered this work to be valuable” and so maintained its budget in 

the face of “severe budget pressures.” Now, however, the FY 1970 budget projections looked 

really grim, so NASA wanted to phase out SAO’s optical-tracking network, though Newell 

hoped to ease the pain as much as possible by letting the SAO retain some staff salaries for 

other projects.776 But this did not please Whipple, who was just then trying to improve the 

network using new laser-tracking technologies. The SAO was momentarily successful in 

this, but it put a pinch on other programs, including Celescope.

The media dramatized the first successful OAO. The Washington Post claimed on 

19 April that it had “uncovered so many unsettling facts about the stars that astronomers 

themselves are bewildered by what they all mean.”777 Indeed, there was confirmation that the 

ultraviolet continua of the hottest stars were fainter than predicted, but this had been shown 

repeatedly by sounding rocket flights. A nearby galaxy had a nucleus that resembled a quasar spectrum, leading to speculation that quasars are more common than expected. The 

Pleiades became the “brightest cluster of stars in the sky,” which was not surprising because 

it is the nearest cluster of very hot stars. Speculation on the cause of the increased brightness included the discovery of an extended cloud of material surrounding the Pleiades. 

Wisconsin Experiment Package astronomers Art Code and Bob Bless were quoted multiple times, as was Goddard’s James Kupperian. No one from the SAO was quoted in print, 

although the breathless article was adorned by Celescope’s image of the Pleiades star field, 

without attribution.778

Later notices were more balanced. The media, prompted by NASA, made much of 

Celescope’s observations of a liquid oxygen (LOX) dump from Apollo 13’s booster rocket 

on 11 April 1970. NASA had requested this service, giving only a few days’ notice.779

Otherwise, the routine became pretty stable throughout Celescope’s lifetime, which lasted 

through 26 April 1970.780 More than 8,000 frames were exposed, covering some 3,800 

fields. Data reduction began slowly in early 1969, and by the end of the year enough 

material had accumulated to begin checking data consistency. Quite soon, the team did 

not like what it was finding. And this came just at the time when there were reductions 

in force and restructuring because budgets had been expended and NASA threatened 

more cuts.781

Davis’s chief responsibility after launch was, as he recalled, “getting clean data, somebody else can figure out what it means.”782 But getting clean data was not a straightforward, 

linear process and required the expertise of astrophysicists who could perform boundary 

work between observation and theory in the realm of stellar atmospheres. These astronomers would also become the ultimate beneficiaries of the intended product, the Celescope 

Catalog.

783

The model atmospheres group Whipple had judiciously formed, his Menzelian 

“research reserve” led by Charles Whitney, was quickly activated. Eugene Avrett recalled 
166 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

that when they compared Celescope data with their predicted fluxes, the “accuracy was a 

little bit disappointing.” The greatest problem was calibration: The tubes behaved erratically 

and changed constantly during flight. Even the on-board calibration lamps and the preplanned technique of exposing overlapping fields to intercompare brightnesses were not 

sufficient remedies to keep everything consistent.784

Haramundanis managed the initial reductions, organizing the data from the four 

cameras, roughly matching them up and confirming coordinates and star identifications 

with entries in the new Smithsonian Star Catalog, a project she had recently completed.785

She recalled numerous problems: The telescopic fields were not perfectly aligned, “which 

complicated the star identification part significantly.”786 There was always the fear that a 

color could be way off because the wrong star was being compared. Through the summer of 

1970, the first data releases rendered a +/−0.4 magnitude confusion circle, which was unacceptably large. With more data they beat it down, but had a long way to go to their goal of a 

+/−0.1 magnitude confusion circle, measuring brightness to 10 percent.787

By the end of the year, Lundquist knew that the core team needed help. He and 

Whipple tapped senior staff to form a Data Processing Implementation Task Group.788 The 

astronomers in the stellar atmospheres group teamed up with mathematically adept specialists in data processing from throughout the Observatory. Avrett remembered weekly 

meetings held to avoid, what they all felt, would be a “near disaster . . . because we were 

faced with the enormous embarrassment to the Smithsonian: ‘Here we spent all this money 

and we have all this data, and we can’t do anything with it. Sorry.’ ”

789

Just about the entire Gaposchkin family joined in, save for Sergei. Haramundanis’s 

husband, Edward, a mathematician, her brother Mike Gaposchkin, and her mother all 

got involved through the rest of 1970. Once, Haramundanis recalled, when the group 

was contemplating some form of “back analysis,” which was to model the poorly determined parameters as random variables and then treat them statistically, “My mother 

was horrified, and she walked out of the room. I have never seen her do that before.”790

Payne-Gaposchkin, for all her brilliance, was still a classically trained astronomer comfortable with a minimum of data massaging. What Celescope called for, however, was 

a staff willing to deal with messy data, and who had the talent and training for the task 

at hand.791

Whipple, uncharacteristically, attended every review meeting of the Data Processing 

Implementation Task Group. Lundquist worried over the details and kept lines of communication open with NASA. Lundquist was especially useful because his PhD thesis at 

Kansas University was in theoretical radiative transfer. He “could talk with the people that 

were doing stellar atmospheres.”792 The weekly meetings, Avrett recalled, were more like 

daily activities for Lundquist: “It was a daily problem getting up, and what’s the plan for 

tomorrow” was the drill. He brought not only experience in crisis management but also 

a certain calm confidence learned under von Braun at Huntsville, having had the task of 

directing a real-time modeling effort during the 1958 Project Argus nuclear explosions in 

space to ascertain their effect on Earth’s magnetic field.793 This was far from Lundquist’s first 

encounter with Celescope, of course, frequently stepping in to deal with contractors. By 

mid-1969 and through to 1970, he knew once again that he had to step in directly because, 
“Project Celescope” • 167

as the calibration problems began to overwhelm the process, he could see that the stress on 

Davis “was terrible.”794

The task group attacked the problem from two directions. The SAO atmosphere theorists generated models of stellar energy distribution. The observationalists used empirical 

methods, plotting colors and brightnesses in various combinations and then using these 

correlations to assess the consistency of the data.795 Davis had selected some 50 young bright 

stars in Orion as a test field, and reported that the Orion stars had ultraviolet magnitudes 

at least 1 magnitude brighter than predicted by the latest theoretical models. Dave Latham 

confirmed this, presenting color-color plots from computer models that seemed to agree 

with Davis’s for stars hotter than A0, but were systematically off by 1 magnitude for stars 

cooler than A0. The “source of the difference must be traced down,” Latham urged, especially because there were large variations between Davis’s magnitudes and those that had 

been measured directly during a rocketsonde flight by Naval Research Laboratory astronomer George Carruthers. Further analysis did not remove the anomalous brightnesses, so 

Rudolph Schild, as Lundquist reported in March 1971, “packed up his gear, and headed 

down the trail to Arizona” to make ground-based observations of these Orion stars.796 His 

efforts led to an important new understanding of the nature of the hot stars embedded in 

the Orion nebular complex. But they also demonstrated that more than one method of data 

reduction had to be tried.

Lundquist agreed: “I’d been around the game long enough to value redundancy.”797 He 

brought in S. Ross & Company as general consultants because they had expertise in making first-order approximations from rapidly changing multi-dimensional data sets, which 

corresponded with the changing spatial stability and photometric sensitivity of the detector 

targets. And Lundquist also tapped Mike Gaposchkin to apply a method of differential corrections to the data using least squares for an independent analysis “so that we could check 

one against the other.”

Avrett led a group looking at the interface of model atmospheres and the telescope. 

They interrogated the entire instrument and software analysis process from detector to 

transmitter to ground station to computer. Meeting constantly to sort out irregularities, 

they slowly and frustratingly gained some control, “figuring out how to map the sensitivity 

as a function of space and time.”798 Lundquist asked Avrett to lend W. A. Deutschman to 

be deputy project scientist, strengthening the computational side. Deutschman had experience at the High Altitude Observatory where he had performed laboratory studies in the 

extreme vacuum ultraviolet and would assist Davis in all technical aspects of the program.799

From Avrett’s perspective, once Deutschman got the stellar magnitudes into one consistent 

global database through repeated computer runs and iterative corrections, accounting for 

and smoothing the discontinuities as much as possible, they went as far as proper practice 

would allow. That happened in the spring, when the team declared, “Well, okay. Now it 

works, and this is it”800 (Figure 40).

NASA was also eager to move on. Just before the November 1970 launch of the next 

OAO, a Goddard telescope to observe ultraviolet stellar energy distributions, Nancy Roman 

stunned everyone by sharply asking why the SAO team bothered at all, saying, “Let’s cancel 

Celescope because this is so much better.”801 But OAO-B died when the payload shroud of 
168 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

the Atlas-Centaur launcher failed to open and to separate.802 So OAO-2 data remained the 

only game in town until the launch of the European Space Agency’s polar-orbiting TD-1A 

in March 1972, and then OAO-3, “Copernicus,” in late August.803

It was hoped that something could be learned from the experiences of Celescope 

because, at the least, it survived launch and did operate as a space mission. As Davis noted 

at an AAS symposium in August 1971: “The development of these Westinghouse Uvicon 

tubes from a starting point where the SEC principle was a new laboratory discovery, to 

final successful flight operation, is a technological triumph of Celescope.”804 Lundquist, too, 

hailed the efforts of the some 50 key people who were aided by 100 more over the 13-year 

life span of the project who successfully isolated the “target charge buildup” problem, and 

took the steps to compensate for it. It was the most complex problem in the calculus of corrections and its isolation became one of the most significant products in the failure analysis 

conducted for Celescope.805

The Science

NASA viewed the OAOs and OSOs as national observatories. Before launch, NASA’s 

Office of Space Science and Applications instituted a “guest observer” program whereby 

any astronomer could apply through NASA to study specific objects at times when the 

Figure 40 Dubbed the “Celescope Crew” by SAO News, Katherine Haramundanis, 

W. A. Deutschman, and Y. Nozawa pose with a celestial globe marked with the primary 

Celescope fields. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc.16-263, Box 1.
“Project Celescope” • 169

instrument scientists could not conduct their own observations. Davis alerted all SAO staff 

to the opportunity, and collected some 16 responses. Celescope was, of course, a mapping 

program so did not allow for great flexibility. But the array of telescopes would be available 

at times when none of its “selected areas” was accessible.806 SAO proposals included the 

study of subdwarf atmospheres, silicon-rich stars, A-peculiar stars, studies of the influence 

of line blanketing, and studies of star-forming regions. SAO astronomers also proposed 

studies of pulsating variable stars and stellar rotation. There were also proposals for targets 

of opportunity: comets, novae, or supernovae. Many of these general topics were shared by 

the Wisconsin team and by guest observers who came from 11 American and Canadian 

institutions, and three from Europe.807

The August 1971 meeting where Davis spoke was sponsored by NASA and the 

American Astronomical Society (AAS) as a joint symposium on results from OAO-2. 

Arthur D. Code, who led the Wisconsin Experiment Package, organized the two-day 

symposium around the specific celestial realms that had been impacted thus far. These 

included solar system objects, interstellar matter, stellar observations, and galactic 

and extragalactic systems. Code asked his staff to prepare technical descriptions of the 

Wisconsin telescopes and its operating system, and invited Davis and his team to do 

the same for Celescope.808

Forty-two scientific papers covered the topics identified by SAO personnel. But 

only five of them applied Celescope data, and of those, only one was by an astronomer 

external to SAO.809 SAO astronomers Rudolph Schild and Frederic Chaffee recounted 

their involvement in Data Processing Implementation Task Group discussions that dealt 

with the classic problem of recognizing when a new class of phenomenon, or new class 

of object, actually existed. In this case, there were no theoretical predictions, and the 

observational evidence itself was produced through methods and means not completely 

trusted.810 Still and all, by the time of the meeting they were able to report that late B-type 

Orion stars had small Balmer discontinuities—in other words, they were brighter in the 

ultraviolet than field stars of otherwise the same spectral type. They were by then also 

able to discriminate between this phenomenon and the possible influence of space reddening, which preferentially dimmed stars in the ultraviolet. Both effects were acting, 

Schild and Chaffee concluded, and they were both quite real, indicating a new class of 

“Orion” stars. Lundquist hailed the finding at SAO’s briefing at NASA Headquarters the 

previous March: “The anomalies in the Orion stars are typical of other areas of research 

which can be expected to be revealed to the astronomical community as more Celescope 

Catalog data becomes generally available.”811 But by the time the catalog was issued in 

1973, Haramundanis and Payne-Gaposchkin “discussed the results and concluded that 

the errors were so large in the data that there was very limited information that you could 

obtain from these observations.”812

Still, as with the detection of the Orion class, the Celescope data found other applications. One of the persistent interests of SAO staff was mapping the characteristics of 

the interstellar medium, trying to determine whether the regions around supergiant 

stars were different from regions not under the influence of these vastly bloated gas 

spheres. The Celescope observations indicated at first that a peculiar “extinction bump” 
170 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

was indeed caused by the stars, but this was shown not to be the case by the Wisconsin 

results.813 This led SAO astronomers to examine the distribution of material in the interstellar medium, comparing new ground-based photometry from Kitt Peak and Cerro 

Tololo with the Celescope data. From this, they concluded that the interstellar medium 

was homogeneous in the direction of a spiral arm of the Milky Way and inhomogeneous 

perpendicular to the arms. These broad but useful conclusions gathered 174 citations in 

following years.814

By the end of the 1970s and through the 1980s, Celescope data were cited here and 

there, mainly because the data remained the largest body of ultraviolet data available. But 

there were soon much better data from newer ultraviolet space telescopes, like the smaller 

International Ultraviolet Explorer, which indeed employed SEC Vidicons that, although 

vastly improved over the first-generation Uvicon, owed much to the lessons learned from 

Celescope. By 2003, in a compilation of some 800 publications on the ultraviolet colors of 

early type stars, Celescope data were acknowledged as the last of the “classic” catalogs starting in the 1950s.815

A Summation and Assessment

Celescope started as a project within the Upper Atmosphere Division and quickly 

became a division in its own right while Whipple competed for control over functions 

soon absorbed by NASA. That happened quite quickly, so by 1963, Whipple had redefined 

Celescope in another new division, Stellar Observations, that included programs related 

to the mission but also discipline-based and technology-based problems. By then, some 

12 professional staff led dozens of specialists and technicians in problem areas identified 

as “UV sensitive TV cameras,” “UV pointing sources,” “UV identification catalog,” and 

“SAO Star Catalog.” In addition, at least one program in the Stellar Theory Division covering studies in stellar atmospheres closely aligned with Celescope. Finally, as Whipple’s 

organizational structure continually changed, in 1961 Celescope ended up in a division 

explicitly devoted to “Space Science.” It was to coordinate the SAO’s many studies of the 

behavior of satellite orbits and other problem areas addressed by spaceflight, such as 

geodesy.

But by the time of Whipple’s annual report to the AAS at the end of 1963, the technologically or functionally organized groupings disappeared. Personnel continued to accumulate, and work continued in those areas for some years on a project basis but the organization 

was defined differently.816 Most of the programs survived, but were also redefined, not in 

terms of a centralized capability for national purpose, but in terms of traditional problem 

areas more familiar to the astronomer. This shift was likely the result of an emerging institutional maturity for SAO, but it was most definitely an institutional retreat from Whipple’s 

early ambitions to establish a national facility for space research.

OAO-2 was indeed a watershed for the traditional optical astronomical community.817 It was an early peek at the wavelength band closest to the hearts and minds of most 

practicing astronomers, but it also demonstrated the investments required in staff and 
“Project Celescope” • 171

energy, and the risks, of doing astronomy in space. The contrast between the Wisconsin 

Experiment Package and Celescope could not have been greater: The former, highly successful, built on expertise and technologies already within the grasp of astronomers, was 

led by astronomers who had already committed to the specialty. Celescope, however, 

was successful mainly in NASA’s official view: The machine was launched, inserted into a 

proper orbit, and actually worked as designed for over a year, more than the announced 

lifetime. Of less concern to NASA was the science. In June 1971, assuming that astronomers would not object, NASA threatened to remove remaining funds for data processing and turn off the satellite. Astronomers did object, alerting Congress. NASA released 

remaining funds.818

The risks taken by the SAO, choosing an experimental electro-optical detector technology in the hope that it could be quickly altered into a controllable and reliable astronomical device, returned only partial success. Yes, the Uvicons worked, but were not sufficiently 

stable to provide useful data consistently over the lifetime of the mission. Yet the experience 

gained by industry led to a stabilized SEC-Vidicon design that did work and was continually applied to astronomical satellites over the next decade, like the International Ultraviolet 

Explorer (IUE), until the technology was replaced by solid-state devices.819 The risk was 

also justified insofar as it was in line with recommendations of a 1965 Woods Hole conference “Space Research—Directions for the Future,” which concluded that television tubes 

were then not ready for astronomical use, but that “a reliable image tube with significantly 

greater sensitivity than photographic film and with electronic readout would be extremely 

useful in optical space astronomy.”820

After the Celescope program was completely ended in 1973, Davis remained at the 

SAO for the rest of his career, joining other astronomers in various projects to observe 

globular clusters, x-ray sources, and OH masers, using the new space observatories such as 

IUE. Whipple had charged him with a responsibility that no one in 1958 could practically 

fathom. That he persevered at all showed a remarkable tenacity not only on his part, but 

a strong social and moral consciousness on the part of those around him. The fact that 

SAO staff were mutually supportive throughout this time can certainly be seen in the story 

of Celescope. Recalling the incredible pressures of that time, Robert and Ruth Davis gave 

observatory secretary Helen Beattie top marks for managing the tension in a way that rallied everyone to the cause821 (Figure 41).

Speaking before a national audience of astronomers in late 1971, Whipple reflected 

on the costs of Celescope, admitting that the emphasis and funding placed on spaceflight 

during the past decade suggested that “vested interests have indeed affected our national 

decisions to some extent.” He openly admitted to having “contributed to this imbalance” by 

promoting these interests himself. But he didn’t offer excuses, nor did he back away from 

his view that science had come “first with methodology and technology second.” He tried 

to rationalize the process, taking into account the costs, “both in dollars and in scientific 

manpower,” to make the observations as valuable as possible. Only this would make the 

effort worthwhile, and would “compensate also for the fact that time itself is a factor for 

the individuals who must put many years of their scientific and technical lifetime into such 

a project.”822
172 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Indeed, in the almost 14 years since Whipple brought his staff together to contemplate 

ways to build his empire and realize his “dear dream” in space, Whipple had returned to 

Earth, telling his audience that “one of the gross imbalances in the space astronomy program has, of course, been the lack of ground-based equipment, particularly large radio and 

large optical telescopes.” But these were, as we will see in the following chapters, just the 

new arenas he was directing his attention to in Arizona and New England.

In retrospect, even the chief player at NASA, Homer Newell, looked back at the OAO 

era with some regret. “Exposed directly to the outside pressures to match or surpass the 

Soviet achievements in space,” Newell observed near the opening of his memoir Beyond the 

Atmosphere, “NASA moved more rapidly with the development of observatory-class satellites and the larger deep-space probes than the scientists would have required.”823 In words 

ironically in step with Whipple’s own in his 1971 Philadelphia address and repeated in his 

1977 oral history, reflecting even Roman’s remarks at the European Space Agency (ESA) 

summer meeting in 1964, Newell finally admitted near the end of his book that “OAO was 

a bit out of step. . . . It had delayed satellite optical (visible plus ultraviolet) astronomy for 

about a decade, whereas a series of cheaper, simpler satellites could have kept research moving while work on a larger instrument proceeded.”824

Figure 41 Helen Beattie joined Davis, Carmichael, and Whipple to pose for photographs at a 

celebration for Celescope. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 1.
“Project Celescope” • 173

Whipple, of course, initially saw the effort as means to larger institutional ends—

acquiring an infrastructure for space research—rather than pure knowledge production. 

Even though NASA assumed much of that infrastructure, the vastly expanded scope of 

the project it demanded left Whipple with significant room to grow. One of those areas of 

growth became what arguably has been Celescope’s most lasting institutional legacy.

Legacy of the “Research Reserve”

The theoretical group built up by Whitney remained a core asset to the SAO in future 

years. It provided expertise during the planning for and processing of Celescope data, 

because the leaders in the group appreciated that they had been hired for a variety of tasks 

addressable by their talents and training. But what this produced was in fact something 

more that would outlive Celescope itself. Through 1961, for instance, Whitney, Krook, and 

at least a half dozen staff and Harvard students contributed dozens of papers to the literature on solar and stellar atmospheres, variable stars, Earth’s atmospheric density profile, 

and geodetic information based on the first satellite orbit calculations. This productivity continued, creating the infrastructure for attracting and training new generations and 

thus meeting another goal originally set by Carmichael when he agreed to move the APO 

to Harvard.

Owen Gingerich’s involvement provides insight into how the infrastructure was 

built and applied. Returning to Harvard as lecturer in late 1959 after teaching in Beirut 

and at Wellesley, Gingerich had a PhD thesis to finish in non-gray stellar atmospheres 

he had started years earlier working under Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin and would continue under Whitney. “And when I came back the world had changed. Smithsonian had 

moved to Harvard along with a big computer.”825 The expertise Gingerich acquired, applying ever-larger computers to modeling stellar interiors and atmospheres, made him a 

“local expert” useful to other projects. He was asked to “plan the computing aspects of the 

data flow” from what would become Celescope, which included fine pointing the instrument, an operation that had to be piggybacked on the primary rough pointing of the 

spacecraft from Goddard. Establishing the interface proved to be elusive, largely because, 

as Lundquist well knew, “the [NASA] engineers were so vague at that time as to how 

exactly this interface was going to work. They could talk about it for a whole week without 

giving us any specific instructions of what we actually had to do.”826 This only increased 

Gingerich’s responsibilities exploring computer techniques for a wide variety of applications. He recalled that it was very clear even to a junior staff member why the atmospheres 

group had been formed, and that over the years waiting for the flight they did what they 

could to improve knowledge of ultraviolet stellar continua through improving opacity 

models.827

Large, high-capacity computing facilities were the key to the stellar atmospheres 

effort.828 The computers existed because of satellite tracking and made the SAO an attractive place to conduct highly intensive computer applications, like studies of Earth’s upper 

atmosphere through satellite orbit analysis, or the creation of a Standard Earth model. 
174 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

SAO was the first observatory in 1958 to acknowledge the use of its own IBM 704. In the 

early 1960s, IBM 709s and the first 7090s were limited to only a few major centers such 

as MIT.829

The stellar atmospheres group provided a career pipeline for Harvard graduates. As 

Eugene Avrett completed his PhD thesis under Max Krook on temperature distributions in 

non-gray stellar atmospheres, he was thinking about a job. He knew what was happening 

at the SAO, and through Krook was aware that there were broad-ranging opportunities for 

theoretical studies. Whitney soon hired Avrett to perform non-gray stellar atmospheres 

modeling.830 Like Avrett, Wolfgang Kalkofen came to SAO via Harvard physics and was 

mentored by Krook. He and Avrett in turn mentored Harvard students, many of whom 

took positions in the theory group. By the late 1960s, Avrett graduate student Robert 

Kurucz led a project called ATLAS that provided a model atmosphere computer program 

for hot stars in both convective and radiative equilibrium that became very highly cited 

and much applied over the years.831 And in the next year, Gingerich, Kalkofen, and Robert 

Noyes built “The Harvard-Smithsonian Reference Atmosphere.”832 It became a standard reference, using extreme ultraviolet observations of the Lyman continuum of the Sun from 

OSO IV to create a powerful new model of the solar photosphere. This collaboration was 

also enhanced by the expertise of at least a half dozen other specialists working on both the 

Harvard and Smithsonian sides of the house.

Noyes came to Harvard as a postdoc scholar in 1963 from Caltech. He was attracted 

to the work Whitney was doing and during his postdoctoral year became excited with 

Goldberg’s solar satellite project. Indeed, this crossover behavior was encouraged; members 

of the stellar theory group enjoyed considerable flexibility in constructing ad hoc teams to 

attack various problems, both in preparation for the analysis of Celescope data and generally 

for studying problems related to the solar atmosphere and stellar atmospheres. There was 

considerable institutional overlap in support and services. The Smithsonian, for instance, 

supported members of Goldberg’s solar satellite project,833 and, of course, Harvard expertise 

informed the analysis of Celescope data.

In addition to their publications and computer programs, the group also attained visibility organizing a series of widely attended conferences on stellar atmospheres. Starting 

in 1964, they attracted specialists from all over the world to deliberate over standards and 

practices, seeking an “archetypal” model that could serve the community. The conferences 

grew over time; Gingerich led a third conference in April 1968 that attracted more than 

100 workers from 19 countries. Overall, led by Whitney and Krook, Gingerich felt that “it 

was the stellar atmosphere work that was really giving the Smithsonian Observatory its 

scientific reputation.”834
175

Chapter 11

Building the Infrastructure for Satellite 

Geodesy and Aeronomy: Work of the 

Research and Analysis Division

The funds flowing to the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) via NASA 

and the Air Force, in the millions of dollars annually, made possible a large SAO computing 

bureau and workforce in computationally intensive fields such as geodesy and aeronomy.835

The SAO also received large grants for Celescope during these years, amounting to millions more. Celescope made it possible to hire technical specialists to build the instruments, 

and astrophysicists to manage the data. By the late 1960s, large computer centers became 

core facilities in astronomy, as well as in the rest of the physical sciences, and in effect 

defined competitiveness almost as much as telescopic aperture. Their presence and continued expanding capacities were regarded as key assets to the Harvard campus as well as to 

government sponsors.

Through the 1960s, Whipple’s annual reports describing SAO activities evolved from 

building a capability through service functions to addressing intellectual problems. The large 

and expensive formal infrastructure that contained many staff, however, remained and grew 

into divisions called, variously, Communications, Data, Photoreduction, Computation, and 

Research and Analysis.836

Members of the Research and Analysis Division were on tap to assist in a wide range 

of problems across SAO. Whipple identified them not by that division, but by the problems they were addressing. In 1963, for instance, George Veis was listed along with staff 

in the “Planetary Sciences” area under “Determination of Tracking Station Coordinates.” 

But he also appeared in the “Stellar Observations” area, assisted by Haramundanis, producing the SAO Star Catalog. Luigi Jacchia headed the meteor reduction section within 

“Meteoritic Science,” but also the “Atmospheric Drag on Satellites” group within the 

“Planetary Sciences” area. Others in the division, including Don A. Lautman (Meteoritic 

Science/Zodiacal Light) and Imre G. Izsák (Planetary Sciences/Earth’s Gravitational Field), 

appeared in several other problem areas.

Whipple rationalized his infrastructure in terms he felt made it marketable for intellectual ventures. After all, at various critical periods, especially at the close of the International 

Geophysical Year (IGY), he was faced with the challenge of converting what had been a finite 

service activity into a permanent fixture on the landscape, competitive for funding from 

sources that were potential contenders. By late 1958, the SAO was no longer responsible for 
176 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

tracking every satellite that was launched. NASA had parceled out assignments to a number 

of networks, including SAO, to track only specific satellites, based upon the capabilities of 

each network. So as he plied NASA for continued and even expanded funding in 1960 to 

maintain and upgrade equipment, he also argued for “the need to strengthen our scientific 

staff . . . to realize the full scientific potential of this research program.”837 His senior staff, 

more or less, worked within this model, looking for ways to apply the SAO’s growing infrastructure to the most interesting or pressing intellectual and practical problems, arguing 

that the SAO was the place for both.

Without the cash flow brought in by the network, where would support for the science 

come from? In a 32-page proposal prepared by Whipple’s staff for renewed annual funding 

to the tune of over $4 million for tracking in 1964, they emphasized both scientific objectives and service functions. As part of the latter, they argued that the infrastructure SAO 

had created for the IGY had to be available for the upcoming International Year of the Quiet 

Sun. In like manner, the infrastructure they had built up for geodesy had to be preserved to 

support a joint program between NASA and the Department of Defense (DOD) to build a 

special flashing beacon satellite called Project ANNA, as well as its proposed extensions.838

Maintenance and upgrade, therefore, had to have specific goals that were marketable. 

A good example was a suggestion by the SAO geologist Ursula Marvin in 1966.

Uses for Satellite-Tracking Data

Marvin had many interests in parallel with meteoritics, such as Earth and lunar science. Anticipating her collaboration with Wood that found that the lunar highlands were 

the product of isostatic balance, she had earlier been interested in using satellite data to 

monitor continental drift. In a review of the problem in 1966 she argued that “the ultimate 

solution to the continental-drift problem may come from satellite geodesy,” even though, 

she admitted, “the weight of the evidence available today favors continental drift.”839

Still, drift had not been unambiguously detected by the mid-1960s, so Marvin’s argument gave the tracking network data another purpose. By then, the SAO Baker-Nunn 

network (now called “SAO astrophysical observing stations” to make them seem more relevant to the work of an astrophysical observatory) could pinpoint each station to an absolute accuracy of 10 meters, and there was the promise of an order-of-magnitude increase 

in accuracy if and when laser ranging facilities were added to each station, assuming that 

future satellites would contain reflective properties, as Whipple had hoped for OAO-II. 

This capability, Marvin predicted, would make then-present drift rates detectable by laser 

measurements of satellite motion from at least three stations situated on two separate 

land masses sometime in the next 5 to 30 years, depending on the actual rates of present 

drifting.840

Marvin’s proposal was part of a larger effort at the SAO in the summer of 1966 “to 

review and explore the research opportunities offered by satellite tracking.” Organized and 

led by Lundquist on Whipple’s behalf, participants prepared arguments describing what 

could be done, and how the Smithsonian was the place to do it. After a summer of weekly 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 177

meetings, each led by a different staff member, more than a dozen staff responded with 

detailed essays and proposals. Marvin’s was among these, and others suggested everything 

from mapping the geopotential and assessing its variations over time to better understand 

the rigidity of Earth, to studying relativistic effects on the many motions of Earth’s spin 

axis, to a further refinement of the structure of Earth’s upper atmosphere and its oceans.841

Introducing the summary volume of essays on these subjects, Lundquist invoked Whipple’s 

original 1958 objective:

To tie together the observing stations and the center of the geoid to a precision of 

the order of 10m, . . . to add appreciably to knowledge of the density distribution of 

the earth, particularly in the crustal volumes, . . . to provide precise information as 

to the density of the atmosphere . . . and periodic cyclic effects that may occur in the 

earth’s high atmosphere.842

Lundquist then reviewed the Smithsonian’s efforts in each of these areas, remarking 

with pride that “the objectives established some 10 years ago by Whipple have been achieved 

and most have been surpassed.”843

After a decade of effort, SAO’s satellite-tracking programs had made it one of the 

most visible astronomical organizations on the planet, indelibly linking astronomy with 

spaceflight. The SAO consciously promoted this visibility with adept and creative public 

affairs staff aiding the public information efforts of the International Geophysical Year 

through assisting the National Academy of Sciences and later to some extent NASA. In 

the first six years of its existence it not only capitalized on but also helped to create the 

popularity of Moonwatch using its outreach resources in newspapers and popular science 

magazines.844

As the SAO’s infrastructure and expertise grew, so did its capabilities. Just as in the case 

of Marvin’s promotion of the unambiguous detection of continental drift, however, there 

were also highly useful applications of great importance to the Department of Defense. 

But with its growth in capability came a threat to limit the extent to which the Smithsonian 

could continue to gather, analyze, and publicize knowledge about Earth.

Obtaining the Expertise to Process the Network Data

In addition to building staff for the observing stations and the administrative infrastructure to manage tracking and the Moonwatch campaign, there had to be people who 

could collect the data and turn them into useful knowledge.845 The key to understanding the 

evolution of the photographic network through the 1960s is to appreciate the constant effort 

to obtain and retain critical expertise.

Leland Cunningham continued to advise after he returned to Berkeley, but Whipple 

needed in-house talent in celestial mechanics and geodesy. Until Sputnik, specialists in celestial mechanics in the United States were hard to find.846 Through Hynek, he found George 

Veis, who had just completed his doctoral studies at Ohio State University in 1958 with a 
178 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

very timely dissertation, “Geodetic Applications of Observations of the Moon, Artificial 

Satellites and Rockets.” Veis arrived at the SAO in 1959, becoming “the guiding hand of the 

program as it evolved from satellite surveillance to a satellite geodesy program.”847 Veis’s 

training at Ohio was perfect; since the late 1940s, Ohio State had contracted with the Air 

Materiel Command’s Mapping and Charting Branch and developed a strong geodesy program with the gravimetric portion led by astronomer N. T. Bobrovnikov, who with other 

faculty fostered a training program that graduated some of the strongest contributors to the 

field, starting with William Kaula in 1955.848

Veis returned to Greece in 1961 but continued, like Cunningham, to advise, retaining 

a dual appointment at the SAO through the 1970s. He collaborated variously with Luigi 

Jacchia as well as a host of young, mathematically adept astronomers such as Yoshihide 

Kozai and Imre Izsák. Kozai, from Japan, and Izsák, from Hungary, refined theory that would 

inform satellite reduction techniques for geodetic information, primarily for the determination of the exact positions of each station, all on the same reference frame. Directed 

by Veis, they then reversed this procedure, using the geoid to predict satellite positions. 

Thus, they created a practical procedure that linked all known physical, atmospheric, and 

electromagnetic perturbations in an empirical scheme that allowed for rapid comparison 

between computed and observed orbital elements, using the residuals to improve the computed orbit. What became known as the differential orbit improvement program (DOI), 

crafted by Veis with the assistance of those named above and a corps of students and SAO 

staff, was constantly refined, improved, and applied in both directions. It was more than a 

single program, however; it was a system of linked programs and required a broad range of 

talent to set up.

Kozai had been passionate about mathematics and celestial mechanics since high 

school in postwar Japan, consuming Hagihara’s classic Foundations of Celestial Mechanics,

and then becoming his student at the University of Tokyo.849 According to Kozai, “In 1945–

50 Japan was isolated geodetically,” and so Hagihara assigned Kozai the problem, using 

lunar occultations. He studied secular perturbations and soon became engaged in lunar 

occultation observations and both astrometric and geodetic reduction tasks. Fred Whipple 

stopped off in Japan on his way to the 1958 International Astronomical Union meetings in 

Moscow, always looking for new talent in celestial mechanics, and through Hagihara, he 

found Kozai. He was impressed with Kozai’s spirit and promise.850

Kozai took a leave of absence from Tokyo to work with Henize and Hynek. After computing an improved ephemeris of Sputnik, he developed a practical theory of the motion 

of near-Earth artificial satellites.851 Kozai also paid attention to using the satellite data to 

examine Earth’s gravitational field, using insights he had gained in a study of Saturn’s northsouth gravitational asymmetry.

Izsák had been a staff member at the Konkoly Observatory in the early 1950s, near 

Budapest, Hungary, working in celestial mechanics. He emigrated to Austria and then 

Switzerland during the Hungarian Revolution, and from there came to the SAO. By May 

1958, he had finished a study of first-order secular perturbations on an artificial satellite 

caused by an oblate Earth, and by early 1959, with access finally to high-speed computers, 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 179

was applying radial velocity techniques to analyze simultaneous observations of satellite 

Doppler-shifts from three stations.

Kozai, Izsák, Veis, and others Whipple brought to the SAO joined local talent such as 

Sterne, Whitney, and Jacchia, as well as recent Harvard PhD students such as Don Lautman, 

to build a new and highly competitive workforce. As Whipple expressed his strategy in his 

director’s report for 1958, reduction and analysis was to be a routinized and highly efficient 

process. But to be so, it needed a core of experienced talent able to devise computational 

methods that could be made routine, for both hand and machine calculation.852 Left unsaid 

in 1958 was the fact that those he collected together to devise the computational methods 

would also be best qualified to exploit the results. Meanwhile, there had to be people who 

could interact with the new machines that would vastly accelerate the calculations.

Computations for Predictions

In 1963, E. Michael Gaposchkin, then supervisor of the Digital Computer Program 

at SAO, co-authored a report with J. R. Cherniak presenting one of the DOI elements they 

had been developing. They called it “SCROGE,” for “Smithsonian Computations Relating 

Orbital Glimpses Everywhere,” a highly sophisticated system for predicting satellite positions that demanded a sizable fraction of the running time of the IBM 7090 then used for 

satellite tracking. It could determine when and where a satellite would be visible and what 

tracking rates were required in order to direct the Baker-Nunns to follow it.853 SCROGE 

also produced an advance schedule that was wired to all observing stations, giving a oneweek ephemeris for upcoming observations. Only in this manner could the various observing teams and the central coordinating facility properly manage workflow.

SCROGE was the critical element for maintaining a normative global operation; even 

though it was constantly being refined, it was one of the many core functions of the satellitetracking program that kept the Smithsonian at the front line. DOI and SCROGE were typical of the elements of what was by then a huge computational effort that fed not only the 

communications infrastructure that kept track of satellites, but was also providing fundamental data for a wide variety of scientific goals, especially for geodesy.

By the time of their report, they felt that SCROGE could successfully direct the BakerNunn cameras automatically, though with close oversight. Indeed, field personnel soon 

were reporting that its operation was “uncanny.”854 A year later, Gaposchkin, whose position had gone through at least two name changes in the interim, including Chief of the SAO 

Computations Division that managed the program, provided a comprehensive operational 

template for applying what was by then the third edition of the DOI program, not only to 

acquaint “neophytes” in its use but also to refresh those already exposed and involved within 

constantly changing teams hoping to apply it to a growing variety of problems. Gaposchkin 

introduced it as an “inevitable” product of “the early years of the space age,” starting with 

a primer in basic celestial mechanics, followed by a step-wise “how-to” briefing on how to 

apply the program.855
180 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

The DOI could provide predictions for observed satellite positions as a function of 

space and time, or its function could be reversed to apply the observed data to an analysis 

of the earthly positions of the observing stations. Both needed a machine-readable celestial 

framework: The positions of the stars themselves that were recorded in the Baker-Nunn 

fields had to be available in some machine-readable digital format readable by DOI, with 

a minimum of human intervention. Anticipating this need, in 1959 Whipple asked Veis to 

build a digital star catalog.

Making the Data Useful: The Smithsonian Star Catalog 

as a Geodetic Framework

Star catalogues, orderly listings of the positions and other properties of stars in the 

sky, form the backbone of fundamental astronomy. Early telescopic catalogues established 

a fundamental reference frame fixed to Earth, using visual observations of the exact time 

a star crossed an observer’s meridian and noting its apparent altitude. By the end of the 

nineteenth century, however, largely through international efforts such as the Carte du 

Ciel, the Astronomische Gesellschaft sponsored a general catalog based on overlapping 

photographic fields that provided relative positions. These two techniques existed side 

by side through much of the twentieth century and reconciling the two became a central 

occupation of many observatories. The Smithsonian’s efforts contributed to the solution 

of the problem.

One byproduct of the IGY and its progeny, the Space Age, was international competition and cooperation. For the latter, the U.S. Naval Observatory formed a cooperative 

arrangement with Yale University Observatory to meet a command order from the Navy to 

“provide in machine-readable form as complete a catalog as possible in both the northern 

and southern skies.”856 Soon, the SAO put itself in the same business. Just what constituted 

adequate completeness versus promptness and utility for various applications distinguished 

each institution’s efforts, their rate of progress, and the reception of their product. Here we 

concentrate on the Smithsonian’s effort, and will limit addressing the larger question to a 

discussion of its reception in 1966.

Whipple and the Smithsonian made their product eponymous, a Smithsonian trait.857

To construct its star catalog, Whipple enlisted the gifted astrometric theoretician Heinrich 

Eichhorn, then at Wesleyan in Connecticut, as consultant to oversee data collection from 

over 70 distinct catalog sources representing the dozen major efforts since the late nineteenth century to catalog the positions, proper motions, colors, and brightness of the stars. 

Altogether they compiled and digitized entries for some 259,000 stars, issuing them in three 

different formats on magnetic tape. They also issued a set of 30 by 30 inch printed star 

charts that included star clusters, nebulae, and galaxies. By 1966, copies were available commercially for $20.858

Building the catalog was a complex and sometimes frustrating job for the staff. However, 

it nicely illustrates how the growing SAO staff infrastructure provided access to the talent 

and training needed. Katharine Haramundanis’s career at the SAO best characterizes this 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 181

trait. We have already noted how she started in the computations group working on satellite 

positions and brightnesses to issue her first “Catalog of Precisely Reduced Observations” 

in 1962 in a series of special reports. Then, under Veis, she led a small group of measurers 

and computers and also became involved with the Smithsonian Star Catalog after reducing 

satellite positions to the FK4 fundamental reference frame. She did have to learn the basics 

of astrometry, however, and again, she found ample guidance, not only from Veis and others but especially from Heinrich Eichhorn, who she recalls was the “driving force” behind 

getting everything onto a single consistent framework.859

Haramundanis considers the Smithsonian Star Catalog as the key ingredient making 

both the geodetic work, and the eventual Celescope cataloguing work, manageable. It was 

hailed internationally as a “grand service pour les astronomes et pour les observateurs de satellites artificiels.”

860 She felt fortunate having excellent programmers available and saw her 

own contribution as helping to rationalize the work flow into an organizational structure 

that routinized the process. There was also the sheer mechanical task of getting everything 

onto punched cards. The Yale Zone catalogs were already available, but little else, especially for the southern hemisphere. Data were entered twice to “ensure accuracy” but still 

humans had to be sure that stars were consistently identified in different catalogs. That was 

one of Haramundanis’s responsibilities, along with the constant need to be “sure that the 

systematic corrections were accurately applied” following Eichhorn’s direction. “That was 

the biggest problem.”861

Another task, highly labor intensive, was to turn the tape catalog into a printed atlas 

of charts. Although the tapes and printed listings were the primary goal of the project, 

they decided that a printed atlas would reach a larger audience. The Smithsonian asked 

Sky & Telescope’s Joseph Ashbrook to write the foreword to what became known as the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Star Atlas of Reference Stars and Nonstellar Objects,

published by MIT Press in 1969 as a companion to SAO’s 1966 Star Catalog.

862

Although staff typically worked closely with the scientists, such as Eichhorn and Veis, 

they reported through the administrative infrastructure. Haramundanis was in the Data 

Division, which reported through middle managers and ultimately to Carl Tillinghast. 

When needed, Haramundanis worked directly for scientists, such as Robert Davis, in 

Celescope. In this manner, she, like so many others at SAO, acquired specific sets of analytical and managerial tools that could be applied to a wide range of problems. Tellingly, 

at first, “I thought of them as NASA administrators because it was all . . . NASA contracts. 

My check had ‘Smithsonian Institution’ on it, but from my perspective and the reason the 

Smithsonian had money for these programs was because they were getting money from 

NASA.”863

Still, she took personal pride in the project, and later expressed disappointment that, 

although she had written draft introductions to both the Catalog and then later to the Atlas, 

neither was utilized. Whipple did identify her explicitly in his annual report.864 And she did 

present the Catalog to a conference of leading military and civilian institutions concerned 

with uniformity issues at the University of Maryland in October 1966, which convened to 

assess “The Construction and Use of Star Catalogues.” The conference called for establishing 

“an optimum, practical mode of operation.”865 And as if to answer that call, Haramundanis 
182 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

presented the Catalog as a single, coherent, electronically readable body. She described the 

decisions and the process of collecting the original data, processing them, and converting 

them into machine-readable form, including magnetic tapes, and in printed form as a star 

chart and lists. She discussed coverage, means of reducing all the data to a single framework, assumptions, and difficulties in the process. Her straightforward presentation stimulated one of the longest and most probing discussions at the conference.866

The question was, could the Catalog provide the basis for achieving a geodetic reference frame with 1 meter accuracy? If it could, and could be trusted, then it would become 

the universal standard. Some in the audience questioned this. Haramundanis replied that 

the Catalog was a necessary step toward that achievement. Others worried that it lacked 

sufficient data from the southern hemisphere. Eichhorn, it turned out, was most pessimistic: “He thought that 1-m geodesy was just a dream.”867 On the positive side, an astronomer from Ohio State recognized that “Smithsonian accuracy has improved,” owing mainly 

to more powerful reduction procedures.868 What was needed now was a more powerful 

tracking system. Another voice, from the U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, endorsed the 

Smithsonian Catalogue as the best available.869 This brought out more support and soon 

descriptors such as “breakthrough” were bandied about. Finally even Eichhorn responded, 

echoing Haramundanis, that it was the standard against which further improvements could 

be made. Still, he wondered rhetorically “whether the SAO catalogue could be regarded as 

a cure-all.”870

Although she felt that this put the Smithsonian on the map, she still was concerned 

that the observatory was not really contributing to astronomy as much as to an allied goal: 

“It was a good thing to do, but we didn’t make an original contribution there because we 

weren’t making original observations.”871 Haramundanis was sensitive to the classical role 

of an observatory: to make new observations. Indeed, her next assignment was to do just 

that with Celescope data, this one with completely new observations from beyond Earth’s 

atmosphere, and with problems far beyond solution.

Putting It Together: The Smithsonian Standard Earth

By the time of Lundquist’s summer 1966 exercise exploring all the possible applications of tracking data, the Smithsonian had already issued the first edition of the 

Smithsonian Standard Earth, the first unclassified description of Earth’s gravitational field 

incorporating transoceanic distances with a precision of 10 meters based on both geometrical and dynamical data and analyses.872 This was a watershed publication for Whipple, 

because it had been his stated goal since December 1957.873 Virtually everyone supported 

this central effort. In his official history of the project, Trackers of the Skies, Nelson Hayes 

(Figure  42) summarized how Veis, Kozai, and Izsák derived the geopotential from the 

three-dimensional geodetic triangulations of satellites, taking into account higher-order 

asymmetries in the field.874 Here we look briefly at how Whipple and Lundquist represented 

this work over time.
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 183

In his Annual Reports to the Smithsonian through the first half of the decade, Whipple 

always described the work as constant, steady progress. From 1957 through 1964, he 

employed hopeful terms such as “add appreciably,” “achieved greater accuracy,” and “greater 

exactness,” in describing the acquisition of knowledge of Earth’s density distribution, Earth’s 

atmospheric structure, and its constant variation.875 Typically, he described progress in 

terms of greater technical capability in the Baker-Nunn network such as the move from 

crystal clock standards to atomic time standards that enabled the entire network to be “synchronized to within a few milliseconds of time.” In 1961 he held out promises, whereas in 

1964 his rhetoric became more encompassing and operational, arguing that “three major 

geophysical topics” were at the heart of the effort: “the detailed representation of the earth’s 

gravitational field; the geometrical relation between points on the earth’s surface; and the 

density and temperature of the upper atmosphere and their variations.” These all had to be 

studied simultaneously in a closely coordinated effort within a single institution. And, as 

he promised the regents, he made it his own personal responsibility to initiate “the coordinated attack on these problems and for monitoring their interaction with national and 

international programs.”876

Figure 42 (L to R ) Whipple, Menzel, Leon Campbell, and Carl Tillinghast 

hover over Nelson Hayes signing his book, Trackers of the Skies, in Harvard’s 

Phillips Auditorium, 1968. Tracking team members also visible are Jack Slowey 

in the background and Rosemary Sweeney McPhee, with back to the camera. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 8.
184 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

The Research and Analysis group developed Veis’s DOI, incorporating more and 

more parameters over time, testing each one to understand the effects of its inclusion. An 

important extension by Izsák, Davis, and Gaposchkin in 1964 was to account for longitudinal effects in the geopotential, applying a sophisticated form of spherical harmonics to 

the solution called “tesseral harmonics.” Both Izsák and Kozai were adept at applying this 

methodology, searching for zonal harmonic terms in early satellite data. In the tradition 

of celestial mechanicians, they acknowledged the ancients dating back to Tisserand, but 

adapted the conceptual geophysical framework developed by Harold Jeffreys and, more 

recently, William Kaula of UCLA.877

Knowing that they had to deal with a wide range of possible orbits, and that some 

of the most radical would also be the most revealing of Earth’s dynamics, Izsák also 

investigated the long-term perturbations on low Earth-orbit satellites whose inclinations were near a critical value (some 63.4 degrees) that caused dynamical solutions 

to become unstable, rendering usual methods of approximating the orbit useless and 

requiring exact solutions using differential analysis. Far from being an academic problem, this solution was important in assessing what the satellite’s motions revealed about 

the overall gravitational field as a function of the semi-major axis and eccentricity of 

the orbit.878

The 1966 contribution was updated and revised in 1970 when the Smithsonian 

acquired its laser-tracking systems and used them to follow some six satellites. By then, 

new surface-gravity measurements were available from William Kaula, and there were 

improved station positions based on the motions of deep-space probes monitored by the 

Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s Deep Space Network.879 The new solution could now boast 

geocentric station positions to between 5 and 10 meters of accuracy and the generalized 

geoid was known to 3 meters. Any further refinements required more laser stations.

This series of reports of constant refinement, together with Whipple’s continued 

industry establishing international partnerships through the 1960s, ensured that the 

Smithsonian remained at the center of the continuing effort to improve the geodetic 

model. After the geodetic flashing satellite GEOS-A was launched in November 1965, 

the Smithsonian became the official site for the International Central Bureau for Satellite 

Geodesy, which coordinated reductions worldwide, connecting the European with the 

American world datum.880

The Smithsonian’s “Standard Atmosphere”

Among his earliest duties starting in the late 1940s, Jacchia helped to revise and 

extend the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics’s (NACA) venerable “Standard 

Atmosphere”—a set of tables indicating the variation of temperature, density, and pressure 

with altitude, essential data for the aircraft industry. After World War II, jet flight and rocketry made higher realms both important and accessible, greatly increasing both the need 

and the ways in which the high atmosphere could be studied and exploited. Starting in 

the 1950s, Jacchia continued this work, with Whipple, Frances Wright, and others at both 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 185

Harvard and the SAO, using data from meteor tracking and later satellites to explore the 

properties of Earth’s uppermost atmosphere.881

Based on his realization that meteors came in two families, Whipple believed that 

continued refinements in his meteor data, constantly re-calibrated by in situ measurements, 

would ultimately produce the most reliable atmospheric standards, as well as their seasonal variations.882 Accordingly, when satellites became a reality, there was no question that 

Whipple and Jacchia would extend their work to satellite heights, and both, from their 

experience as part of the efforts of the V-2 Rocket Panel to update the NACA Standard 

Atmosphere, were well aware of the importance of standardization in establishing authority 

for the high atmosphere.

By 1962, with SAO astronomer Jack W. Slowey, Jacchia had collected enough information from the tracks of eight artificial satellites to be able to evaluate competing models 

for the high atmosphere. Separating out all effects, ranging from geodetic asymmetries 

such as oblateness and the diurnal bulge, as well as effects caused by the pressure of 

solar radiation, they were able to conclude that systematic changes in the temperature 

profile, seen in a semiannual cycle, could be explained by a “single underlying cause—

corpuscular radiation,” and that variations in this flux over the 11-year solar cycle were 

“quite considerable.”883

Although there was a lingering hope among staff that they were creating a 

“Smithsonian Standard Atmosphere,” practically their efforts helped to refine national 

standards, such as the U.S. Standard Atmosphere, organized by the U.S. Committee on 

Extension to the Standard Atmosphere, which had been established in the early 1950s and 

continued through the 1970s with collaborations by a broad array of military and civilian 

agencies. SAO reports and papers through the 1970s on the subject were cited widely by 

workers in upper atmospheric physics and geophysics engaged in modeling and simulations of the atmosphere, as well as workers interested in the physical processes active in the 

ionosphere and beyond. Among the latter was a small group at Harvard led by the British 

theorist Alexander Dalgarno.

Dalgarno had long been interested in physical processes in the ionosphere, the formation of forbidden-line spectra, auroral excitation, and association detachment. In the 

late 1950s, he spent a number of summers as, in his words, a “tame theorist” at the Air 

Force Cambridge Research Center, and became aware of the experimental work at the 

Smithsonian on the upper atmosphere pursued by Whipple’s growing empire.884 By the 

1960s, Dalgarno, now at Queen’s University Belfast, began looking for broader challenges 

for his theoretical expertise, turning to astronomy. In 1967, Leo Goldberg, the new Harvard 

College Observatory director, appointed Dalgarno on a dual appointment funded by the 

Smithsonian. As Dalgarno recalled, this was an especially good opportunity to get closer 

to observational astronomers and astrophysical theorists, and what made the deal sweeter 

was that he could bring his group of postdoctoral fellows with him, again funded by the 

Smithsonian: “We had a very exciting beginning with what was really a quite sizeable initial 

group.” What really impressed Dalgarno was that “Fred was in a position, an extraordinary 

position that he could make almost, it seemed, unlimited appointments. And the appointments he made, he could make on an almost personal basis”885 (Figure 43).
186 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

In his Annual Reports starting in the late 1960s, Whipple identified Dalgarno’s group 

variously as working on “quantum mechanics of many-body systems” and “decay of ionospheric metastable helium-like atoms,” and by 1970 as “atomic and molecular processes.” 

Whipple did not try to associate their work with that of Jacchia’s group, described in 1968 

as “drag on artificial satellites” and in 1970 as “atmospheric densities.” Although the two 

groups worked in parallel focusing on the same region of space, their approaches were so 

different that there was little if any overlap. This intellectual separation would play out at the 

end of the decade as Harvard and Smithsonian staff debated their institution’s future. But 

for now we will stay on Earth and examine another outcome of the Research and Analysis 

Division’s industry that had been brewing for years.

Relations with the Military and the Threat of Classification

In early December 1958, Charles Lundquist, then working for von Braun, represented 

the Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA) at a geodesy conference Whipple organized 

in Cambridge. Although junior at the time, Lundquist had lobbied within the military for 

keeping such work unclassified.886 Whipple found in Lundquist a kindred spirit, and through 

the early 1960s, at least until Lundquist arrived at the SAO, the two remained in synchrony 

over these matters. The conference Whipple had organized in 1958 was in fact the first to 

publically link geodesy and space, a link explicit in both Whipple’s and Lundquist’s view 

that control of the information should not be restricted.887

Figure 43 Alexander Dalgarno. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 

16-263, Box 6.
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 187

The issue of control deepened after 1959 when NASA replaced the National Science 

Foundation (NSF) as the nexus for satellite tracking. The general shakeup, and deepening 

international tensions, led people to wonder how long would it be until all civilian tracking 

efforts were subjected to military oversight and control, and, moreover, who would decide 

what institution would track which satellite.888 The first effort at accommodation was the 

creation of Project ANNA in 1960, a compromise between the Army, Navy, NASA, and 

the Air Force to develop a flashing geodesy satellite system. Homer Newell had testified in 

March 1960 that NASA wanted to develop such a system “to meet the needs of all parties, 

both civilian and military.”889 The question remained: Who would control it—would it be 

civilian or military?

Whipple had long been an advisor for Air Force (USAF) planning as a member of various boards and panels, most recently the USAF Science Advisory Board’s ad 

hoc Committee on Sensors for Space Surveillance. In April 1960, Whipple received the 

Exceptional Service Award of the Air Force partly for this, and he parlayed his prominence 

to “mount a vigorous campaign to return ANNA to civilian control.” In September 1960 

he advised Air Force general Donald Yates on what NASA and DOD collaboration should 

look like. Whipple did not have much good to say about either NASA or the Department 

of Defense’s (DOD) track record for openness. Lack of communication breeds waste and 

protectiveness, he argued, and “personally, I feel that the greatest hazard to the taxpayer’s 

money lies in the pseudo-research programs conducted under high secrecy in the name 

of scientific research.”890 Project ANNA was, however, placed under DOD control by the 

end of the year, because, given the state of international affairs, there was much concern 

for keeping such knowledge classified.891 Even so, Whipple objected publically over the 

cancellation of a dedicated geodetic satellite for NASA and the transfer of ANNA to DOD, 

and privately cautioned Bradley that “the idea that we should not be in geodetic work is, of 

course, ridiculous. I understand how this situation came about and suggest that you relax 

on it until I can deal with it in my own way.”892

In 1961, Baker-Nunn staff reported concerns about security clearances. They knew 

that they needed “both the efficiency of a centralized management and quick systemresponses time, and most important, the complete trust, good will and cooperation of our 

associates in the nine foreign nations in which our stations operate as guest institutions.”893

Whipple took the lead, using ANNA as a sounding board.

In October Whipple asked the chair of the President’s Science Advisory Committee 

(PSAC), Jerome Wiesner, to “support the unrestricted use of a geodetic satellite and encourage the establishment of an international program utilizing the satellite to augment the 

scientific value of the program as well as the value of international relationships.”894 He 

also testified before Congress, joining a powerful team including James Van Allen and 

George Kistiakowsky.895 When called to testify before the House Committee on Science and 

Astronautics, Whipple pulled out all the stops.

Whipple testified in March 1962 before the committee’s Panel on Science and 

Technology, usually a friendly forum led by committee chair George P. Miller of California.896

Whipple opened with at least a half hour of illustrated remarks crafted to demonstrate the 

thoroughness of preparing the worldwide SAO network. He featured the Smithsonian star 
188 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

catalog, then whisked the congressmen to SAO stations in Japan, India, and Spain, highlighting the interdependence of the many institutions involved. He demonstrated that the 

Smithsonian was active and operational, worldwide, as a civilian agent of the American 

people. He acknowledged the radio-tracking systems of the Navy, predicting that newer 

satellite systems with optimized radio transmitters, such as Transit, would be highly 

competitive.897

Whipple’s main point was that all these techniques were needed collectively and their 

products had to be accessible. To make the system comprehensive required as many stations 

as possible, on land and sea. Each station not only required adequate optical- and radio/

radar-tracking facilities, but also precise timing to at least one-thousandth of a second. 

The considerable costs involved for each station, however, could be reduced someday if 

satellites were equipped with their own precision clocks. And if these clocks triggered some 

form of flashing light on the satellite, visible from his tracking stations, all the better. To 

make his point, Whipple insisted that such a satellite should be openly announced with 

predicated timings “so that people over the world would know when and where to point 

their telescopes.” Openness was essential for Whipple, who pictured a large, coordinated 

international effort, in the spirit of an extended IGY, where the satellite would be operated by NASA, coordinated through the Committee on Space Research (COSPAR) of the 

International Council of Scientific Unions (ICSU), and would “be welcomed internationally 

and would focus attention on our prime role as scientific leader in the use of space for the 

good of mankind.”898

Then, in a flourish, with “good for mankind” still echoing in the chamber, Whipple 

read from a New York Times article about how ANNA, about to launch, was drawing critical concerns from scientists who had been blocked from open access to its ephemeris 

and to the properties of its flashing beacon. Miller asked pointedly if ANNA was military 

or civilian, which cued Whipple to turn to his cohorts and call for discussion and debate 

over the question of classification. Søren Henricksen, chief of the R&D division of the 

Army Map Service, testified that ANNA was neither NASA nor DOD originally, but was 

conceived under the auspices of the IGY as a civilian program. It was handed to NASA 

as a completely unclassified mission. Then Colonel Peacock of Army Map confirmed that 

ANNA (what had been coded “Project Betty”) had been completely unclassified. However, 

they then both argued that the Minitrack-based system proved to be extremely critical 

because it taught the DOD how to increase precision and explained how this criticality convinced the DOD to acquire ANNA, with its flashing lights and Doppler ranging, 

and the expertise of both Navy and Army SECOR technologies (Sequential Correlation of 

Range). “At this time it became a classified project and NASA dropped out of the picture.” 

From this, Whipple alluded to how “internal difficulties” within the DOD have stalled the 

program and now they planned only one launch: “The status quo of this project is very 

questionable??”899

Everyone Whipple called upon strengthened the argument that making ANNA classified compromised the project and hence the nation’s ability to create an effective geodetic 

system. What was needed was an unclassified system of at least five or six high-flying satellites to tie together some “14 different major world datums.” Pennsylvania congressman 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 189

James Grove Fulton then asked Whipple if it was advisable to include Russia in the effort. 

Whipple emphatically replied yes and referred to Joint Resolution 15 of the working groups 

at the fourth COSPAR meeting in Florence, April 1961. Kistiakowsky seconded this, and 

then Whipple sarcastically stated the obvious: “Considering the radius of damage from 

thermonuclear weapons, it is perfectly obvious that the accuracy for targets is perfectly 

adequate.” Fulton then reminded the committee that Russia had appealed for open international cooperation to the UN Committee on the Peaceful Uses of Outer Space. The fact 

was, he added, “the nation which we feared most” is calling for cooperation. This prompted 

Kistiakowsky to call on Roger Revelle and other geophysicists to explain why openness 

was essential for science: direct detection of continental drift, polar wandering, and mantle 

shifting were at the top of their list.900

Miller cannily observed that Whipple’s presence among the geophysicists at the 

hearings indicated that this desired information went beyond geophysics, to astronomy. 

So he asked Whipple to comment. Whipple eagerly complied, confirming that astronomers wanted to nail down everything that moved, confirming, tracking, and analyzing 

the motions. Then, as he often did when speaking before congressmen, he told a personal 

anecdote to illustrate why astronomers were interested, as well as to confirm the USSR’s 

interest. Whipple had once visited the remains of the Pulkova Observatory near Leningrad. 

It had been completely destroyed during the war. Now, in its long restoration, he reported 

that they had found the original “fundamental measuring point” for Russian geodetic work 

dating from the mid-nineteenth century, and, with the help of the International Latitude 

Service, had located the exact spot to within a centimeter. “I think that is about the highest 

accuracy that we can consider at this time.”901 And in response to Miller’s friendly query, 

Whipple added that these were all interrelated problems. They fit together in “an amazingly 

complicated and amazingly exciting jigsaw puzzle which we are trying to solve now; I think 

we are making enormous strides in that direction.”902

This staged campaign in March 1962, aided by other members of the committee like 

Joseph Karth, carried the day and ANNA was declassified one month later, its management eventually given back to NASA.903 Homer Newell recalled the result as more of an 

“apartheid” arrangement. Both programs would continue but be separate: NASA would be 

allowed open publication. The DOD would continue ANNA, where appropriate including 

NASA, “But DOD would decide unilaterally on the disposition of the data.”904 Still, shifting 

sympathies for declassification continued, especially in the aftermath of the Cuban Missile 

Crisis that October. After the first ANNA launch by the Air Force in May was unsuccessful, 

the second launch by the Navy in October was delayed “for fear the satellite would be mistaken for a ballistic missile”905 during the crisis.

As DOD pursued the active flasher ANNA, NASA’s Beacon Explorer series 

employed passive corner-cube reflectors that could be monitored by ground-based laser 

systems. The Smithsonian was one of the earlier institutions to experiment with laser 

tracking, setting up its first facility at its Baker-Nunn site in Organ Pass, New Mexico, 

in 1964. By 1967, it was cooperating with at least four other stations across the globe, in 

France, Algeria, Greece, and the original NASA facility at Goddard Space Flight Center 

in Greenbelt, Maryland.906 The SAO facility at Organ Pass, a cooperative venture with 
190 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

General Electric’s Re-entry Systems Department, mounted a ruby laser to its Baker-Nunn. 

A searchlight mirror nearby collected the reflection. Their first observing run from late 

September through mid-October 1964 caught reflections from Beacon Explorer-A’s 22 

mirrors 19 times.907

The Smithsonian continued on in various programs such as NASA’s Geodetic Earth 

Orbiting Satellite system (GEOS), as well as networks coordinated by the U.S. Geodetic 

Satellite Program’s Geodetic Satellite Policy Board.908 The SAO had primary responsibility for optical tracking but networks in the Coast and Geodetic Survey, the Air Force 

Cambridge Research Center, and the Army Map Service provided backup.909 Throughout 

the decade, the Baker-Nunns remained the aperture champs, but it was also important to 

have as many stations as possible. Therefore, while the Air Force started by duplicating 

SAO’s Baker-Nunn systems in its own network, it also added transportable camera systems 

to many more sites.910 SAO’s strong relationship with the Air Force, lending expertise and 

experience and sharing data, continued through Whipple’s tenure as consultant and member of the Air Force’s Scientific Advisory Board. SAO staff consulted, made site visits, and 

provided training for staff at additional stations in Canada. As one SAO network staffer 

remarked, “The B.N. game is almost becoming popular.”911

Through the mid-1960s, the Smithsonian approached NASA several times for support 

to maintain its network, but the Air Force was consistently more responsive. It appreciated “the invaluable assistance of Whipple’s extremely competent staff of trained scientists 

and engineers” and regarded continued SAO operations as essential: The “urgency and the 

interest to national defense of this program dictates that a contract acceptable to you be 

negotiated at the earliest possible date.”912

The Air Force continued to supplement SAO programs by contracting for services, 

from tracking to analysis. SAO continued to train AF personnel and their contractors and 

to respond to tracking requests and general requests from other DOD areas. SAO’s Maui 

Baker-Nunn station faithfully tracked Air Force launches, continuously furnishing the 

Ninth Aerospace Defense Division (NORAD) and SPACETRACK its results (including 

UFO as well as satellite data).913 There was even a suggestion that SAO manage what was, 

by April 1964, the five-station USAF network, so that it would, as Whipple proposed to 

Ripley, “operate as efficiently and effectively as the SAO network.”914 What came out of this 

in October 1964 was a Memorandum of Agreement (MOA) between the SAO and NORAD 

to allow the two networks to operate in collaboration, sharing data on a “quid pro quo” basis 

with all transfers kept unclassified.915

Amid this positive activity, however, starting in the spring of 1965, some DOD 

officers tried to restrict data dissemination from USAF stations. In late April, responding 

to a Navy request that data and analyses from USAF Baker-Nunn sites in the Pacific be 

classified, especially Kwajalain and Johnston Islands, Lundquist resisted, reporting that 

he “told him I could not agree to such a position since we may never hear from DOD.”916

The Navy responded that “certain anti-satellite systems” installed at those sites that could 

“intercept and destroy satellites at several hundred miles” held “peculiar importance in 

the overall national security effort.” The SAO’s refusal brought threats from the Defense 
Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy and Aeronomy • 191

Intelligence Agency (DIA) in August to nullify parts of the Agreement, and to classify the 

data already provided by the Air Force under that Agreement.917 James Bradley, acting for 

Ripley, quickly responded with a strong letter of protest to Eugene Zuckert, the secretary 

of the Air Force.

This was hardly a “cold call.” Bradley had been in contact with Zuckert since May 

1964, carefully paving the way for the MOA and outlining the long process leading to the 

agreement. Bradley reminded Zuckert of the SAO’s investment and why the DIA’s demands 

were “a very distressing turn of events.” The Smithsonian would no longer be able to exploit 

the data and would have to cease further support of the Air Force mission.918 Zuckert, a 

Kennedy appointee and a strong voice for civilian control of the military, was due to retire 

in September, Bradley alerted both Whipple and James Webb. So Whipple pressed Webb 

warning how classification would hurt NASA’s image: “Instead of the big promoter of space 

research in the world, NASA will be looked upon as a disguised DOD agency. . . . The SAO 

satellite tracking system is so closely related to NASA that any suspicion falling on NASA 

would also fall on SAO.”919 The SAO’s allegiance was to openness and to NASA, and in turn, 

much of NASA’s good image across the seas lay in this openness, fostered by the civilian 

SAO network.920

After meetings that went as high as the President’s Office of Science and Technology 

Policy, the SAO weathered these threats to its continuing satellite-tracking program, weakened but intact. Data exchange continued between Air Force facilities and programs, including NORAD, and, as if to protect what independence they had, Whipple, Lundquist, Veis, 

and other SAO staff launched a visibility campaign presenting the SAO geodesy programs 

to public and professional audiences in 1966. They made their point by publishing the first 

version of Smithsonian Standard Earth.

Through the 1960s, security issues haunted the program, and serious budget cutbacks 

started taking their toll too. In early 1968, both the Central Intelligence Agency (CIA) and 

the Navy expressed concerns that the SAO was entertaining extended visits by mathematicians from Poland and Czechoslovakia, as part of a National Academy exchange program. 

Even though they would not have access to classified data, “it would permit [them] to participate in, and assimilate the more advanced American techniques for satellite geodesy,” 

which would include “details of computer programs, operational procedures, and even partially developed theories” not available in any other way.921

With classification pressure came budget cuts. After expenditures for Apollo peaked 

and the Vietnam War escalated, NASA cut back in almost every area.922 By summer 

1968, station staffs overseas had been cut by 50 percent, and in May 1969 NASA threatened to cut funding for SAO satellite tracking by half again in FY 1970, which would 

begin in barely two months, and by 100 percent thereafter.923 Friendly NASA managers 

warned Whipple to prepare somehow, possibly through the Office of Space Science and 

Applications, then headed by John Naugle.924 After harried discussions, it became clear 

that the issue was not simply funding, but continuing support for the now-outdated BakerNunn tracking stations. Upgrading with at least five laser stations was essential, Whipple, 

Lundquist, and Bradley pleaded to a NASA committee led by Naugle, who promised to 

find a way to respond positively.925 Some NASA funding did continue, supplemented by 
192 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

direct appropriations, establishing the enhanced stations, which Whipple claimed would 

be a new era for geoastronomy, “the study of the earth through astronomical observations.”926 In 1969, Whipple devoted almost two-thirds of his overall SAO appropriations 

request to geoastronomy.927

In the face of these challenges, Whipple worked hard to re-invent geoastronomy, for 

he knew that Ripley’s staff was worried what BoB would think if NASA support lapsed. 

Whipple had to show “who needs the data, and why.”928 Advised by Bradley over the 

summer, Lundquist provided the “clarity and punch” the Castle was looking for, branding “geoastronomy” in terms persuasive enough to convince Bradley to approach Hugh 

F. Loweth of BoB.929

The FY 1971 budget call was a particularly sensitive affair for the SAO and for the 

Smithsonian. As BoB was transformed into the Office of Management and Budget (OMB), 

new levels of scrutiny and shifting funding priorities in what was a tightening fiscal universe brought into question the future of the satellite-tracking program and its geoastronomy aspirations.

Up to that time, Harvard College Observatory (HCO) tolerated the satellite-tracking 

program mainly because it brought in substantial operating overhead. But when relations 

deteriorated between the SAO and HCO at the end of the decade, and NASA funding was 

rapidly dropping, benign indifference turned into concern for relevance. This scrutiny 

prompted Whipple and Lundquist to search for broadened application and a redefinition 

of the enterprise. But despite Lundquist’s heroic efforts, and the continued production 

of refined versions of the Standard Earth by Gaposchkin and his staff, when Whipple 

retired from the SAO directorship in 1972, and the two directorships merged into one 

within a new Center for Astrophysics, sympathies for satellite tracking and thus a large 

portion of the Research and Analysis Division waned in the 1970s. But by then, however, 

the infrastructure that tracking had helped to create had been turned to new challenges 

on the ground.
193

Chapter 12

Ground-Based Aspirations 

in Southern Arizona

At the May 1979 dedication of the Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT) at the 

Smithsonian’s Mount Hopkins Observatory in southern Arizona, the first large-scale 

optical telescope to explore a new philosophy of giant telescope building, Fred Whipple 

thought back to the 1960s and how he and Menzel felt what the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory (SAO) and Harvard needed was a “real observatory.” Both observatories had 

small radio telescopes and observing stations scattered widely around the world, of course, 

but Menzel and Whipple still felt the sting of the Oppenheimer committee’s judgment a 

decade earlier that Harvard could not compete with the great observatories of the West. 

Harvard’s old Boyden Station in South Africa was still alive, though managed by a consortium of European observatories, and was less than ideally accessible not only because of its 

physical distance, but also by “anti-apartheid sentiment in the United States.”930 Because 

the Smithsonian had fully divested itself of the Table Mountain facility in California by the 

end of 1962, it was without a substantial and flexible foothold in the West, save for Menzel’s 

Sacramento Peak Solar Observatory in New Mexico, still under Harvard management but 

wholly funded by the Geophysics Research Directorate of the Air Materiel Command as 

a narrowly defined facility. Harvard also had a small stake in a radio facility in Texas, the 

“Harvard Radio Astronomy Station” at Fort Davis, Texas, supported by the National Science 

Foundation (NSF). It boasted an 85-foot parabolic antenna or “dish.”931

A “real observatory” needed a really big optical telescope and had to be capable of a 

broad agenda. “Really big” was hardly a constant throughout the twentieth century, but it 

was the chief driver for ambitious observatory directors and their patrons.932

Big Telescopes 

Encouraged by post-Sputnik sources of funding but concerned that it retain a voice in 

determining what it wanted, the astronomical community began to think collectively about 

big telescopes in the early 1960s. To ensure that it had a voice, it organized itself into what 

would become a continuing series of “Decadal Surveys” on the needs of astronomy. The first 

survey, led by Albert Whitford in 1964, called for a new generation of large, ground-based 

optical telescopes.933 Some astronomers on the survey committee saw an opportunity to 

rectify what they believed were inequities in American astronomy, such as the “East-West 
194 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

split,” and so sought to “break the stranglehold that the California observatories have on 

large areas of research.” Geoffrey Burbidge, then at the University of California, San Diego, 

was particularly outspoken, imploring East Coast astronomers like Whipple to take this 

seriously, and not concentrate only in space astronomy: “[R]ather than concentrate completely on so-called space astronomy . . . Harvard itself should build a large ground-based 

astronomical facility in the Southwest or in some other part of the world where the climate 

is good.”934

Burbidge felt that Whipple and Goldberg as well as Lyman Spitzer were devoting too 

much attention to “space” and were forsaking traditional lines of investigation. Burbidge 

darkly observed that space astronomy was mainly an East Coast enthusiasm, “which as 

yet does not have many achievements to its credit but is over publicized, and in the West, 

the rather conservative and sometimes backward way in which astronomy is carried out 

by conventional means using large telescopes” is still the way that “our knowledge of the 

Universe advances.”935

Whipple did not see matters the same way. He did not express concern over the EastWest split and because his focus was “solar system astronomy,” he did not need the very 

largest telescopes. He admitted that cosmology was very attractive, and certainly drew in 

“physicists and youngsters,” but nothing, he felt, would happen for many years. Although the 

space program of 1964 was somewhat different from his 1946 dreams, still he expressed satisfaction that “the general progress is at a level that is not unexpected.”936 Even so, Whipple 

mused, with Smithsonian backing, possibly it was time to obtain “some strong groundbased equipment other than the specialized equipment that we have in meteors and satellite 

tracking.” Instead of a single large instrument, Whipple wanted to experiment: “Certainly 

astronomy has lagged woefully with regard to laboratory backup experimentation, and we 

can correct some of that now.”937

Whipple was being both prudent and practical. In 1964, wizened by the torturous 

experience of building Celescope, he adopted a cautious, step-by-step procedure. After all, 

as with Celescope, there was no one on either the Harvard or SAO staff who had experience 

building really big telescopes or managing a complex remote observatory. And he was cautioned by an unfortunate experience Donald Menzel had in trying to convince his Harvard 

faculty that they should build a big telescope in Hawaii.

Options

In the early 1960s Menzel felt his time was running out and he wanted to make one 

more big splash before retirement. He had started several successful observatories in the 

West, but now thought of a truly “large Western Observatory.” Something that could compete with the best, but optimized for his first love, solar physics. “It was no secret,” Menzel 

wrote in his autobiography, “that NASA was then considering funding at least one or possibly two observatories and everyone was fighting for the preferred position.” Working quietly with NASA program managers, he secured “a definite promise” that NASA would fund 

a major solar observatory in Hawaii, on Mount Kilauea, including a 90-inch telescope. He 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 195

knew that the University of Hawaii and other universities were vying, but given his leading 

role in the discipline, he “received the commitment that Harvard would be NASA’s number 

one choice.” By the end of the year he briefed the Harvard College Observatory Council 

(HCOC), receiving mild support from some but not all. “Three ‘theoreticians’ to my great 

surprise . . . who didn’t know which end of a telescope to look through, opposed it, bringing 

up objection after objection.”938 Two members of the HCOC, Charles Whitney and David 

Layzer, confirmed that they were skeptical of Menzel’s program. Menzel had not developed 

an adequate management plan for such a distant station, and they worried that these plans 

would “subtract from our own funding.”939 Nevertheless, Menzel called for a showdown 

in the office of Harvard president Nathan Pusey. Pusey, according to Leo Goldberg, was 

shocked when Menzel arrived with a full contingent of HCOC members who were dickering over the value to Harvard of a station in Hawaii. Although he harbored sympathies 

for a meritocratic faculty, Pusey was not at ease with such a confrontation. “He was pretty 

angry about it. He just said in no uncertain terms that he couldn’t support that project, that 

Harvard had its fingers burned many times in the past trying to operate a facility a long 

distance off like the one in South Africa. In effect, he turned it down just out of hand.”940

Goldberg felt that Menzel failed to win over his staff, and that Whipple certainly got the 

message. As Whipple told him years later: “They gave Donald a heart attack and nearly 

drove me out of my mind.”941

Menzel did indeed suffer a serious heart attack in April 1965, and soon stepped down 

from the directorship. Goldberg (Figure 44) replaced him. Turning down an offer to run the 

Goddard Space Flight Center, Goldberg leveraged a full-time Harvard faculty slot so he no 

longer had to be supported by the Smithsonian.942 At first, he and Whipple tried to combine 

Figure 44 Leo Goldberg in the early 1960s. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 6.
196 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Harvard and Smithsonian interests to build something big, somewhere: in the Southwest, 

in Hawaii, or in South America.

In January 1966, the SAO and the Harvard College Observatory (HCO) jointly proposed building a 24-inch reflector as a starting point for establishing an optical observatory somewhere in southern Arizona. Also, stimulated by the first National Academy 

of Sciences Decadal Survey recommendations by the “Whitford Committee,” plans were 

afoot to conceptualize something on the order of 100- to 120-inch aperture, with a joint 

expenditure between Harvard and the Smithsonian of some $3 million.943 Menzel, now 

retired, kept the issue alive, offering advice and suggesting possible private funding 

sources, now that NASA had committed to the University of Hawaii. The options for a site 

remained Arizona or Hawaii.944 Through 1967 and well into 1968 Pusey remained hostile 

to Hawaii; Goldberg still favored it, but confined his search to sites in Oklahoma, Texas, 

Colorado, and even on Kitt Peak, seeking possible alliances with a consortium of large 

Midwest universities.945

Throughout these deliberations, Whipple concentrated solely on Mount Hopkins. The 

site was very dark, had stable air and low winds, and was not too far from an emerging 

world-class center of forward-thinking optical astronomers in Tucson. And by this time, 

he’d already quietly built a few buildings and established some projects and liaisons there.

Searching for a Site

At the MMT dedication in 1979, Whipple also recalled how he and his staff, especially 

those responsible for satellite and meteor tracking, were always sensitive to observing conditions.946 By the mid-1960s, his Organ Pass Satellite tracking station’s observing conditions 

were rapidly deteriorating because of the growth of nearby White Sands, and the lights of 

the Las Cruces metropolitan area. He could not do anything about sprawl-induced sky 

glow, because that would be fighting local commercial interests. Nor did he want to, since 

he was looking for an excuse to move. He was interested in establishing stronger relationships with the growing astronomical scene in Tucson, so looked for a darker site there, one 

that would not only allow his tracking stations to record the faintest artificial satellites, but 

also provide unhindered views of the deep sky for testing out new instruments and new 

technologies.947 “It was a case of opportunism, making use of the Satellite Tracking Program 

to get the real observatory going.”948

Earlier site surveys for the Harvard Meteor Project had already yielded some excellent candidates that were reasonably accessible, cloud free, and very dark.949 Since 1962, 

McCrosky had headed up a cooperative project with the Harvard College Observatory 

and MIT’s Lincoln Laboratory, funded by NASA and the Air Force, to utilize high-speed 

sounding rockets to inject artificial probes into the high atmosphere at meteoric velocities 

to produce calibration data for mass-luminosity and air-density determinations. He also 

led the Harvard Prairie Network, so he had at hand a team of quick-response technicians 

attuned to remote fieldwork, and offered a ready complement to engage in additional site 

searching.
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 197

As had other astronomers, Whipple found the Tucson area to be the best given all 

constraints, but the range that the Kitt Peak National Observatory occupied was not very 

high, was not protected from Tucson itself, which was expected to expand, and was already 

quite full of telescopes. During a visit to Tucson, Whipple, along with David Latham and 

others, met with planetary astronomer Gerard Kuiper. Kuiper, Latham recalls, blurted out, 

“Mount Hopkins. That’s where you want to go, Fred.” Kuiper had flown over the site and 

found the air over Mount Hopkins to be very stable, “and that means the seeing is going to 

be great there.”950

The ridge including Mount Hopkins in the Coronado National Forest was about as 

far from Tucson as was Kitt Peak, but it was shielded by mountains to the north, leaving 

the southern sky dark. Whipple, through Ripley, applied to the Forest Service in January 

1966 for a use permit and, with some delicacy, notified Sen. Clinton Anderson (D-NM, 

1961–1972), a Smithsonian regent, of the impending departure from his state. Anderson, 

then on the important Senate Committee on Aeronautical and Space Sciences, was none 

too happy, but accepted the shift on political terms: “I know how ruthless the people at the 

University of Arizona try to move everything to their State, and I am sorry to see this small 

operation suffer from that desire.”951

As the SAO’s contract officer, Mark Malec coordinated and executed legal land rights 

arrangements, not only with the U.S. Forest Service but with lingering mining claims in 

the area, McCrosky assigned Charles Tougas to lead a site survey for the tracking station as 

well as new instrumentation. Jack Coffey, SAO’s personnel director, became project administrator to create a master plan.952 Tougas had managed Organ Pass, as well as the Peru and 

Argentina stations, before he became field supervisor for the Prairie Network. His first step, 

through Malec, was to obtain permits from the Forest Service to build some 20 kilometers 

of narrow access roads with grades reaching up to 23 percent: “It will be no place for any 

observer who has a known drinking problem,” Tougas once advised headquarters, worried 

about the dangers of driving such a road at elevations above 7,000 feet in the colder and 

wetter months.953

When the Organ Pass Baker-Nunn moved to the Mount Hopkins ridge, it was joined 

by a new laser-ranging system. Sites were also designated for a new 60-inch reflector and 

smaller instruments including an interferometric optical sky monitor. The site was also 

suitable for living and working facilities, including a library, electronics laboratory, and 

mechanical workshop. The Mount Hopkins summit, at 8,585 feet, was left for something 

really big in the future.

Whipple introduced the new observing station to the Smithsonian regents in 1966, 

and, significantly, redefined his organizational structure. No longer organized by funded 

projects, as he did in the first years, now he structured his reports carefully around broad 

problem areas (Meteors and Comets, Meteorites and Cosmic Dust, Planetary Studies, etc.), 

mixing them with descriptions of observing techniques (radio, optical, and flight experiments), methodology (theoretical astrophysics), and infrastructure (Central Bureaus). To 

justify retaining “Optical Astronomy,” he claimed there were “too few telescopes and so 

little observing time available” to his staff so more telescopes were needed, specifically, a 

medium-sized telescope for spectroscopy.954 But there was also experimentation, a “large 
198 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

light collector to observe Čerenkov radiation generated by gamma rays hitting the upper 

atmosphere.” It is this last new program that best illustrates the process through which 

Whipple explored new opportunities to build his empire, and it as well provides insight into 

his methodology for building a staff capable of exploiting these opportunities.

Opening Up the High-Energy Universe

One might imagine that Whipple would build observing programs that complemented 

ongoing efforts in geodesy, the upper atmosphere, and solar and stellar atmospheres. But 

spaceflight and new sensor technologies had made other universes accessible, and he was 

out to conquer them—case in point: gamma-ray astrophysics.

In the late 1950s, Giovanni G. Fazio was a physics graduate student at MIT developing 

detectors for measuring the highest ranges of cosmic radiation. He worked within a large 

laboratory that fostered projects in cosmic-ray and high-energy astrophysics specifically to 

develop new detector technologies.955 He then moved to the University of Rochester to build 

gamma-ray detector payloads for sounding rockets with support from a small NASA seed 

grant, and in 1962 returned to Cambridge as one of nine new physicists Whipple hired for a 

multitude of projects.956 Supported by a NASA grant that Goldberg had brought to Harvard 

from Michigan, Fazio was first described as a “coexperimenter” on the first Orbiting Solar 

Observatory, searching for gamma-ray emission from solar flares. He had contributed to 

theoretical studies that predicted the nature of the gamma-ray spectrum expected from 

high-energy solar phenomena, and also lent his expertise to the prediction of gamma radiation from the galaxy. At the same time he helped to perform isotope ratio analyses to determine exposure ages of meteorites in E. L. Fireman’s laboratory.957 Typical for the physicists 

hired by Whipple, Fazio made himself useful wherever his expertise was of value.

In 1958 Cornell physicist Phillip Morrison excited physicists by predicting that whatever was producing the high-energy celestial radio noise known as synchrotron radiation had to have “a really hot beast in its belly.”958 Fazio, with J. B. Pollack in the Harvard 

Astronomy Department, extended Morrison’s predictions and set limits on the sensitivity 

required to actually observe these sources.959 In other words, they established how sensitive a detection system had to be to observe the suspected high-energy sources. Thus they 

joined in with other groups of high-energy specialists in Russia, Britain, Ireland, and the 

United States to develop techniques to detect gamma radiation from likely astronomical 

sources, such as the supernova remnant in the Crab Nebula and the beast lurking in the 

center of our galaxy.960

One way to study them was to send high-energy detectors to the top of the atmosphere and near space. But physicists had known since the late 1940s that the highest forms 

of radiation hitting Earth’s atmosphere produced showers of charged particles with speeds 

greater than the velocity of light in that medium, which violated the law of special relativity. 

Thus they instantly had to lose energy by emitting visible photons. Nuclear physicist Pavel 

Čerenkov explored this mechanism in the laboratory in the 1930s and the effect has become 

known by his name.961
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 199

Fazio applied both techniques. In 1963, urged by Whipple, he proposed a 

gamma-ray experiment as a complement to SAO’s Celescope package on the Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory, which was not funded. He then joined an AVCO Space 

Systems Division proposal to Kitt Peak’s space division for an Explorer-class gamma-ray 

package.962 Finally, later in the 1960s, with Henry Helmken and NASA support, Fazio 

flew a series of piggy-back spark-chamber payloads on Air Force balloon flights from 

the Holloman Air Force Base, and with Smithsonian support collaborated with the Tata 

Institute of Fundamental Research for flights from Hyderabad to observe at the geomagnetic equator. Thus initiated by Fazio and his group, the SAO maintained a vigorous 

program employing a series of postdoctoral fellows and staff who have continued the 

exploration to the present time.963

Fazio’s group also pursued ground-based optical installations to detect Čerenkov 

radiation resulting from high-energy air showers. First, they placed photoelectric detectors at the focus of a large ground-based parabolic mirror that during the day fed a solar 

furnace at nearby U.S. Army Natick Laboratories.964 These experiments at Natick helped 

them refine both detector technology and the high-speed timing systems that were essential to meeting the predicted characteristics of the suspected secondary showers of visible 

radiation. Not surprisingly, they confirmed that there was a fundamental limitation caused 

by Natick’s night sky brightness, caused by moisture, dust, and the lights of Boston. Mount 

Hopkins did not suffer these limitations.

The Čerenkov technique could be applied with available technology and did not 

require major funds beyond the SAO’s regular congressional appropriations. Teaming 

up with three others, including Trevor Weekes, Fazio first employed a set of two 5-foot 

searchlight mirrors on the slopes of Mount Hopkins at the 4,200 foot level (Figure 45). 

They placed sets of commercial RCA photomultipliers at the foci of the mirrors and linked 

them in a fast coincidence circuit. Test observing runs between November 1967 and April 

1968 helped to establish procedure, but showed that the searchlight mirrors were not 

large enough to actually detect optical showers from gamma-ray primaries. By then, however, the Mount Hopkins staff had built a new steerable 10-meter optical reflector at the 

7,600-foot level. This new collector, variously called the “Large Optical Reflector” (LOR) 

or sometimes, unfortunately, the “Gamma Ray Reflector,” was an array of small tessellated 

mirrors clustered in a circle with a common focal point. It would reduce the detectable 

upper limit significantly and further constrain the nature of the sources producing the 

radiation965 (Figure 46).

At the MMT dedication, Whipple reflected back over a decade, recalling that he 

was “haunted . . . by the multiple lens system of the fly’s eye.”966 But the multiple mirror idea was not new. Long attributed to Archimedes and applied by a former Jacchia 

colleague who built a 1.8-meter tessellated zenith telescope mirror in the early 1950s 

that employed 61 interlocking mirrors, it was finding favor among astronomers hungry for photons.967 With elements based on the Natick solar collector and with cues 

from the innovative Hanbury-Brown-Twiss stellar optical interferometer at Narrabi, 

Australia, SAO staff led by Fazio’s group constructed their dish from 248 adjustable 

hexagonal-shaped spherical mirrors mounted in a cluster on a commercial radio antenna 
200 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Figure 45 Trevor Weekes and George Reike with one of the searchlights used to search for 

Cˇ erenkov radiation from gamma-ray showers. They were successful only when the collecting 

aperture was vastly increased with the Large Optical Reflector. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Acc. 16-263, Box 2.

positioner.968 In operation it could concentrate some 85 percent of the incident light 

energy onto a 2.5-inch disk containing a set of photomultiplier tubes. With an effective field of 1 degree, the instrument was well designed to detect divergent Čerenkov 

radiation.969 After it was completed in June 1968, Fazio and his team used it to conduct 

surveys over the next several years, significantly reducing the upper limits of possible 

gamma-ray sources.970

During the deliberations over the LOR design, the Program Management staff at the 

SAO had to negotiate with the Forest Service, which wanted to know at every step just how 

much of the mountain site was to be dotted with telescopes and crisscrossed with roads. 

They also had to satisfy local Native Americans that their instruments would not interfere 

with their cultural activities.971 By late April 1967, a master plan was finally signed, and this 

set in place the initial scope of the project including the sizes and placement of the buildings 

for the LOR, the satellite-tracking facility, and observing pads for occasional projects. There 

would be constant modifications.

While the LOR was under construction, spaceborne detectors on Orbiting Solar 

Observatory (OSO) satellites and sounding rockets were showing evidence that, indeed, 

discrete hard x-ray and gamma-ray sources existed, and, in the Crab, the x-rays were 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 201

pulsing in tune with optical and radio pulses.972 Therefore, there was every good reason to 

keep looking from the ground for the flashes. Deprived of a new “discovery,” nevertheless 

the Mount Hopkins/SAO team joined the years-long search, constantly applying improved 

detectors and refining observing technique.

The high-energy astrophysics group greatly contributed to the breadth of SAO capabilities in the late 1960s and 1970s. It was supported on a combination of Air Force, NASA, 

and NSF grants supplemented and smoothed out by the Smithsonian’s appropriated federal 

funds. Fazio, far from satisfied with available techniques, constantly improved his detectors and played a strong role in establishing the parameters of the campaign through an 

exhaustive survey of both theoretical predictions and established observational limits in 

1967.973 He also attracted like-minded physicists to SAO, like Weekes, who had come first as 

a National Research Council (NRC) postdoc in 1967 to work at Mount Hopkins, returned 

briefly to his base at University College, Dublin, Ireland, but soon accepted an appointment as resident scientific director at Mount Hopkins in June 1969. Weekes was directly 

responsible for the maintenance and continual upgrades for the 10-meter dish facility and 

its elaborations over the next several decades.974

Figure 46 Dedication of the Large Optical Reflector in October 1968. (L to R ) 

Tucson mayor James Corbitt, Whipple, and Rep. Morris K. Udall (D-AZ) in front of 

the 34-foot mosaic collector. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Image # 92-1773.
202 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Despite the group’s early confidences that the sensitivity of their equipment was sufficient to detect predicted gamma-ray flux from the Crab, as well as their continued successes 

to reduce the upper limits by several orders of magnitude,975 it was not until 1986 that 

Weekes succeeded, with a team of 11 physicists from collaborating institutions, to reach 

the flux levels of the central source and to verify its existence at a high significance level.976

Building a Team for Optical Astronomy

The Baker-Nunn station and the 10-meter reflector worked in the optical range of the 

spectrum, but also performed specialized tasks, reflecting Whipple’s interests in meteor 

trail reconnaissance and air glow. But Whipple also viewed Mount Hopkins as a site for 

a “real observatory” and so, in a careful stepwise fashion, initiated steps in that direction, 

always within funding levels that kept the facility below visible limits in the appropriations 

process. Advised by Lundquist and by Tillinghast, Whipple agreed that a major part of that 

plan was to create an effective management infrastructure that could handle very large projects. What he needed was a test case.

He set his sights on a 60-inch photometric telescope, similar in size to Harvard’s 

61-inch Wyeth at the Agassiz Station and within the Smithsonian’s regular appropriated 

budget supplemented by grants from trust-side Smithsonian Research Foundation funds; 

what Whipple referred to as “pin money.”977 Starting in 1966, Whipple enlisted a half 

dozen SAO staff in Cambridge led by Lundquist and Latham to provide detailed scientific 

specifications and an overall construction plan. Lundquist provided project management 

oversight, whereas Thomas Hoffman contributed mechanical design expertise. Latham, 

still a Harvard graduate student, had experience in instrument development and a specialty in stellar atmospheres, sharing talents with Stephen Strom and Robert Noyes, and 

also had experience with the limits of photographic spectrophotometry. Most of them had 

worked extensively with the 61-inch Wyeth telescope at Oak Ridge and knew its foibles, 

but they had tested out the many applications that this size telescope would be able to 

perform under observing conditions closer to the astronomer’s ideal.

Together they represented broad research interests. Latham, especially, was a good 

example of the synergy of the Smithsonian-Harvard partnership: a Harvard graduate 

student supported by Smithsonian projects (Figure  47). Latham and Strom took the 

lead defining the problems a 60-inch could address. The group formed into a “60-inch 

Performance Committee,” with Latham doing much of the work to define the performance 

specifications for the telescope. In May 1967, Whipple formed a “Scientific Organizing 

Committee,” made up of most of the same staff, and in June, Hoffmann had drafted technical specifications for potential contractors in a process that took another year. They 

engaged the J. W. Fecker Division of American Optical to produce final design and fabrication drawings for the optics and the tube, and the team added Nathaniel Carleton 

to round out the scientific research agenda with his interest in planetary atmospheres 

and expertise in instrumentation. Carleton would eventually take charge of the design, 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 203

Figure 47 In addition to his role developing Mount Hopkins, Dave Latham (r) continued 

to utilize the local 61-inch telescope at Oak Ridge through the 1980s. Here, he is with 

Robert Stefanik and one of their “digital speedometers” used to obtain highly precise 

radial velocities. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc.16-263, Box 7.
204 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

construction, and testing of the telescope itself, in close contact with Fecker, leaving the 

mount, building, and dome to other staff and a growing suite of sub-contractors.978

After considerable deliberation, the 60-inch was designed to operate in two 

or three primary modes: a very fast f/2.5 primary, with secondary mirrors operating 

either as an f/10 perforated Cassegrain or as an f/24 Coudé. In theory, this design could 

address a wide variety of problems ranging from bright stellar and extended objects 

to faint nebulae using a suite of focal plane instruments, and the fast f/ratio meant it 

all could fit in a smaller dome. By the end of 1968, teams were developing all sorts of 

modern devices to mount to the telescope. These included a photoelectric spectrum 

scanner for medium-resolution studies, a slitless interference spectrometer capable of 

sensing faint objects in the optical infrared, and a device, adapted from a design from 

the University of Wisconsin, that provided ultra-high resolution in very narrow portions 

of the spectrum.979

Tillinghast managed the project, as recently promoted assistant director for management.980 In that capacity, he developed the SAO Personnel Office, the Contracts Office, and 

the first formally defined Engineering Department, giving structure to and regularizing 

these activities. At his untimely death in July 1969, with the 60-inch near completion, 

he had created the means through which it could be managed efficiently and effectively. 

The telescope was named in his honor at its dedication on September 29, 1970, where 

James Bradley, Smithsonian undersecretary, recalled him as “one of a new breed of young 

men created by the Space Age,” who respected “both the potential and the limitations of 

research, and who temper their technical skills with humanism.”981 Tillinghast had been 

especially mindful of his challenge, viewing SAO as “a striking example” of the “federaluniversity relationship . . . which may well become an important approach for government 

and university research of the future.”982

The 60-inch telescope itself, in 1966 considered “a medium sized telescope,”983 was 

hardly a technical milestone. It required far less investment than did Celescope or the 

satellite-tracking network. But like Celescope, it was intended as a testing ground to build 

an infrastructure that could then provide a stage on which far larger facilities might be 

based. Accordingly, the SAO elected to manage a distributed set of contractors itself, 

rather than depend on a general contractor.984 In fact, it was carefully planned as one 

element in a larger experiment, proposed to NASA in 1969 that, in Ripley’s words, was 

explicitly “to establish criteria for the erection of sites for future ground-based astronomy 

research.”985

With the arrival, installation, and acceptance of the mirror, dome, and structure by 

February 1970, the telescope was in operation by the summer.986 Nathaniel Carleton took 

the lead in assembling and testing the components, looking forward to placing a new highresolution spectrometer at its Cassegrain focus for planetary studies.

Though the instrument was designed, built, and assembled in rapid order, there were 

glitches along the way that reminded everyone that Mount Hopkins was not yet tamed 

and, for some, not isolated enough. Members of the staff constantly fought against bond 

issues to increase street lighting in the Tucson area, and in summer 1969, observatory staff 

helped the local Amado Dog Track install shields on its track lights, because the 10-meter 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 205

reflector could easily detect the increased brightness of the lights whenever a race was 

scheduled.987

The 60-inch Tillinghast facility quickly established itself as a capable medium-sized 

observatory. From October 1970 to January 1976, Fred Chaffee reported, some 55 astronomers and graduate students observed with the telescope; 18 different focal plane instruments were built, tested, and used with the facility; and the work produced three PhD theses 

from Harvard and two from the State University of New York at Stony Brook, which had 

purchased time on the instrument. Chaffee predicted that it would continue as a productive 

test bed as well as a programmatic instrument, for which all sorts of instruments were now 

in planning stages.988

A “Diversified Astronomical Field Activity”

Stony Brook astronomers were not alone in seeking out the instruments and observing conditions at the Mount Hopkins site. Indeed, as Whipple had carefully planned, the 

site became a test bed for programs developed by NASA as well as the National Center for 

Atmospheric Research (NCAR) and other institutions. In a “Land Withdrawal Request” the 

Smithsonian made to the Bureau of Land Management in May 1968 for use of its 4,474 acres, 

others interested in using the site under Smithsonian auspices included NASA, Harvard, 

NCAR, the University of Arizona, the University of Rochester, and MIT. The request even 

looked forward to a time when “Mt. Hopkins develops into a national facility,” responding to the recommendations of the Whitford Committee and to editorials from Science

included with the brief.989

NASA was already present on the site, supporting the satellite-tracking operation. 

By late 1968, NASA’s Electronics Research Center (ERC) in Cambridge,990 entered into an 

agreement with SAO to develop the site as a “diversified astronomical field activity.” In the 

agreement, SAO permitted NASA to use the site “as an optical test, technology, measurement and operational facility.” NASA would develop standardized techniques for site testing, conducting seeing experiments to corroborate those being conducted by the SAO in 

order to establish the site for future uses of an unspecified character. NASA’s ERC as well 

as the Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL) installed stellar image monitors, an atmospheric 

water vapor spectral hygrometer, instruments for microthermal measurements, and a 

large facility for general meteorological investigations, not only to better understand the 

site but also to standardize techniques for evaluating other sites.991 At times, NASA’s presence equaled the Smithsonian’s. In the summer of 1970, NASA installed their Mobile 

Laser System near the Smithsonian’s satellite-tracking laser. A 40-foot trailer weighing 

some 20 tons and requiring some 90 kilowatts of power and five people to operate it 

required upgrades to the roads and the observing site. NASA thus became a substantial 

source of support for the growing infrastructure and operations.992

Trevor Weekes reported to Whipple that 1970 would be another “year of expansion” 

at Mount Hopkins. At least four groups were in extended residence, and reporting on all 

the activities took some 14 single-spaced pages. Numerous “Visiting research groups” 
206 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

from different NASA divisions, including Wallops Island and the Goddard Mobile Laser 

System group, the Huntsville meteor group, and the Goddard gamma-ray group, all were 

aided by the Hopkins “Observing Services Division.” Weekes predicted that “as the reputation of the quality of the site becomes known, it must be expected that the number of 

such groups will increase.” Accordingly, he recommended that they develop one or more 

of the knolls to be visitor friendly with facilities ready to be adapted. Some 22 SAO staff 

were in full time residence now; there were weekly seminars and colloquia, and public 

programming occurred in Amado. Weekes reported that morale was high among resident staff, “despite recent cutbacks and uncertainty regarding future programs.” Probably 

the greatest concern, however, was the threat of increasing air and light pollution; Weekes 

was grateful that Whipple had already petitioned the Health, Education, and Welfare 

Department, supported by Congressman Udall’s office, that the Santa Rita and Santa Cruz 

ranges be included in an initiative to declare the Phoenix-Tucson area “an air control 

region.”993

Echoing Weekes, Whipple declared that the SAO now had its own major observing 

facility, a “multipurpose astrophysical observatory” that was very much in the spirit of 

Joseph Henry’s vision of a “physical observatory.” Most pointedly, Whipple selected Henry’s 

rhetoric to speak directly to his Smithsonian bosses, and indeed to anyone willing to think 

new thoughts about big telescopes. Henry spoke of the many odd “emanations” from the 

“fixed stars, or are reflected from the moon and planets, or as they may be found in the 

aurora borealis, the zodiacal light, and in shooting stars or larger meteors,” noting that each 

“requires peculiar instruments, and such as are not found, at present, in ordinary astronomical observatories.”994 In like manner, Whipple hoped to set the stage for, and make an 

institutional connection to support, the next big thing. By the time he had prepared this 

speech for astronomers and staff in January 1970, he knew what that next big thing would 

probably look like.

Aden Meinel and a New Way to Make a Bigger Telescope

In 1960, Aden Meinel (Figure 48), the builder and founding director of Kitt Peak, and 

the key visionary for what became the MMT, proclaimed that, in theory, there was “no limit 

on the size” of a mirror.995 Practically though, the standard assumption was that suitable 

equatorial mountings, their housings, and their cost, increased as a cube of the aperture, 

making the size of the mirror the chief hurdle.996 Meinel well knew that larger apertures 

were possible only if accompanied by efforts to make bigger mirrors with faster f/ratios, 

for economy mainly in the mounting and housing. The Tillinghast 60-inch followed this 

pattern precisely.

With Kitt Peak established, Meinel left in 1961 to join the staff of Steward 

Observatory at the University of Arizona, where he was appointed director and professor of astronomy. In 1964 he established the Optical Sciences Center at the university in 

part to build Steward’s new 90-inch reflector, a fast primary feeding a combination f/9 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 207

Ritchey-Chrétien and a f/30 Coudé mounted on a compact equatorial fork in an unconventional dome. It saw first light in the summer of 1968 with funding from the NSF and 

the state of Arizona.997

The Optical Sciences Center was not created for astronomy but rather “to fulfill a 

national need for more highly trained engineers and physicists in the optical sciences.”998

With support from the Air Force and endorsements from the Optical Society of America, 

and with seed funding from the University, Meinel created the Center to provide agency 

for attracting large contracts from the Air Force’s Space and Missile Systems Organization 

(SAMSO) and the Air Force Systems Command (AFSC). In the manner fostered by Stark 

Draper at MIT, it became the Air Force’s pipeline for training physicists and engineers 

already committed to military problems.999 His Optical Sciences Center filled a critical need 

for SAMSO, the center’s primary sponsor, which as of November 1966 was tasked by the Air 

Force to provide “cost effective multipurpose satellite systems” for “enhanced world-wide 

early warning, surveillance and detection capabilities.”1000

Meinel’s SAMSO connections put him in touch with plans for a Manned Orbiting 

Laboratory (MOL).1001 As a space platform that would be occupied by Air Force and Navy 

astronauts, allegedly to “test man’s military usefulness in space,”1002 MOL was developed 

to operate large optical reconnaissance systems under the code name DORIAN.1003 One 

design called for a long f/ratio, 60-inch diameter primary mirror mounted in a cylindrical 

tube that was fed by a flat, full-aperture diagonal mirror looking out the side of the cylinder. 

The primary mirror sent a converging beam to a two-mirror optical relay and thence to a 

photographic film plane operated manually by astronauts. But when the President’s Science 

Figure 48 Aden Meinel. Courtesy AIP Emilio 

Segrè Visual Archives.
208 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Advisory Committee (PSAC) intervened in November 1965, the system was converted to 

a robotic scheme whereby a film transport system fed a series of film recovery capsules, 

along the lines that Davis had been offered for Celescope by General Electric subcontractors in 1958. At some point between November 1965 and May 1966, the 60-inch diameter 

primary was enlarged to roughly 70 inches “to provide the desired . . . [redacted] . . . ground 

resolution.”1004

When MOL was cancelled in June 1969, the National Reconnaissance Office (NRO) 

and Air Force offered some of its hardware to NASA, “within the bounds of security.” 

Included were elements useful to the Skylab program, but also some of the mirror blanks 

“for various non-reconnaissance optical projects.”1005 These ended up at the Marshall Space 

Flight Center. But Meinel got some seven mirrors too through Harry I. Davis, deputy undersecretary of the Air Force for Research and Development.1006 This was a direct result of an 

informal meeting at the Pentagon at which Meinel suggested that the Air Force develop a 

synthetic aperture reconnaissance telescope. He sketched it, made a model of it at home in 

his machine shop, and eventually presented it to Davis: “It was on the table with other models of future aircraft for the Under Secretary [of the United States] Air Force”1007 (Figure 49). 

From subsequent remarks Meinel made during his campaign to build a multiple mirror 

telescope for the University of Arizona’s observatory site on Mount Lemmon, it is clear that 

considerable work had taken place conducting feasibility studies before the cancellation of 

the program, called at one point the “ultra high resolution (UHR) photo satellite system.”1008

“a very large, but inexpensive and lightweight, 

optical telescope . . .”1009

While he was building LOR, Whipple was thinking even larger. He asked the engineering firm engaged in developing LOR to provide conceptual studies for a “major optical 

reflector.” Through spring 1968 they produced a half dozen options that balanced thermal 

and mechanical stability levels with sky coverage and tracking capabilities.1010

The 60-inch had been planned as a general-purpose instrument. But its larger successor would be tuned for infrared studies. Advised by Robert Noyes and others, Whipple 

knew that planetary and solar system studies required infrared (IR) detectors, so he directed 

Noyes to team up with Strom and Lawrence Mertz along with SAO managers and engineers to decide on a functional system. In March 1969, Noyes advised the Smithsonian’s 

Research Foundation that “several converging trends” made it important for the SAO to 

get involved in IR work. First, many SAO astronomers were interested in problems that 

could be informed by infrared observations, such as star formation, the origin and presence of planetary systems, or the physics of cool stars. Second, other groups, such as at 

Arizona and Caltech, had by then successfully initiated IR programs and had “demonstrated that the field is very rich.” Third, Mount Hopkins proved to be a good IR site. 

And fourth, because the SAO was already considering building a “major optical reflector 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 209

Figure 49 In early proposals for what became the Multiple Mirror Telescope, its depiction 

embodied Meinel’s original design for a centrally supported instrument that could be folded for 

launch into space. Note the observer on the central axis. Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

RU 468-032, Box 32.
210 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

sometime in the future,” attention to detector development was a sound and prudent step 

that would lead to quick scientific return with present telescopes and point out the need 

for larger telescopes.1011

Turning what Whipple and Lundquist first called a “Major Optical Reflector” (MOR) 

and then a “Major Optical Instrument” (MOI) into an infrared facility also relaxed optical and mechanical specifications, which led the team to consider a wide range of radical 

designs. After many meetings, however, going over the options the contractor provided 

them the previous March, they could not reach a clear decision on how to proceed.1012

Accordingly, Lundquist split the group into subcommittees to develop detailed parameters. The scientists (Noyes, Mertz, Carleton, Schild, and Pearlman) had a month to develop 

clear scientific objectives. Other subcommittees were charged to prioritize options for 

structural engineering designs. Given the report of the first committee, all groups would 

report within three months to evaluate and select instrument concepts, and would then 

spend another half year analyzing “contending concepts.” Whipple’s goal was to have a 

proposal ready by May 1970 in time to incorporate it into the Smithsonian’s fiscal ’72 

request to Congress.1013

The SAO engineers and astronomers constantly debated competing designs. 

Lawrence Mertz was especially attracted to an Arecibo-type design consisting of a fixed 

tessellated array of mirrors. It would be optimized for spectroscopy because he saw the 

universe in those terms.1014 By the summer of 1968, aided by conversations with optical 

experts such as Meinel, he was confident that his design could deliver 1-arc-second images 

and thereby was only seeing-limited, like any proper ground-based telescope. The size and 

figure of the secondary mirror was a critical factor, however. It would be a challenge to 

minimize coma and other aberrations, and, as Mertz admitted, no doubt the fabrication of 

“such a grossly aspheric secondary is not expected to be easy.”1015

On his frequent trips to Mount Hopkins, Whipple visited Gerard Kuiper in Tucson. 

At one of these meetings, Kuiper apparently discussed the plans that Meinel and Frank 

Low were developing for repurposing the 72-inch mirrors Meinel was to receive through 

Davis after the DORIAN/MOL cancellation. By early June, 1970 Whipple had also received 

a preprint of a paper by Meinel bound for Applied Optics titled “Aperture Synthesis Using 

Independent Telescopes,” attached to a lengthy proposal by Frank Low to the “Members 

of AMB and ASC Infrared panels and Interested Colleagues,” which explicitly described 

a six-element multiple telescope array for infrared astrophysics.1016 Frank J. Low, a lowtemperature experimental physicist with extensive industrial experience and expertise 

developing cooled solid-state infrared detectors, was attracted to astronomical research in 

Tucson in the 1960s and, with Meinel, began thinking about the advantages of clustered 

apertures for infrared studies around this time.1017 Meinel and Low joined forces, the former 

providing access and optical intuition, and the latter the detector work.

Thus informed by Kuiper and most likely after he had Low’s proposal to the AMB 

(Astronomy Missions Board) at hand along with Meinel’s preprint,1018 Whipple phoned 

Meinel to ask for his thoughts about building a really large telescope. Both parties vividly 

recalled the phone call, and that Meinel took the call just as he, Low, Kuiper, and others were 

meeting to contemplate how to proceed, and particularly who would fund it. They were still 
Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona • 211

thinking that the optics would be of sufficient interest to the Air Force to support that part 

of the project. But what of the rest of the telescope and its building? As Meinel recalled: 

“I had no idea he was interested in it! It was so dramatic, because we were having a meeting, 

talking about doing something. . . . The phone rings and the secretary comes in and said, 

‘Its Fred Whipple.’“1019

Kuiper had told Whipple about the meeting, and, having absorbed Meinel’s and Low’s 

report by then, Whipple wanted to buy in. The SAO budget was still going through review, 

but he had already included a $500,000 line item for the telescope in SAO’s fiscal ’72 budget request to Congress. Because of the lengthy process of appropriations and authorizations, he could not predict “whether there are significant grounds for optimism.”1020 So his 

task now was to convince his own SAO study group committee to choose Meinel’s design. 

Although Mertz resisted at first, Whipple soon prevailed.1021

Meinel felt that a segmented design would be difficult to produce because it required 

fabricating dozens of off-axis paraboloids. There also were thermal problems created by 

such a design that complicated its use in the infrared. A few independent mirror elements 

(for example, only six mirrors), however, could produce a single image field with a synthetic 

resolution far beyond each element, because there were ways to insert a highly sensitive 

optical path length adjustment system to align the wave fronts of all six systems, a process 

called “phasing.”1022 Phasing was the essence of “aperture synthesis” and for this reason, 

Meinel and Low were confident that the Department of Defense (DOD) would support the 

cost of building and testing the multiple telescope system. “This approach to the aperture 

synthesis problem appears to be quite promising, both for optical purposes, of interest to 

the DOD,” Low argued, “and for a large ground-based infrared telescope.” Furthermore, 

it could act as a prototype “to evaluate its potential as a high-resolution imaging system 

of ultra-low weight.” At the least, once the telescope had proved itself to the DOD, “the 

major part of an extremely powerful infrared telescope will be in existence.” Having the six 

72-inch blanks presented a “unique opportunity,” as did DOD support. “I feel it is not possible,” Low concluded provocatively, “to turn down the chance to build a large infrared 

telescope at such low cost.”1023 Whipple conveyed Low’s confidence to his committee, and 

everyone, with the exception of Mertz agreed.

Unlike LOR or the 60 inch, what would soon be called the MMT required congressional approval. So, coached by Bradley, Whipple’s staff prepared a request to the newly created 

Office of Management and Budget (OMB) that had replaced the Bureau of the Budget, 

touting it as “a very large, but inexpensive and lightweight, optical telescope.”1024 Submitted 

in November, its cover included a graphic of Meinel’s original concept, and the frontispiece 

reproduced an image of his model.1025

Bradley advised them to be ready to field questions that would be “shot from the hip.” 

These would require “an equally direct and cogent answer, without having time to look 

around for the base line.” First and foremost, they had to answer, “Why, then, prepare this?” 

in terms that also answered, “Why is such a large facility needed?” They answered by citing 

the Whitford Committee Report and the Soviet threat of building an even bigger one. They 

also could cite the SAO’s experience with the 60 inch and LOR. Bradley advised them to 

dodge direct questions as to where it would be located, saying only that site comparisons are 
212 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

underway. Whipple was also ready with testimony to prove that this was not an impulsive 

interest, citing excerpts from SAO’s appropriations requests from FY 1967 through 1972 

that revealed a growing commitment to building a 600-inch telescope.1026

The Smithsonian’s formal submission thus set in motion a complex series of negotiations on many fronts: between the Smithsonian and the University of Arizona, between the 

Smithsonian and the OMB, with both Arizona and Smithsonian with the DOD and then 

with the NSF. There were many issues, from shared support, to shared duties, to shared 

controls, and, last, to which site would be chosen for the telescope. The first three depended 

critically on the fourth.
213

Chapter 13

Building the MMT

In mid-January 1971, after they had submitted their proposal to the Office of 

Management and Budget (OMB) for $1.5 million over three years, Whipple and Lundquist 

led a Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) team to Tucson to work out the details. 

Even though Arizona felt it had secured Air Force funding, they knew it would not be 

enough. Arizona and the Smithsonian had to win over the National Science Foundation 

(NSF).1027

Funding aside, the biggest question was, where does it go? Mount Lemmon, northeast of Tucson, competed with Mount Hopkins. Arizona had invested heavily in Mount 

Lemmon; when the Department of Defense (DOD) gave over control of the area to 

the Forest Service, it stipulated that the astronomical work had to continue. A multiinstitutional user’s group managed the site funded by NASA and the recently established 

Universities Space Research Association (USRA) and included Arizona, Minnesota, 

University of California, San Diego, and AFCRC.1028 NASA had recently withdrawn its 

support but Arizona was confident that the Air Force would return to support any experimentation that informed aperture synthesis.

George Low and Aden Meinel were optimistic, but Whipple had a schedule to keep 

to meet congressional deadlines for proposals. They all worried that the 1969 Mansfield 

Amendment would severely limit Air Force participation, because it prevented the 

Defense Department from supporting research not directly related to a “specific military 

function.” Arizona now was just asking to support the optical experimentation. Whipple, 

Lundquist recorded, speaking for the Smithsonian, needed a better sense of Arizona’s 

contributions so that the SAO could clearly “define its plans by Congressional hearing 

time this spring.” Among many questions that he anticipated Congress would raise was 

where the telescope would be placed. The answer would inform the bottom line: Who 

would pay for what?1029

Whipple wrote to Robert Seamans Jr., secretary of the Air Force, promoting the joint 

program as a way to beat the Russians, a familiar trope in that day. Speaking informally and, 

evidently, with considerable familiarity, he hoped that Seamans would look kindly on supporting the Optical Sciences Center to develop “actively controlled” optics. Indeed, Whipple 

felt this alignment of interest more than met the strictures of the Mansfield Amendment. 

The DOD would merely cover costs related to aperture synthesis, whereas the Smithsonian 

would actually build the telescope and manage the operation: “Thus the Air Force and the 

DOD stand to benefit substantially from mutual experience with this telescope.”1030 Once 

again, Whipple applied his penchant for brinksmanship.
214 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Seamans, though sympathetic, did not approve. The Air Force was interested in 

synthetic aperture technologies, but not in telescope development.1031 Whether or not 

he felt limited by the Mansfield Amendment, or by shifting R&D priorities within the 

Air Force, such as the abandonment of Manned Orbiting Laboratory (MOL) and largeraperture “Ultra-High Resolution” (UHR) systems in favor of smaller more rapid response 

“near-real time” systems, one thing was clear: Seamans put the project on notice that they 

needed to search for other resources.1032 Without DOD, Arizona had to approach NASA 

and the NSF.

The pressure was on. Congressional hearings were due to start 19 March 1971 with 

testimony before the Senate and on 5 April in the House.1033 A few days before the Senate 

hearings, Whipple tried to assure Bradley that, even without DOD support, the budget 

justifications already crafted stated the case as well as it was known at the moment, and 

no special pleading should be required. He emphasized that the cost of this instrument 

was one-fifth that of a conventional telescope of comparable power, that their push into 

the infrared (IR) was absolutely at the forefront of the science, and, most important, that 

to take full advantage of the technology, site selection was all important. Mount Hopkins, 

Whipple advised Bradley, was better shielded from Tucson than the nearer Mount 

Lemmon. Nevertheless, there would be a seven-month site survey. In the end, Whipple 

emphasized, Congress needed to know that the Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT) would 

be the third-largest telescope and the most effective IR telescope in the world; its success 

would lead to “far greater telescopes than could be considered practical following conventional designs.”1034

Whipple was just as forceful in his testimony before Senator Alan Bible (D-NV). Bible 

did not want technical details, just something he could understand about what the thing 

would be used for. Whipple painted a portrait of “great gas clouds,” where stars are being 

born: “You might call them nurseries, or the laying-in hospitals for new planetary systems 

like our own.” Whipple sprinkled his remarks with wonder and spectacle, but was brought 

back to Earth when Bible asked whether the Smithsonian “had the primary function” for 

astronomy in the nation.

A loaded question to be sure, and Whipple said the right thing: “No.” Bible kept 

pushing, asking how many observatories in the United States were supported by the government. Whipple recited the list, making it as short as possible by citing only those that 

were wholly supported: the Navy supported the Naval Observatory, NSF supported Kitt 

Peak and the National Radio Astronomy Observatory (NRAO), and the Air Force, the 

Sacramento Peak Observatory. Satisfied, Bible admitted that he once thought about being 

an astronomer “until I found they weren’t going to be paid.” Whipple seized the opportunity: “I became interested in the same way, and never worried about being. But I have 

been.” Bible had the last word: “I hope you have been,” he laughed. “I understand you are 

preeminent in your field. It is nice to talk with you.”1035 Whipple came away confident of 

congressional support.

On the Arizona front, with DOD funding fading, Ray Weymann, director of Arizona’s 

Steward Observatory and a highly cited theorist interested in a wide range of problems 

from cosmic background radiation to the evolution of stars, focused his campaign on 
Building the MMT • 215

Arizona politicians. Writing to Morris K. Udall in May 1971, he introduced the “joint 

enterprise” with rhetoric similar to Whipple’s, again citing the ever-present Russian challenge. Weymann also spoke of the economy of the design and seconded Whipple’s appeal to 

Congress, indicating that he had already discussed it with Washington State representative 

Julia Butler Hansen, a prominent member of the Appropriations Committee and chair of 

its Interior and Related Agencies Subcommittee. Weymann’s strategy was to push hard for 

the Smithsonian’s appropriation, and then once it was approved by Congress, the state of 

Arizona then would propose to NSF and possibly to NASA.1036

In the next few weeks and months, other senior astronomers at Arizona, including 

Bart Bok, who had returned from Australia in 1966 to head the Arizona astronomy department, Gerard Kuiper, Meinel, and Low, petitioned Senator Barry Goldwater on behalf of the 

Smithsonian’s appeal. By July, Whipple could proudly report to Meinel that “the hoped for 

good news is now a reality.” The House approved an appropriation for some $400,000 for 

the first year, with the same or more in the following two years. Whipple was confident that 

the Senate would soon agree, because Bradley was leading the charge.1037

On the day Whipple testified before Congress, Ripley, prepared by Bradley, wrote 

to William D. McElroy, the director of the NSF, to appeal on behalf of Arizona’s pending 

proposal. Pointing to Whipple’s strong track record of “initiating other projects involving 

unconventional optical systems” from the Super-Schmidts and the Baker-Nunns to the 

60-inch Tillinghast reflector, Ripley asked for a personal audience with McElroy to establish closer ties and to campaign for his Arizona compatriots.1038 McElroy, however, took 

over two weeks to respond coldly and bluntly that the NSF was the “lead Federal agency 

for ground-based astronomy.” He also did not want to discuss the matter directly, pointing 

to the appropriate NSF officers in the astronomy section, specifically Robert Fleischer, the 

astronomy section head.1039

This was not the reaction Whipple and Ripley had hoped for, though by 1971 they 

certainly should have expected it. Whipple was then also campaigning, aided and abetted 

by Ripley, for a new national facility devoted to radio astronomy that was in direct competition with NSF’s NRAO and its Very Large Array (VLA) facilities. But the question in 

Washington was who controlled the nation’s science? Also moving through Congress were 

bills H.R. 3820 and S. 4453 of the 91st Congress, “To establish a Department of Science 

and Technology and to transfer certain agencies and functions to such Department.” This 

reorganization would bring all science functions of the government under one department, 

including NSF, NASA, the Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), DOD, and those parts of the 

Smithsonian primarily concerned with research, such as the SAO.1040 McElroy’s declaration, 

and Bible’s inquiries, reflect this very volatile context.

Who Is Responsible for Astronomy? NSF vs. Smithsonian

Weymann had already met with Fleischer earlier in February and received a negative and puzzling response. Prompted by informal suggestions from members of a newly 

constituted Second Decadal Survey, that the astronomical community might be more 
216 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

receptive to the radical new telescope design if they proposed to build a small prototype, 

Weymann asked Fleischer if he would be receptive to such a proposal. Fleischer said he 

might be, because he doubted that the Smithsonian would get all of what it was asking 

from Congress. In fact, Fleischer added darkly, Arizona was probably better off going it 

alone in this project. He also predicted that it will require a “long and hard campaign” to 

persuade the astronomical community of the need for this project, and without community 

approval, NSF would not support it.1041 Fleischer had concerns about the feasibility of the 

unproven radical design, but what was really bothering him was any cooperative arrangement wherein NSF would support the goals of the Smithsonian Institution. Fleischer felt 

that acquiescing to such a commitment was a threat to NSF’s hegemony.1042

Weymann’s negotiations over the next several years with Fleischer and NSF would 

not lead to support, nor would negotiations with NASA be successful for Arizona’s share 

of the cost of the MMT. NASA had also expressed an interest in aperture synthesis, but 

after McElroy’s declaration, both Arizona and SAO planners worried that NSF would be 

miffed at the further competition. But first there was the question of feasibility.

Meinel was annoyed by the repeated calls to prove the concept with a prototype. 

Speaking from experience beyond the classified barrier in February 1972, Meinel told 

Fleischer that “astronomers do not know of the extensive work done in the past decade.” 

From his standpoint, “It hardly seems necessary to duplicate these experiments when most 

of it is declassified at this date. I can assure you that the design we have evolved for the 

SAO/UA project has been arrived at in light of previous work.” Further testing was just not 

needed, Meinel asserted: “When one faces engineering decisions one learns much concerning the options open at the decision point.”1043

The point was, Meinel and Whipple regarded the MMT as the prototype. In all the 

designs to that date, the focal plane was internal to the mirror cluster and had to be large 

enough to include a chamber for the observer. Meinel took care to include the impression 

that the observer actually had to be in the chamber, admitting much later, “Well, I had to 

cover up the spaciness by putting a human in it . . . [i]n order to get it published.”1044 Such a 

design could not really be prototyped, nor was there reason to do so, as Meinel well knew, 

because the ultimate design for the ground-based version would have an external truss, not 

a central core.1045

Fleischer, a 1951 Harvard PhD with eclectic interests in stellar and solar astronomy, 

joined NSF in 1962. He generally took a “strong approach” to his job; his “belief in himself 

served him well in many ways, but caused him grief from time to time.”1046 He was especially adamant that NSF be recognized as the principal federal agency for ground-based 

astronomy, in spring 1969 calling for all federal administrators who supported astronomy 

in some way to agree to that fact.1047 So Fleischer vigorously defended McElroy’s assertion 

of NSF hegemony over ground-based astronomy during the negotiations with Arizona and 

Whipple. Looking at the strategies employed by Arizona and the SAO will help to better 

understand NSF’s concerns and assertions.

Over summer 1971, as the SAO, Smithsonian Institution, and Arizona developed 

a formal Memorandum of Understanding (MOU) to clarify shared responsibilities and 

a workable management structure, they also debated how to approach NASA without 
Building the MMT • 217

annoying NSF, given that NASA was indeed interested in supporting mission-related, 

ground-based facilities in Hawaii and Arizona. Meinel had wanted to approach NASA 

because, not surprisingly, he saw the MMT as a step in the “development of an engineering 

model of a large space telescope.” But SAO staff felt that Meinel’s enthusiasms had to be 

controlled.1048 They knew that NASA was already involved because a Smithsonian staffer 

found out that NASA’s Marshall Space Flight Center had initiated a Phase A definition 

study of an optical telescope assembly for a Large Space Telescope.1049 Meinel knew this 

from his negotiations with NASA program managers over their share of the DORIAN 

72-inch mirrors. Meinel had secured flat blanks, whereas at least one of the six samples 

at Marshall had already been slumped and figured to f/2.2 for testing to see if the design 

could still hold a sufficiently precise optical figure.1050 Evidently NASA was invested.

In mid-August 1971, the Senate restored the Smithsonian’s original proposal at the 

$500,000/year level for FY ’72. Whipple, chairing a new “MMT Steering Committee,” 

put out an all-staff call to both organizations for final input to the scientific and technical 

requirements for the MMT, due as soon as possible but within 10 days. The SAO’s new assistant director for management, John Gregory, would coordinate the responses. Latham, now 

project scientist, and Low, the program scientist, would set priorities.1051

The group debated the proper f/ratio for the primaries through November, balancing 

costs against fears that too much slumping would damage the “egg-crate matrix” substrate 

or the thin front plates of the quartz mirrors.1052 By November, after tests at Corning, they 

decided on f/3 because the cost savings on the building would overcome the increased 

costs of optical fabrication and would provide a nominally larger field of view.1053 They all 

came together in Cambridge in mid-October to decide on the MOU, confirm the f/ratio, 

and establish all the major design elements, including the dome, the control systems, and 

the alignment and guiding systems. Although not an immediate requirement, the design 

had to be compatible with an eventual phased-array capability or an active optics control 

system.1054

By October, Latham had completed a preliminary comparative survey of the two possible observing sites: Mount Lemmon or Mount Hopkins. In the visible range, Hopkins’s 

southern sky was 50 percent darker than Lemmon, and in selected “clear” spectral bands, 

the advantage was even larger. There were no measurable differences in water vapor absorption between the two sites. But at the moment, no one wanted to go any further to state an 

actual choice until the steering committee had a chance, over the next few months, to thoroughly review all the findings with all parties.1055

Whither Harvard?

Only SAO and Arizona people were identified among those attending the Cambridge 

meeting. The minutes, however, were distributed to 29 SAO staff and at least 8 Harvard staff. 

Leo Goldberg did not attend, though he had been invited. Whipple, of course, knew that 

Harvard had different interests. Led by Goldberg, Harvard astronomers were now more 

interested in a new conventional telescope, of some 90-inch aperture, sited in Chile and 
218 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

built in collaboration with Yale and MIT. Goldberg certainly knew what the SAO was planning. He, Menzel, and Whipple had been conferring since October 1967 on strategies for 

funding large observatories and Whipple reminded them repeatedly of his goals for Mount 

Hopkins.1056 By 1968, Goldberg had shifted his vision to Arizona as well, and was contemplating an alliance with the University of Texas for a cooperative telescope on Kitt Peak or 

even in Oklahoma.1057 In May, Goldberg strongly endorsed the SAO’s “Land Withdrawal 

Request,” which explicitly included the intention to develop the site into a “national facility” 

featuring a “really large telescope,” and predicted that Harvard would “soon become a fullfledged partner in this enterprise.”1058 Goldberg was also on Frank Low’s distribution list 

in June 1970, proposing the “Six-Element Infrared Telescope,” and Whipple copied him in 

February 1971 after his first large planning meeting with the Arizona astronomers.1059

No evidence has been found, however, that Goldberg paid much attention to the 

MMT initiative until Robert Bartnik, Whipple’s assistant director for management, sent 

him a draft of the MOU in June 1971, along with an explicit invitation to the October 

meeting. Whipple wanted Harvard participation, especially if Harvard shared some of the 

costs. He hoped to put a statement in the MOU indicating that the SAO would assist the 

University of Arizona’s efforts to raise funds “possibly in cooperation with the Harvard 

College Observatory.”1060

Goldberg stonewalled for over a month, claiming that he did not want to comment on 

the matter “since on the face of it the agreement seems not to concern the Harvard College 

Observatory.” Goldberg also objected to any “collaborative effort with another university. 

[It] is simply not in keeping with the intent of the original Harvard-Smithsonian agreement, 

either the written form or the gentleman’s version.” Whipple was going ahead one way or 

another, Goldberg believed, and “this is certainly not an acceptable basis on which I could 

recommend Harvard’s participation in such a costly long-range project.” This, Goldberg 

admitted, copying Dean John Dunlop, as well as Whipple’s senior staff, was his personal 

opinion and did not reflect the opinion of the Harvard Observatory Council.1061

Bartnik advised Whipple that Harvard indeed cooperated with other universities such 

as a new infrared ballooning program with the University of Arizona (Figure 50) as well as 

a joint program between SAO, Harvard, the University of Texas, and Bell Labs to construct 

a millimeter wave telescope.1062 Goldberg, in fact, possibly unknown to Bartnik, was also 

courting Texas, as well as MIT and Harvard in various ventures, proposing relationships 

that were similar to what the SAO wanted to do with Arizona.

Goldberg’s objections went far deeper than the MMT project. Ever since Pusey’s rejection of Menzel’s proposal for a major solar telescope in Hawaii, due in large part to his 

divided faculty, Goldberg felt that Whipple “decided that he just wasn’t going to have any 

more to do with that Observatory Council.” This annoyed Goldberg, who as Menzel’s successor felt he should have some oversight on Whipple’s activities: “Really,” Goldberg felt, 

“he didn’t have that power of decision.” Goldberg viewed the agreement between Harvard 

and the Smithsonian as cooperative, which to him meant that Whipple “couldn’t unilaterally decide that he wasn’t going to have anything more to do with Harvard. But he was 

going to go ahead and do what he wanted to do and use the facilities, use the students, and 

so forth.”1063
Building the MMT • 219

Figure 50 Robert Noyes, Giovanni Fazio, and Doug Kleinmann with their balloon-borne 40-inch 

infrared telescope payload, initiated in1971 and seen here nearing the first of four launches in the 

mid-1970s. Smithsonian Institution Archives SIA Acc. 16-263, Box 4. Courtesy of Rick Stafford,

Harvard Gazette.
220 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Goldberg defined “cooperation” in terms of informed and shared control. Just as he 

acted to broaden membership in the Harvard Council, widening it beyond senior professors to non-faculty and fellows and students, he expected the cooperative agreement with 

the SAO to extend to mutual governance. What annoyed Goldberg no end was the fact that, 

whereas Whipple enjoyed an oversight role as a member of the Harvard Council, there was 

no complementary oversight for the SAO. There was no advisory circle of senior staff, no 

visiting committees. So in effect, the SAO, essentially Whipple alone, had a voice in Harvard 

appointments, whereas the Harvard “department was never consulted on new appointments 

to the Smithsonian. There was such an asymmetry in the situation”1064 Goldberg’s annoyance extended to a deep concern over shared responsibilities for undergraduate teaching 

and graduate training.

Whither NSF?

Goldberg’s refusal to cooperate did not noticeably influence the deliberative process. 

Fleischer’s refusal did. In November 1971, Fleischer demanded clarification of many issues, 

ranging from what other federal grants Arizona had at the time to how the MMT compared 

with other large federally supported telescopes. Fleischer was particularly incensed that 

the ongoing inquiries by the Second Decadal Survey committee were pinching the NSF.1065

Weymann dodged Fleischer’s questions, emphasizing that the MMT was not just another 

large telescope, but would be beneficial to understanding techniques for active optical alignment and control for telescopes on the ground and in space. It was moreover, an “essential 

first step” for any plans to build a 600-inch class telescope. He also reminded Fleischer that 

senators Barry Goldwater and Paul Fannin, as well as Congressman Udall, “strongly supported and endorsed this item in the SAO Congressional request.”1066 Whipple also weighed 

in, making much the same points but adding emphatically that the support Arizona was 

asking for was not duplicative of what the Smithsonian was providing. Arizona was asking 

the NSF only to support the critical element in the design of a new generation of telescopes, 

the optics, and not the mundane side, which was being carried by the Smithsonian’s appeal 

to Congress.1067

Fleischer would not buy any of this, and engaged the matter mainly by making accusations. He was annoyed that the Smithsonian was “acting as a Government Agency,” given 

it was requesting appropriations of Congress. And it was “irresponsible” to presume that 

the NSF would support Arizona’s share of the project. As had Goldberg, Fleischer scolded 

Whipple for not keeping him sufficiently in the loop even though he admitted that he 

was well aware of the initial approach Whipple had made to OMB in 1970. But, Fleischer 

felt, that initial approach had led everyone, including the members of the second Decadal 

Survey, to believe that the MMT would be supported solely by the Smithsonian and the 

DOD and that competitive NSF funds would not be requested. Thus Fleischer was surprised when Arizona came to the NSF asking to support “their share.” He stated bluntly 

that any additional funds had to be raised by Arizona from its own resources, and that 

the mere fact of the MOU “could not be a forcing element to funding by the Foundation.” 
Building the MMT • 221

“I definitely react against any piecemeal attack on the Foundation’s scarce resources,” 

Fleischer cried, “using agreements to which the Foundation has not been a party as basis 

for pressure to acquiesce.” With that remark, Fleischer abruptly signed off, “I look forward 

to your reply.”1068

Whipple’s first draft replying to Fleischer was just as contentious. Certainly there was 

no “irresponsibility” pursuing what he believed “to be a true breakthrough” in telescope 

design. The MMT, Whipple predicted, would be the prototype “for all telescopes larger than 

the 6-meter USSR instrument” whose “huge cast mirror” was already a “dinosaur” with no 

more evolutionary potential. Then, as a challenge if not a direct slap, Whipple lauded the 

“forward-looking attitude of the OMB and of the Congress” as they have now saved years 

in the march to truly large aperture telescopes. Indeed, he had been “highly responsible” 

to astronomy, to the astronomical community, to the government, and “to the National 

Science Foundation for relieving it of a considerable financial load.” He ended his draft by 

challenging the NSF to get on board.1069

What he actually sent was more prudent. Whipple admitted that the process had 

happened quickly and serendipitously. For the Smithsonian, it was the sudden appearance of the six mirror blanks, “and the keen interest of dedicated scientists in five research 

centers,” as well as the now soon-to-be-expected appearance of a report by the Second 

Decadal Survey Committee that endorsed the MMT. Fleischer had to consider how the 

MMT would help the NSF “determine whether the concept should form the basis for a 

really large national instrument.” Accordingly, Whipple invited him to reconsider, and join 

in providing “modest support” for “making use of existing light weight mirrors rather than 

letting them go to waste.”1070

Weymann was dismayed with Fleischer’s harsh assertions. Both he and Meinel 

believed their proposal was in step with the Decadal Survey recommendations, and so 

made some small revisions and resubmitted it to Fleischer, confident that a competent technical review would support them.1071 Fleischer glanced at this new proposal but still fumed 

at the Smithsonian’s actions as he saw them: compromising the NSF’s centrality, which, he 

believed, was essential for a long-term national plan.1072

Weymann and Meinel were partly vindicated when the Second Decadal Report 

appeared in June as “Astronomy and Astrophysics for the 1970s.” It did suggest “prototype tests” before one in the 150-inch to 200-inch class “should be built.” But the Second 

Decadal Survey Committee also had warmed considerably to funding essentially what 

Arizona was asking for, seeing the MMT as the intermediate prototype for a truly huge 

instrument.1073 SAO staffers were elated with this news: “It shows we are in the current 

mainstream of thinking in terms of national priorities.” The MMT was the second-highest 

priority in the committee’s highest-priority category, and at the time the MMT was the 

only project identified that was well into the hardware stage: “Indeed, without SAO/SI’s 

initiative in seizing the opportunity to build the MMT,” Bartnik claimed, “. . . this vital 

national need would have still remained only an idea.”1074 Thus bolstered, the Arizona 

team modified its NSF proposal, negotiated again with Fleischer over budget, and added 

a feasibility study, despite Meinel’s attempt to assure Fleischer than none was needed. By 

this time, Meinel, Low, and Weymann had also given up on DOD. Meinel had, in fact, 
222 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

made his final pitch to DOD back in December 1971, calling his appeal the “moment of 

truth” to join in to build this “landmark in optical technology.”1075

Fleischer didn’t budge even after the revised Arizona proposal met all of his conditions, and NSF leadership remained mute.1076 In the end. John P. Schaefer, the University 

of Arizona president, formally objected to the NSF director, accusing Fleischer of being 

“completely unfair. . . . Recent direct and indirect communication from Dr. Fleischer now 

leaves a real taste of ashes.”1077 Arizona eventually secured state support for partial funding, 

amounting to some $1.5 million. Most of the balance was made up by Smithsonian supplemental appropriations, some internal grants, and private donations, but there were still 

serious cost overruns by late 1975, owing mainly to a delayed construction schedule caused 

by the tight budget and NSF’s refusals. Ripley finally stepped in, campaigning for, and 

receiving, additional funds through the Smithsonian regents.1078 Appeals like his eventually 

allowed for the completion of the telescope. But in the process, the Smithsonian indeed, as 

Fleischer always believed, became the primary institutional home for the project, especially 

after it was finally decided to place it on Mount Hopkins and not Mount Lemmon.

Where to Put It?

Kuiper always called the project the “Mt. Lemmon infrared facility.” It was his singular 

goal. Beyond providing a new large infrared telescope in short order and at low cost, Kuiper 

campaigned that “it will demonstrate the soundness and economy of the MMT concept” as 

a test case for “a National IR/Optical instrument in the 400”–600” class.”1079

Of the two sites, Lemmon had better infrastructure but Hopkins was darker, and 

would likely remain darker in the future.1080 Yet a thorough test had to be made. In early 

1971, David Latham led a team conducting simultaneous comparative site surveys. He 

designed sky photometers and collected other standard tools to record the seeing and night 

sky brightness simultaneously, as well as complete meteorological profiles and radio frequency interference levels, all using new pulse counting techniques for automatic recording. 

Organizing a small staff of observers at both sites from both SAO and Arizona personnel, he 

conducted site testing through 1971 as the two institutions sought funding and negotiated 

responsibilities.1081

Whipple well knew that there were factors beyond site quality; both Low and Kuiper 

were wedded to Lemmon. Kuiper, however, had many projects pending and Meinel’s enthusiasms constantly wandered; at the moment, he was excited by solar-power generation. 

Meinel still expected that his laboratory would build the mirrors, the active optics, and 

the electronics.1082 At the end of the summer, the two institutions formed a “Joint Multiple 

Mirror Telescope Facility Committee” to oversee all matters, including site selection.1083

In October, to no one’s surprise, Latham presented his findings favoring Hopkins. They 

also knew that the Forest Service was reassessing the area near the Lemmon site because of 

local community recreation requests, and was considering a total ban on all new construction. Kuiper was not happy with this; he applauded any effort to preserve dark skies, but not 

at the expense of building a new telescope.1084
Building the MMT • 223

The final showdown came in Tucson in January 1972, at Kuiper’s Lunar and Planetary 

Laboratory on the Arizona campus.1085 All other matters were dealt with first, including a 

decision to slump and figure to f/2.7 and to build an integrated, box-like structure to house 

the telescope, where the optics were supported by an exoskeletal structure rather than a 

central column (Figure 51). Then they debated Latham’s report.1086 Kuiper and Low still 

preferred Lemmon for its facilities and existing infrastructure. Weymann at one point rose, 

and to some surprise and amusement, as consummate theorist, presented time and distance statistics from road trips he had made from the university campus to both locations. 

It was some 42.9 miles and 69 minutes to get to Lemmon, and 62.2 miles and 101 minutes 

to Hopkins. “He stated that he felt the difference was not significant.” Whipple, tiring of the 

endless discussion, called for a vote, placing all four SAO votes for Hopkins. Then Meinel 

rose and seconded Whipple, stunning the room to silence. He and others agreed that the 

Hopkins site would strengthen “SAO’s fund seeking position.” Weymann, however, pleaded 

for a 48-hour extension because Provost A. B. Weaver had become “visibly upset” during 

Figure 51 The completed MMT at the summit of Mount Hopkins, in its characteristic rotating 

cubicle dome. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Image # 98-015.
224 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

the discussion and left the meeting early. Bartnik stayed in Tucson to clear matters up with 

Weaver, whose main objection was that Meinel had bolted. But Weaver also demanded a 

full cost accounting before the decision for Hopkins could be finalized. With that promised, 

only Kuiper remained wedded to Mount Lemmon. This was the end of the matter.1087

Latham continued site testing on Hopkins through much of 1972 before his team 

decided which of various knolls and ridges was the absolute best. Meanwhile, the Steering 

Committee continued to lobby federal, state, and local sources. In June 1972, it prepared a 

brochure titled “Impact of the MMT on American Astronomy,” in which they emphasized 

it would not only serve two major astronomical research centers, but also be available to 

all astronomers at least one-sixth of the time. “Of equal importance,” the report once again 

concluded, echoing Kuiper, the MMT was “indispensable” as a steppingstone to a truly 

giant telescope.1088

A Bittersweet Reality

The decision for Mount Hopkins came as a blow to Arizona. By September, Low 

left the Steering Committee, Kuiper backed off, and Weaver was relieved by a new vice 

president for research who, a good year after the decision, told Whipple that the relative 

operating costs were still a very sensitive issue. Claiming they made the original agreement to site at Hopkins assuming it would cost no more than at Lemmon, he added, 

“This decision, of course, cost us two of the key initial figures in the development and left 

some scars.”1089

Whipple remained steadfast in his devotion to the observatory. These were uneasy 

times for him, not only because of his deepening rift with Goldberg, but also because of 

the attention he was attracting for his many exploits: greater scrutiny from the central 

Smithsonian, the Office of Management and Budget, NASA, NSF, and even the American 

Astronomical Society. Indeed, the growing rift between Goldberg and Whipple would 

soon bring internal and external scrutiny by both Harvard and the Smithsonian. And 

this would lead, by the summer of 1973, ultimately to Goldberg’s departure to head Kitt 

Peak, Whipple’s retirement from the directorship, and the creation of a new institutional 

entity, the Center for Astrophysics (CfA). Whipple, however, never retreated from Mount 

Hopkins. As late as March 1973, he was still taking the lead responding to concerns from 

Arizona over governance and shared costs. Whipple always assured Arizona that once 

operating and support costs were clarified, along with “growth” costs, the remaining “user’s 

fees” for the two sites would be comparable. But soon, growing cost overruns required that 

Whipple engage new champions, finding them in the new CfA director, George Field, and 

the new Steward Observatory director, Peter Strittmatter. He also relied on old friends 

and colleagues such as Jesse Greenstein (Figure 52), who had chaired the Second Decadal 

Survey and had many ties with Whipple and Harvard as a loyal member of Harvard’s 

Board of Overseers.

Greenstein, one of the most influential names in the profession, convened yet another 

review board, this time friendly, to support the MMT. They concluded that it was an 
Building the MMT • 225

“important step,” was very “realistic” and being “carried out responsibly” and, in sum, “little 

except money is lacking in the conceptual design and the operating plan.”1090 This newest 

Greenstein report was meant for the NSF and it was the key that secured Ripley’s attention 

and willingness to marshal the Smithsonian’s regents as well as sympathetic Arizona congressmen to support the MMT. In 1975, Ripley used a key conclusion from the Greenstein 

report, that further delays would create even more cost overruns, to convince all parties, 

with the exception of NSF, to fully fund the project to completion.1091 In the end, delays 

did produce serious cost overruns due to inflation. There was some local negative media, 

but the Smithsonian mounted a campaign to counter it.1092 By June 1978, with first light in 

sight, the SAO media staff had done their job, and in two more years, Walter Sullivan of the 

New York Times proclaimed that, with the “new revolutionary astronomical instrument” 

now nearing completion, the “New Telescope Is Considered a Breakthrough: Third Most 

Powerful Telescope.”1093

At its opening in May 1979 the MMT was administered as a department of Steward 

Observatory, with support from Arizona, the Smithsonian, and, later in the year, finally by 

the National Science Foundation for focal-plane instrumentation. The MMT thus became 

another one of the growing number of “users” on the Mount Hopkins campus. Through 

much of 1980 and 1981, to be expected for so radical a design, scheduled astronomical 

observing at the MMT was a small fraction of the operating schedule, but it gained a definitely increasing fraction of the time over continued construction, engineering and maintenance that brought it into full operation by 1982, when, in May, it was rededicated as the 

Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory.1094

The Mount Hopkins facility was actually not Whipple’s most ambitious mission at the 

time, in terms of cost and scope. But it was his largest and most visible institutional investment. The potentially far larger campaign, which he and Ripley had finally abandoned in 

1971, promised to establish the Smithsonian as a major player in radio astronomy as well. 

But it had proved to be too much and too politically dangerous to take on at a time when the 

national institutions of science were being scrutinized for relevance by a less-than-friendly 

administration in Washington, D.C.

Figure 52 Jesse Greenstein. Courtesy 

of the Archives, California Institute of 

Technology.

227

Chapter 14

National Facilities for Astronomy 

and the Question of Limits

Harvard College Observatory (HCO), largely through the interests and energies 

of Bart Bok, was one of the first institutions to develop radio astronomy in the United 

States. In 1937 Bok encouraged Jesse Greenstein and Whipple to explore the physical processes giving rise to celestial radio noise detected in the 1930s by Karl Jansky and then by 

Grote Reber. After the war, Harvard physicists got involved. Harold I. (“Doc”) Ewen and 

his advisor Edward M. Purcell observationally verified the 1944 Dutch prediction of the 

21-centimeter spectral line of hydrogen. Sticking a copper-lined pyramidal plywood horn 

out of a fourth-floor window of the Harvard Physics Department, they detected the line 

in March 1951.1095

Ewen and Purcell’s detection energized Harlow Shapley, who encouraged Bok to 

mount “an adventure in radio astronomy” by starting a group and installing a modified 

24-foot radar antenna at the Harvard observing station at Oak Ridge, recently renamed the 

Agassiz station. Bok also initiated a graduate training program in a cooperative venture 

with Ewen.1096 Bok felt that he had “missed the boat” in the optical competition to discern the spiral structure of the Milky Way. He knew that radio techniques would provide 

a far more powerful mapping tool.1097 Bok, Ewen, and their students (Figure 53) quickly 

developed the radio facility at the Agassiz station using Harvard patronage and then support from the Office of Naval Research and the National Science Foundation. By 1954, 

as Menzel championed the idea of a regional consortium for radio astronomy, Bok and 

Ewen proudly reported the measurements their growing band of graduate students were 

taking on 21-centimeter radiation at Agassiz, producing the first radio-astronomy PhDs.1098

And by 1956, just as Bok was leaving Harvard to direct the Commonwealth Observatory 

in Canberra, Australia, his students opened the equatorially mounted 60-foot George 

R.  Agassiz Radio Telescope, supported by the National Science Foundation (NSF) and 

the Research Corporation. It was then among the largest steerable telescopes in the world 

capable of observing the universe at 21 centimeters.1099 But not for long.

By the early 1960s, whatever lead Harvard had enjoyed had vanished, as Bok’s students, such as Heeschen and Drake, had left to build national facilities supported by the 

Department of Defense (DOD) and the NSF, at a time when there seemed to be no funding 

limits for radio astronomy. The issue for any one institution was only what specific design 

strategies they should choose. At first, with seemingly limitless funding, the question was 
228 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

only who would do what. But once funding limits started to appear in the mid- to late 

1960s, the question became, Which design was best?

Those few astronomers and physicists left at Harvard who were devoted to radio 

astronomy had even deeper concerns. Save for radio meteor studies, few astronomers at 

both Harvard and the Smithsonian defined themselves by instrument specialty. When 

Bernard Lovell, a prominent British radio astronomer, addressed a combined audience in 

a packed Phillips Library in April 1964, discussing how his huge 250-foot diameter Jodrell 

Bank radio telescope coordinated with Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) 

optical studies of flare stars with the Baker-Nunn network, the SAO News blithely quipped, 

“Since his talk mainly concerned radio astronomy, not all SAOers present understood 

everything he said.”1100

One Harvard professor, Edward Lilley, listened closely as Lovell envisioned giant radio 

telescopes in the future. Through Lilley’s efforts, by the late 1960s, the Smithsonian had 

come to lead what was called the North East Radio Observatory Corporation (NEROC), a 

multi-institution campaign to establish a gigantic, fully steerable and tracking radio-radar 

astronomy dish. This chapter traces the campaign for NEROC’s radio-radar telescope and 

Figure 53 Harold Ewen (far left, back) and Bart Bok (far right, front) and their radio astronomy 

students in the mid-1950s. (L to R ) Frank Drake, William E. Howard, Mary Connelly, A. Edward Lilley, 

T. K. Menon, and D. S. Heeschen. From the Papers of David S. Heeschen, NRAO/AUI Archives.
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 229

how the campaign reflected not only the astronomical goals of astronomers such as Lilley 

but also the institutional goals Whipple harbored, aided and abetted after 1964 by Ripley. 

Once again, Whipple’s goals meshed with Ripley’s to restore the Smithsonian as a national 

resource for science.

But Ripley and Whipple’s ambitions coincided with a resurgence of a conflict that 

first arose in the 1950s when the possibility of federally funded national observatories 

for radio and optical astronomy posed a threat to traditional institutions and power 

structures.1101 In 1956, the main issue was whether the observatory would be managed 

by a regional elite group of universities, AUI (Associated Universities, Inc.) including 

Harvard and MIT, or by a fully representative body of universities.1102 Now, a decade 

later, the stakes were higher, in sum and scale; the conduct and organization of science 

at national levels was very much in flux, especially after there were serious setbacks for 

science funding at the end of the 1960s.1103 It is within this context that this chapter 

explores why the Smithsonian’s fully steerable 440-foot, radome-enclosed radio-radar 

telescope was never built, and examines what the effort revealed about limits to growth 

at the Smithsonian.

Ed Lilley’s Vision

In 1963, A. E. “Ed” Lilley felt that Harvard’s radio facilities were hopelessly outclassed. 

He doubted that NSF would help, given that it was devoted to building the National Radio 

Astronomy Observatory (NRAO) in Green Bank, West Virginia. So he approached Leo 

Goldberg and Donald Menzel with a proposition.

After training at Harvard, Lilley received his PhD in 1956 for a well-cited study of 

the relationship of interstellar gas and dust as revealed by 21-centimeter radio observations with Harvard’s new 24-foot parabolic dish. Lilley then joined the Naval Research 

Laboratory (NRL) in Washington, D.C., where radio astronomy was heavily supported. 

There he had the use of NRL’s 50-foot dish, and came into contact with people talking about 

building dishes more than 10 times that diameter. By 1959, Lilley had returned to Harvard 

on the faculty, and by 1961 was using Harvard’s new 60-foot dish to measure atmospheric 

temperatures on Venus using radar techniques in support of planned Mariner space probe 

missions.1104 He was also active in spaceborne microwave radiometry, collaborating with 

radio astronomers at MIT and JPL and others in the northeast region on related projects, 

including Mariner 2 observations of Venus in December 1962, which confirmed Earthbased radio estimates that the Venusian surface is “extremely hot, dry, and hostile to terrestrial forms of life.”1105

Lilley proposed a cooperative regional effort in radio and radar astronomy between 

MIT, Harvard, and the Smithsonian Institution. Goldberg was generally sympathetic to 

the idea, but both he and Menzel knew that NSF was not possible. And as for the military, 

the Office of Naval Research (ONR) had “single handedly started radio astronomy at Cal 

Tech, at Michigan, at Berkeley (Hat Creek), [and] at Illinois” so was not likely to engage in 

anything much larger.1106
230 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Lilley envisioned something much larger: a collaboration that would leverage MIT’s 

Air Force–funded Lincoln Laboratory facility in Lexington, Massachusetts.1107 Lilley’s work 

on planetary radar closely matched interests at Lincoln, which with Air Force support 

focused on air defense systems. It was just then building an ultra-precise, fully enclosed 

120-foot radar-radio telescope on Haystack Hill in Tyngsborough, Massachusetts. The site 

already boasted an 84-foot dish on nearby Millstone Hill, in operation since 1957, as well as 

a 60-foot microwave dish.1108 Lilley hoped for increased access to Haystack’s huge facilities, 

and worked to encourage them to build even larger facilities. Collaboration was the key, 

gained from his experience with the Mariner 2 program and his work with MIT’s M. L. 

Meeks on microwave studies of Earth’s atmosphere.1109

In March 1963, backed by Menzel and Goldberg, Lilley brought together local radio 

and radar specialists to search for common ground. It was a rather open-ended affair and 

some walked away with misimpressions. Edward Purcell and Menzel thought Lilley wanted 

to convince NSF to move NRAO headquarters to Cambridge. Menzel even wrote a draft 

proposal to that effect. But for Purcell, as well as Lilley, the idea was to establish a regional 

collaboration. It would work only if “working scientists can agree on instrument.”1110

But what kind of instrument? Meeks was heavily preoccupied building the 120 foot 

dish at Haystack and was not responsive, and neither Menzel nor Goldberg saw it as a 

mission. So in September, Lilley appealed to Fred Whipple to take the lead in the program, 

because MIT remained reluctant to move beyond its plans for Haystack. Lilley argued that 

Harvard and the Smithsonian had to make a decision while funding existed, and what was 

required was at least a fully steerable 300-foot dish, larger than Bernard Lovell’s Jodrell Bank 

at Manchester and more versatile than a new 300-foot transit telescope at the National Radio 

Astronomy Observatory.1111 Whipple liked thinking on this scale, and with his encouragement Lilley managed to bring Goldberg and Menzel back together on several occasions and 

got them to agree, at least, to allow him to approach MIT for access to Haystack, as well as 

to campaign for an even larger facility.1112

But what kind of facility? The National Academy’s first decadal survey in November 

1963, headed by Albert Whitford, did not favor any one design or strategy.1113 Survey committee members gave almost equal weight to upgrading present university-based radio 

astronomy facilities, large single-dish facilities, and interferometric arrays. There was growing sympathy for the latter, as they were the key to high resolution. The Europeans had 

shown particular ingenuity in developing radio interferometers, but not in combination 

with a large collecting area. As Science reported, the Whitford Committee, as it came to be 

called, concluded that “complex arrays are not the complete answer; . . . fully steerable single 

paraboloids of the largest feasible aperture” were also necessary.1114

But who could afford to provide the “complete answer”? In the mid-1960s, equivocal 

statements such as this one, reflecting the traditional astronomical community, were not yet 

problematic as long as the nation could afford multiple lines of attack. Parallel efforts would 

not soon exceed available resources, when multiple lines included competing programs in 

optical, radio, and space astronomy. Thus in 1964, the Whitford Committee concluded that 

over the next decade, among several options, all high priority, would be the construction of 

“Two fully steerable 300-foot paraboloids.” And highest priority was for a national facility 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 231

consisting of a “very high-resolution array with great collecting area” consisting of many 

distinct, large, steerable dishes set miles apart.1115

Whipple accepted the challenge posed by the Whitford Committee’s conclusions. It 

would be a perfect growth opportunity in a highly competitive area. In late fall 1963, after 

receiving support from members of the Whitford Committee, Whipple provided Lilley 

with two SAO-supported staff positions and a planning budget of $30,000.1116 Lilley immediately asked Harvard’s president, Nathan Pusey, to match it, but Pusey refused. Goldberg, 

even more critical, viewed Lilley’s zeal as morally questionable: spending money to raise 

money. Goldberg’s concern was not an issue for Menzel nor especially for Whipple; both 

constantly played brinksmanship games with complementary funding schemes. Whipple 

urged full speed ahead; in mid-December Whipple and Charles Lundquist arranged for a 

meeting with NASA’s local office to determine interest there. NASA, however, was not yet 

in the business of supporting radar astronomy and so was reluctant to support Harvard 

directly.1117

Whipple had been in contact with Lincoln Laboratory since 1956, developing 

means to derive meteor orbits by radar to complement his ongoing photographic efforts. 

Widely separated radar stations could track the ion column produced by a meteor as 

it cut through the atmosphere, triangulating to yield the velocity vector of the meteor. 

When observed in quantity, this yielded information about shower radiants and orbits.1118

By the end of the 1950s, the SAO was utilizing both Lincoln Laboratory facilities and 

radio meteor networks in Havana, Illinois, and in Texas supported by the National Bureau 

of Standards. Led by Gerald Hawkins, the radio meteor studies lasted through the early 

1960s, supported as well by the Air Force, the National Bureau of Standards, and the 

National Science Foundation.1119

Whipple found in Lilley a kindred spirit, certainly someone who shared his view of 

the value of stronger ties with Lincoln Laboratory. Like Whipple, Lilley was familiar with 

multi-institutional collaborative efforts and with multiple funding sources. He had been 

supported by Harvard, typically through private sources such as the Sloan Foundation and 

the Research Corporation. And Lilley had done his homework, contacting experts who 

knew how to develop large facilities such as electron accelerators, as well as managers of 

large optical observatories such as the Mount Wilson-Palomar complex. From all of them, 

he found strong confirmation that he needed planning support: Bruce Rule of Palomar, in 

distinction to Goldberg’s disinclination, stated bluntly that “monies spent in the proposal 

will be the best you will ever spend.”1120

By December, Whipple committed more staff and advised Lilley to create an administrative structure to handle all the details. He and Menzel also re-established contact 

with MIT physicists Charles Townes and Bruno Rossi to explore three options: buying 

into Haystack’s new 120 foot, building a new 210 foot, and planning for a 500-foot dish. 

The most Menzel would support was a known size, such as a 210 footer based on the 

Parkes design in Australia. MIT, on the other hand, was bolder and more expansive. By 

June 1964, with its 120 foot nearing completion and promising revolutionary precision, 

MIT physicists were not interested in anything less than a 300 footer as the next step.1121

Whipple continued to back Lilley with logistical, financial, and strategic support, and 
232 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

joined Lilley on several occasions searching for support from NASA and from the Sloan 

Foundation. Once Ripley was named to succeed Carmichael, Whipple and Lilley led a 

contingent to Litchfield, Connecticut, in August 1964 to gain his approval. Lilley now had 

an institutional platform.

That platform was shaped in various ways. In early 1965, amid continuing questions 

about NSF supporting individual research at the Smithsonian, the Bureau of the Budget 

(BoB) finally clarified its position regarding institutional efforts. NSF could support “service functions such as surveys and the sorting and records of specimens” and the “development and use of special instrumentation.”1122 This, Whipple saw, was how the Smithsonian 

could compete. The key was to establish a consortium, but instead of a regional facility, it 

would assume national scope and in essence provide a service function.

Just at this time, in what was a typical Bradley initiative, contemplating the inevitable 

U.S. Government Accountability Office (GAO) audits, he invited congressional staffers to 

visit the SAO to get a chance to appreciate its strengths and importance to American science, but also to sound them out. In one visit, George Evans, clerk of the Subcommittee 

on Appropriations that oversaw the Smithsonian, asked some pretty pointed questions 

about radio astronomy. As Bradley reported back to Ripley, “Mr. Evans mentioned the 

Sugar Grove fiasco” where the Naval Research Laboratory “expended some $85 million in 

a colossal failure to produce a large astronomical antenna.”1123 Whipple and Lilley were 

well aware of this “misadventure” and, reported Bradley, mounted a capable response disavowing any similarity between Sugar Grove and the SAO’s intended facility. Evans, though 

satisfied, still warned them that “other agencies were highly competitive with Smithsonian 

for appropriations.” This interaction sensitized Whipple and Lilley to the challenges ahead. 

But it also encouraged them because, as part of a larger strategy, Bradley had reported that 

Ripley’s staff decided that the SAO was to be a test case for the Smithsonian overall in that 

“new authorizing legislation would give the Astrophysical Observatory the added stature of 

Congressional approval of its programs.”1124

CAMROC and NEROC

In summer 1965, Lundquist brought together Harvard (Lilley), the SAO (Whipple, 

Lundquist, and Purcell), and MIT (Jerome Wiesner, Phillip Morrison, J. Orlen, and Alan 

Barrett) to create the Cambridge Radio Observatory Committee, or CAMROC. Wellknown scientists and administrators, Wiesner especially had chaired the President’s Science 

Advisory Committee (PSAC) during the Kennedy administration, was then dean of the 

School of Science at MIT, and was soon to become provost. Along with Morrison, he was 

well known in Washington circles and soon reported that NSF would consider a planning 

grant from CAMROC. Lilley now had his platform and a path.1125

Lilley prepared and submitted proposals to NSF in July 1966, asking for more than 

$1 million. By then, CAMROC decided that it should be administered by an independent 

corporation, and so transformed itself into the Northeast Radio Observatory Corporation 

(NEROC).1126 With NSF support, NEROC was incorporated by the middle of 1967 and 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 233

Lilley became executive officer, under the guidance of Wiesner and Purcell, chair and vicechair, respectively.

NEROC was established just when the astronomical community was growing more 

sensitive once again to continuing tensions between government support for national 

facilities and traditional lines of support for university-based research. One reaction had 

been the creation of private consortia, but there were also heated debates over what the 

most effective technologies were for new facilities. To deal with the former, at the urging 

of Harvard’s highly influential Harvey Brooks, a former member of PSAC and the National 

Science Board, and now chair of the National Academy of Sciences (NAS) Committee on 

Science and Public Policy (COSPUP), NSF called for an update to the Whitford Report 

which had led to the Second Decadal Survey led by Jesse Greenstein that had deliberated 

over the Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT).1127 But to face the latter question about the most 

effective designs, NSF created another review panel for radio astronomy led by the innovative physicist Robert Dicke of Princeton. His Ad Hoc Panel for Large Radio Astronomy 

Facilities held hearings in Washington, and in August 1967 issued a report suggesting that 

NEROC-type facilities, as Lilley darkly summarized, be “deferred until more is known of 

Arecibo-type spherical dish and [the Committee] hopes that NEROC group will assist in 

making comparisons between . . . these two types of antennas.”1128

The Dicke Panel had been more concerned with setting priorities based on technical 

feasibility than on cost, in spite of the fact that the Johnson administration was imposing 

“increasingly strict limits on non-Vietnam spending.” So the two it endorsed were the least 

challenging and most practical. First was a $3 million upgrade to the Arecibo antenna to 

improve its reflecting surface to collect radiation as short as 10 centimeters. Next, they 

voted to add seven more 40-foot elements to an interferometric array operated by Caltech 

at Owens Valley, at a cost of some $15 million. The Dicke Panel felt these were both prudent 

steps toward the largest proposed facilities. But those, the panel concluded, had to be postponed until proved feasible. Thus, both NEROC’s proposal for a 135-meter, fully steerable 

parabolic dish enclosed in a radome, costing some $27.8 million, and NRAO’s Very Large 

Array, an interferometer with thirty-six 25-meter dishes arranged along three 21-kilometer 

arms, to cost some $52 million, were deferred.1129

Wiesner was not happy. He had hoped the Dicke Panel would be decisive in favor of 

one design. Their indecision, Wiesner charged, would cause American radio astronomy 

to fall further behind Europe and Australia.1130 The Dicke Panel did feel that both projects 

should proceed in planning and that all designs be considered. They liked the Haystack 

120-foot instrument and were partial to the radome-enclosed design for large, single parabolic dishes. The goal in all of this was to reach full-sky coverage and arc-second resolution 

over as broad a frequency range as possible and as deep as possible. Their report created a 

flurry of meetings between astronomers and engineers to assess merits of spherical dishes, 

large steerable paraboloids, and distributed arrays. Stimulated by Wiesner’s objections 

to NSF, the group proceeded with a lengthy study that was issued in March 1968, after a 

$900,000 request from NEROC to NSF was cut first to $600,000 and then to $500,000 in 

May.1131 These were austere times, to be sure, and these cuts severely slowed progress and 

increased tensions.
234 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Ripley’s Activism

In November 1967, Ripley happily reported to Whipple that a recent GAO audit of 

SAO operations, indeed the one Bradley knew was coming, had been “appraised most 

highly by the Bureau.” There had been concerns about the SAO’s meteoric growth and lack 

of clear authorizing legislation. Ripley was relieved, but cautioned Whipple that BoB was 

still concerned that any further expansion be solidly based on external funding, and new 

starts had to be avoided.1132 So whither NEROC? This is the likely reason why the SAO 

became Ripley’s test case.

Ripley was deeply concerned with the ongoing question of the Smithsonian’s continuing viability as a national resource for science. Throughout its history, and especially after 

World War II, when Congress debated placing all statutory agencies under the General 

Services Administration, the Smithsonian vigorously defended its independent status, and 

its pipeline to congressional appropriations. Now the NSF’s drive to establish national centers for scientific research, altering the infrastructure for collective research and centralized 

resources, was a new threat compromising the Smithsonian’s independence. Ripley feared 

on the one hand that, without a national mandate, the Smithsonian would soon outgrow its 

ability to attract sufficient appropriations from Congress, and on the other, was ineligible 

for support from the new civilian federal funding mechanisms for distributing support for 

science.

As we’ve seen, this was a growing concern dating from Ripley’s first years as Secretary, 

when Congressman Albert Thomas inserted language into the record that effectively 

blocked researchers from any agency or independent entity receiving federal appropriations. This blocked the Smithsonian from eligibility for competitive research grants 

from the NSF “for research funds on a peer basis.”1133 As Ripley described it to Leland J. 

Haworth, NSF director, in March 1968, the Smithsonian had succeeded in securing modest increases in appropriations to offset the loss of NSF support, but they were just treading 

water. Accordingly, the Smithsonian had no choice but to push hard to increase appropriations for all its “infrastructure and management and collections needs.”1134 Ripley’s strategy 

was to reassert the Smithsonian’s traditional role in American science, as the birthplace 

of many services such as the Weather Bureau and the Bureau of Fisheries, and as the 

“godmother” of aeronautical research. As a “universal institution” for science, in Hunter 

Dupree’s words, Ripley reminded Haworth that “a salient fact is that the Smithsonian is the 

principal national agent for the husbandry of scientific collections. [The] entire scientific 

community has a stake.”1135

Ripley knew that since 1966 NSF had supported “national programs” proposed by 

other agencies, whereby NSF was the sole funding source. But the Smithsonian was not 

part of this adjustment. The Smithsonian now asked the NSF to reconsider, offering a 

partnership: The Smithsonian would “push for increased direct appropriations for its 

entire infrastructure for the management of collections and facilities, but NSF had to 

recognize that the Smithsonian could not achieve its mission on appropriations alone, 

given its history.” Allowing Smithsonian staff to continue to communicate its research 

professionally and to make Smithsonian’s unique resources as well known and accessible 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 235

as possible on a peer-reviewed competitive basis, NSF would in effect be acknowledging 

the Smithsonian’s role in securing the health of the scientific infrastructure of the nation. 

Ripley’s appeal also implied that the Smithsonian had the right to secure direct appropriations for national facilities available to one and all.”1136

The Smithsonian Takes the Initiative

Ripley wanted to restore the Smithsonian as a central institution for science in the 

United States, and NEROC’s telescope became one of his test cases. He knew he had to 

make one more pitch to NSF, and that it would in all likelihood fail, clearing his path 

to Congress via the congressional members on the Board of Regents. Accordingly, in the 

summer of 1968, Bradley told Lilley to organize a meeting in Cambridge to develop a proposal to NSF quickly. Assuming that would fail, they would send that proposal through 

the regents to the Office of Science and Technology and the Bureau of the Budget. This 

meant that they had to propose NEROC as a national facility, in order to meet the needs 

of and gain the support of astrophysicists around the country. A national character was 

considered necessary for a major federal appropriation.1137 Time was very tight, given the 

budget process, so they also decided to mount a phone campaign alerting scientists and 

administrators within NEROC’s domain of the change in scope.1138

At a lunch at the MIT Faculty Club, Bradley pressed the NEROC leaders for facts and 

figures he might use as briefing materials that argued why the Smithsonian should be the 

“authorized agency.”1139 Bradley knew there were several deep problems with this course 

of action. First, in reply to his questions, astronomers feared “that a national designation 

would tend to lead to creation of a staff-in-residence, which would duplicate or displace 

the staff of NEROC.” There was also the question of how NSF might react to a competing 

national facility. Next came issues of governance, which Bradley insisted would have to 

be at the discretion of the Smithsonian. Wiesner agreed with this, but continued to resist 

the implied national scope the Smithsonian demanded. Only Whipple was totally positive, predicting “that radio astronomers from all parts of the country would expressly be 

welcomed to share in the use of the telescope.”1140

After their meeting, Lilley polled members of NEROC while Wiesner and Bradley 

reached out to science policy figures such as Hugh Loweth in BoB and Don Hornig, 

director of the Office of Science and Technology, as well as Haworth.1141 By midSeptember Bradley provided Ripley a general strategy schematic, and where problems 

might lie. They had to find a way to surround the NSF, but knew that NSF was committed to a large interferometric array, the “Very Large Array,” rather than a single “big 

dish.”1142 Loweth advised that NSF had authority for only one new large radio facility, 

and at that time, even the Navy was cutting back on its radio astronomy programs, so 

he wondered why the Smithsonian felt it was the right place. There was no alternative 

but to proceed, Bradley advised Ripley privately. Standing still would soon “subordinate Smithsonian’s traditional pursuits in astrophysical research to determinations and 

funding by NSF.”1143
236 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Bradley decided that Ripley’s strongest suit was to emphasize that the Smithsonian 

had been in astrophysics for more than 70 years, now had some 500 people involved in the 

effort, and was already working with a “strong company of associated universities.” He felt 

that Loweth’s “unfavorable reaction” was fairly predictable but hardly definitive, and in sum 

encouraged Ripley that the time was right to engage the regents, get clearance from the BoB 

and, if necessary, the White House, and then, led by friendly congressional regents, march 

on to Congress.1144

Bradley knew they had to act quickly before debates over a national policy for the 

organization of science created an immovable logjam.1145 Brooks’s earlier urging for a new 

“super Whitford Committee” had created the Second Decadal Survey that Greenstein 

chaired and then the Dicke Panel, both of which, as Lilley feared, became roadblocks to 

a quick decision.1146 A third reason for haste was that, as Bradley well knew, Ripley had 

just won a long battle over continued responsibility for the Science Information Exchange, 

resisting calls by BoB and NSF that it relinquish the long-held national responsibility to 

another coordinating body, possibly the NSF, in light of management policies set in place by 

NSF in 1963.1147 There was no question that the Smithsonian had to act fast. Ripley, always 

provocative, wanted to hold a national meeting on the matter.

Whipple stayed in the background, making personal appeals to as many astronomers as he could muster by telegram, by phone, and by direct contact. He had not been 

an early advocate of a national meeting, preferring a quieter, personal recruiting scheme, 

but Bradley overruled him.1148 Bradley knew they had to gain a broad base of visible support from astronomers in as many congressional districts as possible, and especially from 

astronomers who had visible roles in the competing projects. Through these efforts, orchestrated mainly by Lilley, Bradley, and Wiesner, the beginnings of a coalition started to form, 

but it remained tenuous because of the continued frustrations that astronomers were experiencing getting anything big approved.

Accordingly, they engaged Frank Drake, the Cornell astronomer and Arecibo director who harbored resentment toward NSF when it initially failed to fund improvements to 

his dish.1149 Drake had also advised on the NEROC design and was in close contact with 

Harvard, MIT, and Lincoln astronomers. He agreed that a national meeting would break 

the perceived deadlock caused by the Dicke Panel. It was also “a real opportunity” to gain 

the attention of the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents: “Meeting and action should be national 

and called by Smithsonian.”1150

Ripley’s Call to Washington to Debate 

the Needs of Radio Astronomy

Alerted by NEROC partisans in Cambridge, the Boston Herald issued a strongly 

worded statement that the “U.S. Falls behind Europe in Radio Astronomy.” It quoted 

Geoffrey Burbidge, always ready to lend a hand, who ascribed the failure not so much to 

bleak budget prospects, but to the “regional attitudes [that] are diverting radio astronomers 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 237

from combining for the common good.” Burbidge was a member of the second Decadal 

Survey headed by Greenstein, and used it as his bully pulpit: “The high energy physicists 

banded together and decided [what] they wanted. . . . If radio astronomers could have done 

the same thing they would have had a large new telescope four years ago.”1151

In very short order, with a haste that caused some confusion because not all NEROC 

members got the word, Ripley invited 35 radio astronomers, including NSF and NASA 

representatives, to attend a two-day conference in late November to debate the needs 

of radio astronomy in America. Bradley asked NRAO astronomer John Findlay to chair 

the meeting and orchestrated the proceedings to avoid comparing competing designs. 

The purpose of the meeting was not to compare the two, but to discuss the filled dish 

“exclusively.”

This strategy worked. The group recognized an “urgent need” for a fully steerable, 

large aperture dish as a national facility, left site selection for another time, and, most of all, 

announced that it “strongly supports” the plan to have the Smithsonian submit a proposal 

to “appropriate agencies of the Federal Government.” And finally, mostly directed to NSF, 

the group agreed that the present NEROC design was “close in size and general specifications to a feasible optimum design, and that it should be used as the basis for final design 

work for a Smithsonian telescope.”1152

Findlay, a senior NRAO radio astronomer who had directed Arecibo in 1965–1966 

and was then on the NAS Space Science Board, played a key role in the deliberations. He 

had been a strong advocate for synthetic aperture designs, but was regarded as a broadminded technical expert who could see multiple sides of an argument. He vigorously called 

for a combination of technologies, including a study for NRAO on “the largest feasible 

steerable telescope.”1153

After the meeting, Ripley asked Findlay to lead a new advisory group named STAG 

(Smithsonian Telescope Advisory Group) to implement these conclusions. STAG membership included leaders in radio astronomy across the country, with only minority representation by NEROC members. This placed the Smithsonian center stage, but deeply worried 

Weisner, who suspected that NEROC itself was being “squeezed out.”1154 Findlay authored 

the proposal for Ripley, while Whipple did what he could to address Wiesner’s concerns. 

But what dominated everyone’s attention was the drafting and formal submission of the legislation for review by the Smithsonian’s Board of Regents, which was due to meet in regular 

session within days.

Ripley’s Strategy

Ripley sold the $30 million project to the Board of Regents by outlining where it fit 

into the Smithsonian’s longer-term plans and identity. Laying out examples of SAO programs that enjoyed national standing, he went further, citing other parts of the Smithsonian 

as examples of national standing, such as the Woodrow Wilson International Center for 

Scholars, and the “sponsorship and management of national-scale cooperative projects: like 
238 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

STRI [the Smithsonian Tropical Research Institute in Panama], the Chesapeake Bay Center 

for Field Biology,” and other endeavors. Along these lines, in 1969 Ripley would rename the 

Smithsonian’s Museum Bureaus, emphasizing their “National” status.

Ripley’s key strategy was to make the regents aware of the fact that the SAO was actually on thin ice, if anyone in Congress cared to notice. Whipple had noticed, of course, 

knowing that the Act of August 22, 1949, was the sole legislative act authorizing the 

observatory’s existence: a means of performing “solar observations at high altitudes.”1155

But “if the Regents approve and the Congress ultimately enacts this proposed legislation, 

it will stand as an unprecedented legislative recognition of the research capability of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.”1156 The regents had to act to redefine SAO, and 

act they did. With the regents’ quick approval, within a month, over the Christmas holiday, the Smithsonian’s congressional regents, including senators Anderson, Fulbright, and 

Scott, introduced authorization bill S. 705 with the promise that “under the administration 

of the Smithsonian, the telescope will therefore be a truly national facility serving national 

goals.”1157

Ripley’s strategy of subjugating NEROC to Smithsonian leadership through STAG 

was not taken lightly by the rest of the NEROC members. Some demanded that, henceforth, there had to be legal agreements and a clear plan for overall management. Lilley 

pleaded with Whipple on several occasions to assure Wiesner that NEROC’s interests were 

being served. Whipple said he would do so, but he did just the opposite. As the regents were 

approving the submission of the legislation in mid-January, Whipple asserted at a STAG 

meeting at Lincoln Laboratory on 3 January that STAG reported to the Smithsonian, and 

not to NEROC.1158

In reaction, NEROC members created a counter “Salvage group” that first met in a 

member’s home, and then more formally at Lincoln Laboratory.1159 Members worried that 

“if SAO developed an in-house staff for the telescope, it could compete with the [national 

community] which the observatory is built to serve.” Irwin Shapiro, then an MIT professor 

of geology and geophysics who had been a prominent Lincoln Laboratory staff member 

through the 1960s, applying techniques in planetary radar at Haystack, sought an alternate 

route: the “formation of a national consortium of universities which would work strongly 

with SI.” For Shapiro, STAG could well act as a core group, but it had to be expandable if 

more institutions wished to join in. Lilley disagreed, fearing that “the in-house/out-house 

staff problem might arise again. 1160 Lilley knew that a strong “in-house” capability was 

required for instrument development to keep the facility at the cutting edge. But on the 

other hand, a strong “in-house” faculty of research astronomers, which would be expected 

if STAG ran the show, would look suspicious to any outside funder, or to community-based 

leaders, who were ostensibly looking out for the “have-nots”—in the case of Kitt Peak, it had 

been university-based astronomers in the East and the Midwest who had little or no access 

to large optical telescopes.1161

Why the sensitivity? Some of the members may well have recalled Whipple’s 

efforts in 1955 to centralize the process of establishing a national optical observatory 

in the Smithsonian. We have seen that Whipple had been named chair of a “Needs 

Committee” to outline what support astronomy needed to solve the major problems 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 239

it was then facing. But then Whipple parlayed this responsibility into visibility for the 

new SAO by publishing the resulting papers, New Horizons in Astronomy. By the end of 

1955, Whipple even wanted to convert his ad hoc committee into a working committee 

for a National Astronomical Observatory. He and Menzel, who was then the president 

of the American Astronomical Society (AAS), tried to orchestrate a plan whereby the 

Smithsonian would apply to NSF for enabling funds to continue the deliberations. Their 

effort was not appreciated by the NSF advisory panel for astronomy or by West Coast 

astronomers.1162

Moreover, Ripley’s proposal would consume the entire 1967 Dicke Panel budget. To 

make matters more convoluted, MIT was now certain that the Air Force would no longer 

support Haystack and had thrown in with NEROC completely.1163 This further separated 

NEROC from the Smithsonian’s takeover in what MIT called the “Cambridge end-run.” 

The way Whipple viewed the situation, as he confided privately to Lilley and Shapiro, 

was that Wiesner’s and NEROC’s objections were merely a contest over “power.”1164 The 

project did indeed end up as a Smithsonian-led proposal for a 440-foot dish in a 550-foot 

radome (Figure 54). Lilley and Whipple, of course, couldn’t pull something this big out 

of the hat with Congress alone. But the Smithsonian regents could, urged on by S. Dillon 

Ripley.

Figure 54 Display model of NEROC compared with an existing radio facility. The Washington 

Monument was included for scale. Smithsonian Institution Archives, Acc. 16-263, Box 4.
240 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Deliberations across the Board

The year 1969 could well be remembered as one of uncertainty in radio astronomy. As 

the Smithsonian submitted its proposal to BoB and courtesy copies were sent to NSF and 

elsewhere, as members of STAG and NEROC debated, and as the second decadal survey 

chaired by Caltech’s Jesse Greenstein was continuing to deliberate, NSF reconvened the 

Dicke Panel.1165

Through the spring months, Bradley took over the lead from Whipple in dealing with 

Wiesner and managed to repair some of the damage to NEROC/Smithsonian solidarity. At 

least as long as Bradley said the Smithsonian would consider a multi-institutional consortium, based possibly on the Smithsonian’s successful Woodrow Wilson International Center 

for Scholars, which included an independent board of trustees, Wiesner agreed not to sabotage the Smithsonian bill if and when it reached Congress. Simultaneously, Lilley worked 

with Shapiro and others to create a management structure that was workable, but still vague 

enough to accommodate both the Smithsonian and NEROC visions.1166 Flow charts and 

block diagrams went back and forth between Lilley and Whipple through March.

The Wilson Center’s board of trustees model resembled a consortium, and as Bradley 

admitted (to Whipple at least) the Wilson board is “indeed a strong Board. . . . In all candor, it is stronger than I would like to see.” Of course, Bradley knew the Wilson Center was 

lodged physically within the Smithsonian and was managed “perfectly well” by the secretary and board of regents. But NEROC would not be local, so Bradley advised Whipple to 

call it something that would appeal to Wiesner: a “Committee of Cooperating Users for the 

telescope.” It would not have permanent members, there would be no ad hoc congressional 

nor presidential appointees. All managerial functions would be defined by the scientific 

board (STAG, in Bradley’s mind), and Bradley advised Whipple to select a director “to plan, 

perform, and submit for review the matters to be decided by the committee” as quickly as 

possible.1167

As Bradley coached Whipple on how to satisfy Wiesner, Sidney Galler, the Smithsonian’s 

assistant secretary for science, courted BoB on various Smithsonian initiatives, including 

the radio-radar telescope, and found deep problems. John Donald “Jack” Young, who had 

been at NASA in the early 1960s and then had moved to BoB, was opposed; it “completely 

distorts the ‘SI fiscal picture.’ ” He also feared this would harm future relations with NSF. 

Young also strongly advised that the Smithsonian delay the legislation, at least until the 

incoming directors of NSF and the Office of Science and Technology (OST) for the Nixon 

administration (William McElroy and Lee DuBridge, respectively) were settled, and the 

Smithsonian did due diligence seeking out NSF’s position. Young warned Galler that the 

BoB was preparing these comments formally, but Galler hoped BoB would hold off at least 

until NSF’s position was known.1168

Nevertheless, the Smithsonian pushed ahead. The reconvened “second Dicke Panel” 

now felt that the preliminary design studies for NEROC and the NRAO proposal for 

what became the Very Large Array (VLA) were sufficiently mature to recommend they be 

implemented with “equal urgency.” Both had to be “nationally available” to astronomers. 

Cost was not an issue for the panel, but it did note that the VLA had a slight advantage 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 241

because it could be built in stages, whereas the radio-radar dish was all up.1169 Whipple 

alerted Lilley to be ready to travel to Washington on a moment’s notice through late July 

and early August.1170

Bradley put the final touches on the briefing to Congress that he thought was set for 

September 1969, only two months hence. Ripley would lead off, expressing the “national 

need for an instrument of this kind” and then paint the Smithsonian as the institution to 

make it happen. Then Whipple would explain the nature of radio-radar astronomy and how 

it would contribute overall to science. He would also have a prepared rebuttal to any BoB 

objections (budget restrictions, program priorities, pending studies, question of “science 

organization”), but he would hold off using it, Bradley advised, until the question period to 

avoid a defensive or negative tone in the opening presentation.1171 Bradley also had Findlay 

and Purcell testify after Ripley and Whipple addressed the subcommittee. And if the congressmen wished, Lilley would summarize.

What made life even more tense was that NSF’s Haworth had stepped down, and 

the views of the new director, William D. McElroy, confirmed only in mid-July, were not 

known. Ripley and Bradley soon secured a hearing with McElroy on an unrelated matter, finding him generally friendly and receptive.1172 It was not so, however, with BoB. As 

it turned out, both the House and Senate hearings were postponed to beyond July 1970, 

because the parties were far from a clear resolution; specifically, BoB was charging that it 

would “not be prudent to initiate this ultimately very costly project at this time.” The second 

Dicke Panel report and the Greenstein Committee results were not expected until sometime in the spring of 1970.1173

Waiting for Greenstein

Harvey Brooks had campaigned long and hard to rectify the deficiencies of the first 

Decadal Survey, negotiating ground rules with BoB’s Loweth and NSF’s Haworth. Brooks felt 

that optical astronomy had to share equally with radio and space astronomy. Astronomers 

wanted this, as did NASA, and thus the Greenstein Committee was charged with encouraging NSF “to study astronomy in cooperation with NASA.”1174

In January 1970, Greenstein rationalized that the second survey was necessary only 

five years after the first led by Whitford because “certain fields had been omitted and should 

now be included.” These included space astronomy, solar physics, and radio astronomy. 

The first Dicke Panel report on radio astronomy facilities as well as an Astronomy Missions 

Board report to NASA demanded a more balanced review. There was also a recent survey 

in the physics community that impacted astronomical priorities, so there was every reason 

to make the new effort.1175 The Greenstein Committee included names familiar in this story, 

such as Leo Goldberg on the central committee. Dave Heeschen, Bernard Burke, Geoffrey 

Burbidge, and George Field were on a subcommittee for radio astronomy. The SAO’s Robert 

Noyes and Giovanni Fazio were also panelists.

The radio panel, headed by Heeschen, took center stage. Throughout the fall, Harvey 

Brooks pushed vigorously to get the panel to select a single project, keenly sensitive to 
242 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

the negative assessment from BoB that astronomers could not make up their minds on 

anything. Brooks also played a familiar card, warning that if the United States did not act 

fast, it would fall further behind the Europeans and British.1176 Brooks’s highly influential COSPUP had already endorsed the VLA. But in a preliminary report in December, 

Heeschen’s panel endorsed a little bit of everything, calling for the Arecibo upgrade and 

recommending major funds for the radio-radar dish and the VLA. Burbidge was the only 

member of the panel to agree with Brooks at first; the rest of the panel resisted.

The debate continued through the spring and fall of 1970 in parallel with hearings 

in the Senate and House. Heeschen expressed “mixed feelings” that the VLA was NSF’s 

choice. And Burke, an advocate at first for the NEROC design, worried, with Brooks, 

that if the large dishes in Europe proved successful, they would be the “‘kiss of death’ 

to the big dish.”1177 In the end, the Greenstein Committee’s conclusions, in spring 1971, 

reflected Brooks’s push for a single instrument decision, and the NSF’s push for VLA. 

The case for the big dish was desperate. Just how desperate requires looking at a larger 

landscape.

The Nixon Years

Several significant national trends heightened tensions during these years, all precipitated by tightening budgets and shifting national priorities. One was the Mansfield 

Amendment, which, though repealed in 1971, effectively dampened military support for 

basic research.1178 Its effect was widespread, especially on NSF to pick up the slack but as 

well on numerous large initiatives like NEROC to show relevance to military needs. By 

summer 1970, in response to these pressures, but related as well to continuing campus 

tensions about military sponsored research at MIT, the Air Force transferred Lincoln 

Laboratory’s Haystack facility to NEROC and MIT, with support from both NSF and 

NASA.1179

The second shift was Nixon’s reorganization of the BoB into the Office of 

Management and Budget, which eventually institutionalized “management by objective.” Nixon’s order required OMB’s centralized clearance “of all department, agency, 

and commission budgets before they were submitted to Congress.”1180 These shifts were 

part of a general tightening of control and closer oversight over the planning and management of scientific research through a “master plan for science policy.”1181 Edward 

E. David, who had replaced Lee DuBridge as Nixon’s science advisor, warned that “things 

are going to change.”1182

Smithsonian Testimony

Things were changing already for the Smithsonian. Bradley’s strategy for the big dish 

was finally put to the test in July 1970 when it was presented to Rep. Frank Thompson Jr.’s 

House Subcommittee on Library and Memorials within a larger submission dealing with 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 243

the full Smithsonian. Bradley asked Thompson (D-NJ), well known to be a friend of the 

arts but critical of the Smithsonian’s growth in the 1950s, to call these hearings to respond 

to growing criticisms of Smithsonian operations in recent years, especially the concern 

that many Smithsonian programs were not covered, or had expanded greatly beyond, their 

authorized mandates. Publically, Thompson’s charge was to “conduct hearings into the entire 

Smithsonian-from basement to attic.”1183 Congress had not examined the Smithsonian for 

more than a century, at a time when the Institution “was a mere fraction of its present 

size” and critics were asking why.1184 The radio telescope would be the last subject on the 

docket.1185

During some seven days of testimony from Ripley and staff, much of the attention was 

given over to a public controversy over the siting and extent of the Joseph H. Hirshhorn 

Museum and Sculpture Garden, the public versus private nature of the Smithsonian, 

and the nature of its financial management and employee relations. Finally, the question 

of the Smithsonian’s bid for a “Proposed Radio-Radar Telescope, Report on H.R. 13024” 

was raised.1186 On 29 July, the sixth of the seven days of hearings, Ripley, accompanied by 

Whipple, Findlay, and others, testified for the telescope. Ripley provided the atmospherics, claiming that the Smithsonian, once again, found itself “on an incipient bandwagon 

long before the smoke is cleared and the bandwagon itself has come into view.” This was 

certainly, to his mind, the case for astrophysics, in which the Smithsonian had devoted 

its energies long before it was popular in America. He then appealed for the radio-radar 

telescope, describing it as a “truly national facility serving national goals” under the administration of the Smithsonian. It would be national insofar as the Smithsonian will establish 

an Advisory Committee, “a pattern which is very familiar to the Smithsonian, as we have a 

wide variety of commissions, committees and boards to advise us on so many of our disciplinary concerns.”1187

Thompson interrupted Ripley frequently with comments, quips, and questions. 

Asking early on about costs, Ripley deferred to Whipple, who said that with delays they 

would escalate, and had already done so since the initial budgets were developed in 

1967. To this, Thompson wisecracked: “Maybe if we could get this in the Defense budget it would be all right, but then I would be against it, at least, as it stands now.”1188 But 

now, turning to Whipple, Thompson asked why such an expenditure was needed by 

astronomers.

Whipple called upon the wonders of the universe, using superlatives for how modern technological prowess needed to be harnessed to understand them. Citing the “unbelievable power” of quasars, radio sources, and pulsars, he telegraphed a clear message that 

such power might someday be understood, and even generated locally to solve humanity’s 

energy needs. The big dish would be the key to unlocking these mysteries: It would detect 

the weakest radio signals from the farthest distances. It could well aid the nation’s space 

program by acting as a receiver for transmitters aboard deep-space probes, or it might even 

be the means by which life could be detected elsewhere in the universe. When Thompson 

asked whether there were military applications, Whipple responded: “No, it is not contemplated for defense use, but one never knows when such an instrument might be of value to 

the national defense.”1189
244 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Promises flowed endlessly; Whipple predicted that sooner or later some government 

agency would want to fund the instrument, so they were now asking only for support to 

ensure that their construction package be ready. Thompson cut in again, asking whether 

other government agencies had similar plans. This was Whipple’s cue to introduce Findlay, 

who testified that nothing like it was being proposed by any other government agency.

Thompson and his committee well knew about other proposals, but these were for 

arrays, upgrades, and smaller dishes. So they asked Whipple, why the 440 footer? On and 

on the questions went circling the same subjects and themes. After a committee member 

asked whether the different designs promoted by the competing interests were complementary or competitive, Findlay responded they were complementary and that they had made 

this clear to the BoB. Thompson then snorted: “It is very hard sometimes to get them to 

understand.”1190

Indeed, BoB had also asked, why the Smithsonian? Galler had answers at the ready 

from Lilley and Whipple and he had implicit NSF approval through Haworth and McElroy. 

With this, Galler put it to rest, stating that the matter had been raised and dealt with: “There 

is no incompatibility, no competition. Dr. McElroy made it very clear that he endorsed the 

Smithsonian’s efforts for the dish. That is all I would like to state.”1191 In the end, Thompson 

thanked the testifiers, and reiterated his view, expressed to his colleagues on the bench, that 

this proposal “fits well into the general activities, current and future, of the Smithsonian.”1192

With that comment, Whipple was excused and Ripley and Galler went on to the next subject, the Radiation Biology Laboratory, and, as it turned out, how it fit into national planning and coordination compared with, once again, the NSF.

Whipple stayed in the room in case there might be more questions. One of the five 

congressmen, Indiana’s John Brademas, indeed had more questions for him relating to land 

acquisition, design, and construction costs. But Brademas pressed on, sermonizing more 

than questioning. These hearings were his opportunity to air what he felt was a most egregious state of affairs in the nation, only hinted at in these hearings “in very gentle tones” by 

“a most distinguished scientist in the person of Dr. Whipple.” He observed that scientists 

across the nation were “in far more trenchant and indeed savage tones indicting the present 

administration for failing to invest adequately in basic research.” Citing a recent issue of 

Science, Brademas warned that scientists had to organize: “They have nothing to lose but 

their laboratories.”1193

Both Thompson and Whipple warily endorsed Brademas’s sermon. But this chorus 

prompted Iowa representative Frederick Schwengel to rise and speak from “the other 

side of the aisle.” He cautioned his “scientist friends” to “start setting priorities . . . and 

not just lay the whole thing in our lap or the White House’s lap.” Thompson readily 

admitted that his own criticism was in part political, but Whipple did not skip a beat, 

facing Schwengel:

Also as a farm boy from Iowa—I spent the first 13 years of my life on a farm, a real 

dirt farmer in Iowa. . . . [Schwengel: ‘You have a fortunate background’] . . . I have 

much the same point of view that you do, and I would like to see us get as much as 

we can out of every dollar of the taxpayer’s money. That is one of the reasons that this 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 245

design has been so very carefully engineered to be sure we are getting the very best 

product, as well made as possible, at the cheapest cost, to give us the science which 

we so desperately need.1194

To drive his point home in terms Schwengel could relate to, Whipple admitted that 

“well, we are digging in very poor soil for funds these days, I must say.” This was Thompson’s 

cue to reassure Ripley and Whipple that though BoB’s assessment was important, it was 

not determinative. “I’m glad to know you are from Iowa.” Thompson added, “I gather 

Mr. Schwengel is very sympathetic to this idea now.” To which Schwengel added, “This fact 

has raised the stature of the entire Smithsonian Institution.”1195

Ripley expressed satisfaction with the well-orchestrated Thompson hearings. He 

reported Smithsonian-wide that the hearings were positive, offering as examples compliments 

by Thompson and Brademas. If Whipple’s performance was typical of the testimony delivered 

by Smithsonian staff, Ripley had good reason to be proud, but he had been warned.1196

Beyond the Thompson Hearings: “Is SAO Needed?”

During the long process of transforming BoB into the OMB, OMB’s oversight of the 

Smithsonian was now in its General Government and Management Division, not its Science 

Division. This caused deep concern within Ripley’s circle, because even under Science, relations were far from comfortable. Just at that time, for instance, Charles Lundquist was preparing a “sales’ document” for Whipple on the MMT to send to the new OMB, in addition 

to their continuing push for NEROC.1197

Even before the transition, BoB budget analysts in the Science Division had questioned the scale of SAO’s activities. Analysts such as Loweth and Young viewed the SAO as 

an anomaly and not an organic unit within the Smithsonian. More seriously, BoB felt that 

national support for astrophysical research should reside solely with NSF. “To the contrary,” 

Bradley heatedly advised Ripley in January 1970, these were only the analysts’ opinions, 

and not the expressed feelings of the decision makers such as Haworth. Bradley promised 

to realign the OMB staffers, even some who thought that SAO be given wholly to Harvard. 

“Someone,” Bradley charged, “is incredibly disregarding the statutory basis for SAO.”1198

Just as Ripley had advised the regents in November 1968 about the weakness of the statutory basis for the SAO, Bradley felt it was absolutely essential now that the Smithsonian 

fight for the big dish. It would, at the very least, validate the SAO’s national status.

Despite Bradley’s assurances, more trouble was brewing. In the early summer of 1970, 

just before the transition, Kenneth Schwartz, an analyst in the BoB Science Division, was 

assigned to focus specifically on the SAO. To prepare his report, Schwartz consulted with the 

NSF solar astronomer Gerald F. Anderson, who was responsible for NSF’s array of national 

observatories. The initial draft was not for circulation until Schwartz’s boss, Hugh Loweth, 

sent it upstream for comment and approval in late August. By then, however, the transfer 

of OMB cognizance over the Smithsonian had changed to the Government Division and a 

new team of analysts had been formed there to examine the Smithsonian overall. Initially, 
246 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

the principal examiner was OMB staffer Dean Anderson, but within a week, the OMB staff 

was further reorganized, and Anderson would now assist another staffer, Ted Lutz, in the 

investigation.

Part of Anderson’s responsibility was SAO oversight, so he was in contact by the 

end of the year with Raymond Watts, Whipple’s administrator. Anderson had Schwartz’s 

report and spoke of it generally with Watts, but took several months to send a copy to John 

Jameson, then Ripley’s director of the Office of Programming and Budget. 1199

Schwartz’s “SAO Issue Paper” viewed the growth of the SAO in the 1960s “like many 

other Smithsonian activities,” as “generally unstructured.”1200 It reviewed how, since 1955, 

Whipple had built up what had originally been a traditional department of the Smithsonian 

and took it in many new directions with significant NSF and NASA funding, while, at the 

same time, integrating itself with the Harvard Observatory. Whipple’s “policies worked 

well” in the first half of the 1960s, but in the past few years, cuts in NASA support and 

complications and competition with NSF had led to a slower rate of growth. Any increased 

appropriations for the SAO could well constrain the Smithsonian overall, so it was “particularly appropriate at this time to raise questions regarding the future of SAO.” Bluntly, the 

“SAO Issue Paper” asked: “Is SAO needed?”1201

After belaboring pros and cons, the curt answer was: SAO’s role “is hazy.” Its “unique 

and special capabilities” were not so much institutional; they lodged within individuals who 

might well take jobs elsewhere and so were not institutionally defined. Satellite tracking 

was, of course, a unique function and it was not likely that it would survive if SAO were to 

be “dissolved.” Asking what would it take to keep SAO alive, the Paper reviewed its major 

assets: a large computer center funded by NASA, and of course, the Mount Hopkins complex. The computer was contingent on the satellite work and was not a real Smithsonian 

asset. Therefore the real costs of continuing SAO, to the Smithsonian, were in positions and 

salaries. If all the instrumentation were to be deeded to NSF or to AURA, then Smithsonian 

astronomers could still qualify for observing time.

The “SAO Issue Paper” also asked how invested the Smithsonian was in SAO. Ripley, 

the paper noted, was making “rapid movement” toward the arts and humanities. And in 

the sciences, the Smithsonian’s real push was now in the environmental and biological 

realm, not in the physical sciences represented by the SAO. Bradley was the SAO’s main 

champion on the Mall; certainly he was “the best informed of the Washington staff on 

its operations.”1202 So if the future of SAO was indeed in the secretary’s hands, and if he 

continued to shift away from the physical sciences, then it might well be better to transfer 

SAO to NSF in one of these ways:

1. “Turn SAO into a national center” [funded through NSF and managed by a consortium of universities as are Kitt Peak and NRAO].

2. “Offer the management of SAO to Harvard” [very much as Cornell’s operation of 

Arecibo].

3. “Meld Mt. Hopkins facilities into the Kitt Peak operation and discontinue funding of 

SAO as a separate entity.”
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 247

4. “Meld the bulk of SAO personnel and facilities” [into the Association of Universities 

for Research in Astronomy (AURA), which, Schwartz mistakenly thought, operated 

both Kitt Peak (yes) and NRAO (no, operated by AUI)].

The “SAO Issue Paper” concluded that the fourth option was the best. It recognized 

that there were areas of SAO activity, such as satellite tracking and geodesy, that did not fit 

AURA’s interests. And it was these very activities in which the SAO was unique, or at least 

was ahead of other civilian institutions, such as NASA.1203

The “SAO Issue Paper” concluded that there seemed to be no “convenient home 

for SAO.” It was an oddball for the Smithsonian and belonged more logically under NSF 

directly. But for the transfer to work, none of the four options came without problems, 

although the fourth was “the most promising of the lot.” It would place SAO within NSF’s 

sphere and provide a home for SAO staff at Harvard, which conveniently was a member of 

the nine-member AURA consortium.1204

Then came a fifth option: Retain SAO as a bureau of the Smithsonian “but reduce 

its level of support,” which would result in staff cuts. This would retain the undesirable 

“preserve” of funding for astronomy within the Smithsonian and would not aid the “centralization of basic research funding in NSF.” Even OMB realized that this would not work. 

So in sum, the “SAO Issue Paper” favored the fourth option and recommended further 

discussions with NSF senior staff regarding such a shift. And if NSF proved to be receptive, 

then the OMB views should be shared with SAO staff “to elicit their views” in open meetings between the SAO, Smithsonian, NSF, and AURA staff. Everyone would be free to “air 

differences of opinion.”1205

By late February, OMB’s Dean Anderson was planning to visit the SAO. To prepare his 

respondents, he sent Schwartz’s “SAO Issue Paper” to Jameson, “to provide a basis for discussion.” Indeed, Anderson admitted, “The memo is frank in places—hopefully not embarrassing,” adding that “it wasn’t intended for SI-SAO review; just in-house musings.” But 

most of all, he emphasized: “It doesn’t necessarily reflect the current views of OMB, General 

Government Division, or me!”1206

Jameson quickly relayed Anderson’s radioactive leak to Watts in March 1971, urging 

him to take it seriously. He well knew that OMB was still in a fluid state, and the statements 

in the “SAO Issue Paper” may now be “only interesting historical documents” because OMB 

had recently shown some mercy in the budgeting for FY 1972. But, he warned, these questions would no doubt arise sooner or later. And he was right.1207

What is striking about this document, and its distribution, is that it reveals how the 

existence of the SAO, at the scale to which Whipple had raised it, was a challenge for those 

tasked to set priorities for allocating federally funded resources, setting institutional priorities and structures, and devising means to manage and control them. As he transmitted 

his draft to Jameson, Anderson explicitly distanced himself, not specifying which of the 

options he favored. One thing was clear: These were the issues that needed airing. They 

indeed must have made for sobering reading, and could well have played a role in Bradley 

and Ripley’s ultimate decision to drop the big dish.
248 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Preparing for Senate Hearings in the Midst of Chaos

Although the big dish was now front and center, the Thompson Subcommittee 

had been more concerned about the Hirshhorn matter, especially the possibility that its 

sculpture garden would split the National Mall at 7th Street.1208 The Senate would not 

be similarly distracted, or benign. At about the same time, there seemed to be a thaw in 

NSF/Smithsonian Institution (SI) relations, as newly appointed assistant secretary for 

science David Challinor reported to Ripley in February 1971 that “with the arrival of Bill 

McElroy at NSF the anti-SI forces there seem to be retrenching.” Challinor cautioned, 

however, that “obviously, we are in a sensitive time period where we all must be sure 

that we have a uniform approach. I know all agree that it would be tragic to muff this 

opportunity.”1209

The big dish was reintroduced 30 March 1971, in the Senate by Anderson, Fulbright, 

and Hugh Scott, and in the House by Thompson and Lucien Nedzi. All save Thompson and 

Nedzi were regents. This time, Bradley and Ripley emphasized that the Thompson hearings 

unanimously voted to report their recommendation to Congress, and they hoped that the 

new Congress would agree.1210 But they well knew that the OMB draft was lurking.

Later in April, however, radio astronomer Bernard Burke warned Lilley that Jesse 

Greenstein was now sympathetic to Harvey Brooks’s continuing concerns over the lack of 

unity among astronomers. He now favored the VLA over the big dish, and, worst of all, 

felt that the Smithsonian’s continued push was impeding progress of the VLA, as it too was 

being discussed in Congress as part of NSF’s request.1211 Greenstein was especially important to SAO at that time, because he was also deeply involved in deliberations brewing at 

Harvard over the future relationship between Harvard and the Smithsonian.1212 So in May, 

as congressmen were becoming aware of Greenstein’s support for the VLA and were asking 

strong questions, and with the OMB “SAO Issue Paper” in the background, Bradley conferred again with Loweth at OMB and then with Findlay and Whipple. It was clear now, 

Bradley advised Ripley, that support for the big dish was eroding, as was support for the 

SAO overall. Bradley also reported that Harvey Brooks had urged Whipple to postpone 

“our bid for authorization of the big dish for this year.”1213 Any evidence of disagreement 

on priorities, Brooks felt, was likely to be used as an excuse to delay funding anything. “If 

we don’t get the VLA this year, then so far as I am concerned the game is dirty pool rather 

than scientific statesmanship, and everybody better start pulling his own political wires. 

But let’s try statesmanship for one more year.” Knowing what else was lurking, Whipple 

could not resist Brooks’s logic, and so complied. Brooks immediately and publically hailed 

Whipple’s decision as a “very statesmanlike action on the part of the Smithsonian,” which 

made it possible for the radio astronomy community to stand behind a single facility in the 

coming fiscal year.1214

Ripley now seized the diplomatic high ground, writing Anderson, Thompson, 

Fulbright, and Scott that “we feel for the good of the scientific fraternity in general that 

we should abide by this new committee’s ordering of priorities.” And in a statement prepared some months later by Bartnik regarding the Thompson hearings themselves, Ripley 

candidly admitted that “this exercise in introspection, albeit somewhat hurried, was really 
National Facilities for Astronomy and the Question of Limits • 249

healthy for us all.”1215 Of course, he was referring to all of the issues raised at the hearings 

and was, in effect, answering the OMB; all the Smithsonian programs were to survive, live 

long, and prosper, but at the expense of the big dish.

There was plenty of mopping up to do, with the regents, Congress, and members 

of NEROC. Lilley (Figure 55) scrambled to save what was left of NEROC at Haystack, 

managing to convince sympathetic administrators at MIT and in the Air Force to keep 

it going on what was, in effect, a survival budget. As part of this campaign, the Haystack 

facility was transferred totally to MIT in the name of NEROC, and soon some NSF 

funding was secured.1216 In his notification to NEROC members, as well as to NSF and 

NASA, Whipple stated only the facts and offered no comment other than his hope that 

this action of stepping back “will be a contribution to developments in radio and radar 

astronomy.”1217

Conclusions and Analysis

The VLA was indeed included in NSF’s authorization bill that year, and the appropriation was approved in early 1972 for construction to start in 1973.1218 But the big dish 

was never revived, at least not in the form proposed in 1969–1970. NEROC, confined to 

Haystack, continued on for a number of years. There were also sporadic thoughts at the 

Smithsonian to revive the 440-foot project, but after 1972, the demands of radio astronomy 

had gone from the centimeter range to the millimeter region, necessitating much more 

mechanical precision.1219

Ripley initially saw the radio telescope facility as an opportunity, but the nature of 

that opportunity changed with changing conditions. It may have begun as a means to 

Figure 55 Edward Lilley. Smithsonian 

Institution Archives, Image 

# SIA2017-090561.
250 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

assert a national role in astronomy and to validate the very existence of the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory, but it ended, from the fear of further exposure to critics at NSF 

and OMB, as a convenient expendable to protect the continued health of the Smithsonian 

Institution overall.

Whipple, like Ripley an institution builder, knew when to step back. Just as in his 

motivations for Project Celescope, Whipple’s priority was not so much in the science, but in 

building an infrastructure for science. Both acted to retain and strengthen an institutional 

structure, and both faced numerous challenges to more central parts of their respective 

institutions. But they also knew, given OMB’s scrutiny, that there were limits.

When asked about the fate of the radio-radar telescope in 1976, Whipple recalled 

only that it was “stopped by the national committees because they wanted the large array 

instead. Well, that was a disappointment.”1220 But for Bradley, when asked two years after 

the fact, upon his retirement as undersecretary, it was just a fact of life in Washington—he 

conflated the delay caused by the need to present it to a new Congress with what was about 

to happen to Whipple: “In the meantime, the directorship of the Astrophysical Observatory 

was changed, and the former director became a senior research astrophysicist. A new director was placed in charge of both the [Harvard] College Observatory and the Smithsonian 

Observatory, with different emphasis on the various aspects of their work.” For Bradley, 

saving the Hirshhorn was the critical and most painful issue. What was going on up at 

Cambridge was, he felt after the fact, quite natural in the constantly changing and increasingly competitive landscape of American science.1221

Throughout the campaign, Whipple had faced numerous challenges to his empire. 

Celescope was finally launched, but there were deep concerns over the quality of the data 

being returned, so he had to marshal forces to save that program. Mount Hopkins was proceeding more or less smoothly, but was another area of tension with NSF and the University 

of Arizona over the site for the new instrument. The SAO was also in the midst of struggling 

to upgrade the tracking program to remain competitive. These were hardly distractions; 

indeed, they all were close to Whipple’s core interests. But none was as close as an internal 

conflict with Leo Goldberg that had been brewing for some years. As Whipple campaigned 

with Ripley, in early April 1972, Goldberg abruptly took a leave of absence as director of the 

Harvard College Observatory to assume the post of director at Kitt Peak. His departure was 

a shock. It highlighted the severely deteriorated relations not only with Whipple, but as well 

with Harvard-Smithsonian affairs. How this factored into the whole picture will be covered 

in the next chapter, but it is important to realize that this fight was going on in parallel to 

the one for the big dish.
251

Chapter 15

Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge

Brian Marsden, whom Whipple had hired away from Yale in 1965 for the satellitetracking program to strengthen expertise in celestial mechanics, remembered sitting on 

Whipple’s office floor sometime in the late 1960s, the two of them wading through a mass 

of scattered project status files. Marsden recalled that Whipple paused at one point, pondered the many projects before him, and then, looking at Brian mused, “What kind of 

monster had [I] built?” In the way Whipple asked it, Marsden knew he did not want an 

answer; “[T]hings were getting a bit shaky” at the time, Marsden knew, given the difficulties Whipple was having with Leo Goldberg over governance and planning, and over 

what Goldberg saw was a serious imbalance in teaching loads between Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory (SAO) and Harvard College Observatory (HCO) staff. For 

Goldberg it was a four-headed monster, which George Field later clarified were most likely 

“Harvard, Smithsonian, NSF, and NASA.”1222 With the Vietnam War escalating and funding sources tightening with NASA cutting back, threatening to cut SAO’s satellite tracking 

up to 50 percent in 1969, this was a time of retrenchment. The Office of Management and 

Budget’s (OMB) “SAO Issue Paper” had raised many questions: Could the Smithsonian 

replenish the support that NASA had provided, or would some other institutional relationship be more desirable? That was the OMB’s message, and to some extent that would also 

be the question posed by both Harvard and Smithsonian staff.

In the March–April 1970 edition of SAO News Fred Whipple tried to assure staff 

that though there had been cuts and there would be more, they were trying to minimize 

the damage, negotiating with NASA officials “to clarify the role of the SAO in the space 

program—both present and future.” Satellite tracking, the largest employer of SAO’s rank 

and file, would be hit, requiring a reduction in staff. Essential services were still intact, 

“though cut to a workable minimum.” One bright spot, Whipple observed, was cooperation 

with HCO to expand the facilities at 60 Garden Street.1223

Indeed, new and enlarged facilities had been made possible by large bequests from 

Richard Perkin and John G. Wolbach, as well as a grant from NSF. They helped, but didn’t 

erase growing tensions between the SAO and HCO, tensions that led to a deep institutional 

restructuring. Many of the issues were not so different from what other large-scale academic 

enterprises at Stanford, Michigan, and MIT faced in trying to balance traditional university 

policies and procedures with the autonomy of the individual scholar within industrial-scale 

governmental and military research enterprises that defined research in terms of institutional mission or national needs.1224 For Harvard and Goldberg, however, it was also institutional interdependence. And for Whipple and the SAO, it was institutional autonomy and 
252 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

heterogeneity. People on both sides of the divided house viewed it as a clash of personalities. 

Menzel and Whipple had close personal and social relations, close enough that Whipple’s 

daughters gleefully called Menzel “Donald Duck” at department parties when he quacked 

at them.1225 But not so Leo Goldberg; there was a philosophical distance and a clash that led 

to his resignation, to Whipple stepping down, and to a consolidation called the Center for 

Astrophysics.

Leo Goldberg

From his liberal upbringing, training, and nature, Leo Goldberg believed in egalitarian, government-supported national facilities that could compete with the established elite 

institutions in astronomy.1226 By the early 1960s, he was among the most powerful voices in 

the profession. He brought his many passions from Michigan to Harvard to build a vigorous 

program in solar astrophysics, taking a leading role in NASA’s Orbiting Solar Observatory 

series. From Goldberg’s many campaigns at the national and the international levels, such 

as helping to instigate the Decadal Surveys by the National Research Council, and his 

humanist-inspired campaigns in his capacity as president of the International Astronomical 

Union, it was clear that overall he felt strongly that astronomers had to speak for themselves 

in setting priorities for funding large projects.1227

When news spread of Goldberg’s impending move to Harvard, Jesse Greenstein 

wrote to congratulate him on returning “to the scenes of your youth.” Greenstein hoped 

that Goldberg would stimulate a renaissance in solar and stellar astrophysics at Harvard 

and restore the reputation of the place.1228 Goldberg responded that he looked forward to 

establishing new associations with ground-based solar facilities and resolved to “do whatever I can to help make Harvard a strong center for all kinds of astronomy.”1229 Goldberg, 

however, also agreed with Whipple that continuing the Smithsonian’s traditional program 

of routine solar monitoring from the ground had to be abandoned in favor of putting a 

bolometer on a satellite, adding that the Smithsonian was better off spending money on 

a theoretical group interpreting data collected either at Kitt Peak or from space.1230

Indeed, in the first years, regarded generally as a Harvard professor but supported 

equally by the Smithsonian, Goldberg worked with Whipple to build a strong solar and 

stellar atmospheres group extending from theory to the laboratory, and to space.1231 In 

March 1962, after Whipple’s repeated efforts, Goldberg was converted to senior federal 

career status as a physicist at the SAO. Whipple had the slots available because he was unable 

to retain Sterne or Hynek after Harvard rejected them. Goldberg was more than acceptable 

to Harvard. As a Smithsonian administrator explained the situation, “The only reason a 

man of his [Goldberg’s] caliber is available at all is that as a member of the staff of Harvard 

University, he is familiar with and attracted to our program which permits a high degree of 

utilization of his knowledge in a most rewarding way.”1232

Following Menzel’s failed efforts to establish a large solar telescope in Hawaii, but very 

much in sympathy with him, and in tune with Greenstein’s admonitions, Goldberg pushed 

to build a large telescope for Harvard in some suitable climate. His efforts with Yale and 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 253

MIT and then again in Hawaii led to naught with both staff and Harvard administration.1233

It must have frustrated Goldberg no end that by then the University of Michigan had established an experimental solar radiometry station on Maui.1234

Meanwhile, Goldberg’s programs in space solar physics were burgeoning; not as large 

as Whipple’s Celescope and initially almost as frustrating, but ultimately highly successful. 

He built a powerful shock tube laboratory where gases could be heated to mimic the characteristics of the solar photosphere, chromosphere and even corona.1235 He led staff, including 

Hubert Reeves and W. H. Parkinson, to design and build instruments for the Orbiting Solar 

Observatory (OSO) series as well as an Advanced Orbiting Solar Observatory. After the 

flights of OSO IV and VI in the late 1960s, his group was “flooded with data.”1236

Soon after taking the Harvard College Observatory directorship in 1966, and turning 

down simultaneous offers from Yale and then from NASA to direct the Goddard Space 

Flight Center, Goldberg also assumed the chairmanship of the Department of Astronomy 

and became intensely concerned with graduate education. He and Whipple were able to 

expand office and laboratory space, but Goldberg failed to establish long-term plans for 

a major ground-based optical facility or expand the Harvard academic faculty and, most 

frustrating, compel those with tenure to teach.1237

Growing Concerns

In his 1967–68 annual report, Goldberg listed some nine Harvard faculty at the senior, 

or tenured level, a few visiting professors, and an unspecified number of junior faculty and 

lecturers. There were 22 undergraduate “concentrators” in astronomy and 54 graduate students. Some 13 PhDs were awarded during the period.1238 He left unsaid the fact that most 

of the classes and theses were managed by SAO staff, not Harvard faculty. This situation 

had been festering for some time, but Goldberg only started complaining about it, in surviving records, at least, in late 1970 when faced with a deeper and more systemic problem: 

Harvard’s lack of oversight of Smithsonian appointments.

Goldberg complained to Harvard’s dean John Dunlop in November 1970 that there 

was a lack of parity between Harvard and the Smithsonian. This was especially worrisome 

because so many SAO staff taught: “The disadvantage of this arrangement is that we have 

become so dependent on Smithsonian personnel without having a voice in their selection.” Harvard’s teaching standards have suffered as a result, Goldberg implied, which 

was intolerable for a man who “had zero tolerance for second-class work or thinking.” 

Most of the Smithsonian staff who were teaching, Goldberg added, were better described 

“as highly trained specialists lacking the breadth that is ordinarily expected of a Harvard 

professor.”1239 Goldberg was evidently between a rock and a hard place, and grew deeply 

frustrated, annoyed, and even fearful that the SAO would absorb the Harvard College 

Observatory.1240 The way Goldberg viewed the problem:

. . . there was no joint planning of any kind. Menzel and Whipple had developed a 

kind of informal mutually supportive relationship, in which each did pretty much 
254 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

as he pleased, but with the understanding that the other would back him up. They 

socialized together, and outwardly they got along very well.1241

Menzel had, after all, created the space for Whipple’s empire, and the two enjoyed 

more than 30 years of close cooperation that began as a mentorship. Menzel knew and 

was comfortable with Whipple’s style, which could, indeed, frustrate those around him. As 

Charles Lundquist observed, Whipple was a firm believer in organizational independence. 

At times, he felt seriously hampered by Smithsonian oversight, as well as NASA oversight. 

The more voluble members of his staff sometimes reflected his disdain for bureaucracy; 

pondering what should be placed in a time capsule for a new Smithsonian building at 

Harvard, Charles Whitney suggested including a memo from an especially annoying highlevel Smithsonian official, or even the official himself!1242 And of course Whipple chafed 

under the micromanagement of administrators such as Graf and Keddy. It was just at this 

time that Bradley appeared on the scene, which saved the day.

Tensions existed well before Goldberg took over. Whipple had failed to secure Harvard 

appointments for his most senior SAO staff, and those who stayed, such as Charles Whitney, 

clearly recall the “Harvard snobbism . . . a certain disdain of the Smithsonian and anybody 

who had anything to do with it.”1243 In 1959, some staff attempted to establish a SmithsonianHarvard Observatories Round Table to facilitate communication, but it proved to be ineffectual and short-lived. When Goldberg took over, he tried to expand the Harvard Council 

to include Smithsonian staff, including Andrea Dupree and Eugene Avrett, but again this 

proved to be ineffectual because they could not speak for the Smithsonian unless Whipple 

led the way.1244

Whipple’s own staff sensed his distant nature. Whitney, one of his project leaders in 

the SAO’s atmospheres group and so quite close to the man, recalls feeling uncomfortable with the “looseness of the structure.” Aside from Whipple, Lundquist, Tillinghast, 

and leaders in the satellite tracking areas, the structure of the scientific problem groups 

was constantly in flux, depending on the needs of the problem area, the funding, and 

expected deliverables to satisfy funders and patrons. Although there was not much 

migration between the larger areas, for example, solar and stellar physics as distinct 

from planetary and meteoritical studies, within each of the groups, as problems changed 

or were redefined, resources were adjusted to suit immediate needs.1245 The issue at hand 

was resource allocation, which everyone “left pretty much in Fred’s hands.” There were 

no organizational meetings “where various project leaders could discuss the importance 

of their work in the face of other project leaders. There was no give-and-take on the 

question of allocation.” In June 1967, several SAO staff members happened to discuss 

the matter during a meeting of the American Astronomical Society. The discussion continued through informal “BYOB” lunch meetings in Cambridge, led by Whitney and 

close colleagues in the atmospheres group, including Avrett, Wolfgang Kalkoffen, Myron 

Lecar, and Owen Gingerich. The meetings continued until Whipple learned of them 

and of their intention to suggest the creation of a Smithsonian Observatory Council. As 

Whitney recalled: “Fred found that very threatening: ‘What does this mean? What are 

you doing here? You seem to be attacking me and my administration of the observatory. 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 255

I want you to stop it and get out of that and stop having these meetings,’ and he called 

me names actually.”1246

Smithsonian staff generally enjoyed and flourished but Whipple’s distance from his 

staff and his penchant to make decisions without broad, inclusive deliberation were worrisome. Lundquist speculated that Whipple “just didn’t want to spend time on things like 

that.”1247 As long as a staff member’s research did not require large-scale investment, and 

fit within the needs of the institution, they were quite free to do what they wanted. Dave 

Latham recalled a definite feeling of autonomy, but it had to be under the radar, or under 

the condition that “if you write proposals to NASA and they give you money, you get 

to do it.”1248

In parallel to tensions caused by the teaching situation, there was also a lack of coordination committing to major new observational programs and facilities. Goldberg knew 

what Whipple was doing in southern Arizona.1249 Through 1970 and 1971, Whipple stepped 

up the development of Mount Hopkins, dedicating the 60-inch telescope to Carl Tillinghast 

and pushing ever harder for the MMT. He did these things using only the Smithsonian’s 

annual appropriations, in full view of anyone who cared to pay attention. But what Whipple 

did not do, according to Goldberg and staff members in both organizations, was to adequately engage Harvard to their satisfaction in developing Mount Hopkins. He kept negotiations away from the Harvard Observatory Council until an agreement had been hammered 

out between Arizona and the Smithsonian. When the news broke, Whipple and Goldberg 

met with an assistant secretary of the Smithsonian to try and straighten out the situation, 

but it was clear to Goldberg that Whipple was not of a mind to subject himself or his observatory staff to the whims of the Harvard Observatory Council.1250

Indeed, Whipple made it clear that he wished to distance himself and the SAO from 

Harvard. Writing to an inquirer in March 1970 who had asked about the state of university 

research, he responded openly that universities were in a time of “transition and [it was] a 

difficult period for them.” Because there was such social pressure at that time for universities, even the elites, to educate “practically everybody,” they would be drained of all other 

responsibilities, and “research efforts will probably move toward institutes and away from 

universities.” Too clumsy and too burdened with tradition, and facing a society where science and technology would be evermore essential, Whipple would do almost anything to 

avoid Harvard’s oversight.1251

A Call for Long-Range Planning

Matters came to a head in April 1970, when the latest HCO Visiting Committee 

convened at the observatory. This committee well knew what Whipple was doing on 

the SAO side. The Smithsonian seemed without limits with plans for the North East 

Radio Observatory Corporation (NEROC) and the Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT). 

But what was Harvard doing? This latest committee included Dillon Ripley as well as 

National Bureau of Standards director Louis Branscomb and H. Irving Pratt, chairman of the Board of Trustees of the Pratt Institute. But astronomers took the lead. Jesse 
256 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Greenstein confronted Goldberg, asking him what he was doing about long-range planning and stability. Specifically, if NASA were to disappear, or NSF were to be downsized, 

what was Harvard astronomy doing to prepare? Greenstein had collected comments 

from graduate students who worried that HCO did “not engage in major research programs in some of the frontier fields of astronomical research.” They pointed to hot areas 

such as x-ray astronomy, which was “presently restricted to a very few governmentsupported laboratories, not one of which is connected with a department of astronomy 

at a university.”1252

Goldberg was pessimistic. He spoke a bit about his joint planning with MIT for the 

Chile venture, but left little hope that it would happen in the near future.1253 Naturally, 

the committee wanted to know what Goldberg was planning to do about this situation. 

Goldberg took the charge to heart, cancelled a planned sabbatical, and contemplated ways 

to include the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory to leverage programs that would 

strengthen Harvard’s offerings in astronomy.1254

During his visit, Ripley privately asked Goldberg frank questions about the 

Smithsonian relationship, and then wrote Whipple suggesting that it would be a good time 

to “have a joint meeting on common problems in research and teaching shared by Harvard 

and SAO.” Ripley worried about declining budgets and reported that the recent dedication of the Mount Hopkins station had raised concerns over why Harvard was not more 

involved: “Surely there are areas where we can consolidate our resources for mutual benefit?” Ripley felt it would be a good time to think of new ways to build Whipple’s empires; 

the Smithsonian had just gained a significant new advocate: former NASA administrator 

James Webb was now a Smithsonian regent and had “many contacts and special knowledge.”1255 Whipple responded that Harvard and the Smithsonian were already cooperating, 

sharing shop facilities and computer facilities. They were also cooperating in their radio 

astronomy initiative, and their talents in stellar atmospheres had been completely integrated. Conversely, Whipple was open to discussing “mutual problems of SAO and HCO,” 

adding that the only areas Harvard was not interested in are “our general meteor programs, 

the satellite-tracking program and the Celescope program.”1256 Whipple copied Goldberg in 

his response to Ripley and Goldberg readily agreed that SAO and HCO were cooperating 

scientifically. However, Goldberg pointed out, what had worked smoothly for the original 

players (Carmichael, Menzel, and Whipple), operating cordially and informally under “no 

set of formal ground rules governing the relationship,” was not the way of the future. With 

NASA funding on the wane and OMB deliberating over who controlled science, the stakes 

were now just too high.

In the wake of the Visiting Committee’s and Greenstein’s call for long-range planning, 

Goldberg felt it was a good time to make changes in the ground rules, so he continued to 

push Whipple and Ripley. Goldberg now demanded that “we do more than merely cooperate in scientific research and that we try to work toward single, joint programs in those 

areas in which both institutions are doing major research.” Goldberg admitted that Harvard 

had no interest in the SAO core programs such as satellite tracking, and he countered that 

the SAO had little interest in his solar physics programs. But there were areas of mutual 

interest: in optical and radio astronomy, and in stellar atmospheres. He therefore called for 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 257

more “joint planning” in appointments of staff and planning of major facilities and “in the 

shaping of long-range strategy generally.”1257

All this was brewing while Ripley’s team was preparing for the Thompson 

Subcommittee hearings on the Smithsonian’s growth. And it was there that Whipple pushed 

to situate SAO as a “unique” federal agency able to respond to the needs of mission-oriented 

agencies such as NASA, as well as be engaged in truly basic research, pursing astrophysics 

autonomously. Terms Whipple had employed, such as “the national astrophysical observatory” certainly did not calm Goldberg’s nerves. It would only exacerbate what he already 

saw as a critical imbalance in governance: While Harvard astronomy engaged in shared 

governance, and was subject to annual oversight, the Smithsonian had neither.1258 Whipple 

was of course on the Harvard Council, but there was no counterpart for the Smithsonian.

This is what Goldberg wanted to change. Ripley, according to Goldberg, was in favor 

of the change, but Whipple strongly advised against it, trying to keep the Smithsonian 

free of, and hence not subject to, Harvard’s planning.1259 Whipple would not tolerate what 

he perceived as the intransigence of Harvard senior faculty, slowing down, if not stalling 

completely, any initiatives for growth. His refusal to compromise also raised questions in 

Washington.

A Fact-Finding Mission from Washington

In mid-June, knowing that OMB’s Dean Anderson was planning to visit SAO as part 

of his ongoing investigation, Ripley directed John Jameson to accompany him to assess 

the questions that OMB was raising and the problems that Goldberg had charged. They 

picked a time when Whipple was out of town so they could tour laboratories freely and 

speak with both “bench scientists and administrative personnel.” They wanted to see how 

real the programs were as described in Whipple’s recent SAO brochure Astronomy for the 

Seventies, prepared for the Thompson hearings. They looked for evidence of “Earth as a 

Planet,” “the Solar System,” “energetic phenomena in the universe” and reported back to 

Ripley that this “programmatic split is a convenient way of classifying crosscutting aspects 

of various projects, but the reality of SAO organization lies in the projects themselves and 

in their funding.”1260

Making sense of the SAO seemed to be the point of the visit, but there were deeper 

concerns raised by OMB: assessing limits to growth. Whipple’s testimony for the Thompson 

hearings did not set any limits to SAO growth. His only allusion to limits was made to 

Harvard’s Dean Bundy in an oddly framed promise that the SAO would not grow beyond 

the scale of HCO, a claim Goldberg felt was hollow and was really just a form of Whipple’s 

brinksmanship rhetoric.1261 To test this assertion, Jameson and Anderson compared the 

relative contributions of SAO and HCO with various initiatives and found that, for optical astronomy, at least, Harvard funding was negligible compared with NASA’s funding of 

Smithsonian activities. In fact, they found SAO staff very worried about continued NASA 

funding, given that both satellite tracking and Celescope were in their last days. SAO staff 

still hoped for a big new NASA start, possibly in gamma-ray astronomy. The Smithsonian 
258 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Institution was barely able to support core infrastructure with overhead from NASA 

funding, and Harvard was not even in the picture. So continuing NASA support was key: 

“Without it, SAO as an organization would collapse.”1262

Anderson and Jameson gave good marks for the valiant efforts trying to save 

Celescope’s data, especially as a good example of collegial cooperation between the two 

observatories.1263 They also complimented SAO for finding ways to remain competitive, 

obtaining major NASA support for satellite tracking and for its biggest product to date, 

Smithsonian Standard Earth. But they also listened to several SAO staff who thought that 

the SAO had “lost its lead” in several areas. Because NASA was noticeably drawing to 

itself more and more of the infrastructure for space activities, staff feared that the overall 

importance of optical tracking was on the decline, especially because it had become “more 

methodical than innovative.” This was not necessarily bad, as it fit in with Smithsonian 

tradition. But was tradition defensible in the face of increasing competition and deteriorating support for science overall in the nation? Indeed, “Especially in past years of heavy 

NASA funding,” Anderson and Jameson observed, “Smithsonian/Washington has tended 

to view the SAO as a ‘rich cousin.’” But now, what of the future? In their report, reviewing 

“Impressions of the Management and Operation of SAO,” they concluded that the “SAO is 

largely an autonomous operation with little input from the Smithsonian’s Washington staff ” 

and, evidently, little regard for it.1264

These “impressions” reached the heart of Ripley’s concerns, raising questions that 

would, in fact, foreshadow those asked by OMB later that year. The OMB report would 

state that it felt that the SAO continued to deserve federal funding in some form. But, as 

Dean Anderson observed, there was “a real issue as to whether SAO should retain a special ‘preserve’ of funding as is now provided by the Smithsonian at about $2 million per 

year.” If NASA funding were to continue to decline, could the Smithsonian make up the 

deficit? The answer: probably not. And if not, Anderson concluded, it was probably time to 

“more clearly draw the boundaries of SAO activities—especially in regard to the purchase 

of major new equipment and facilities.”1265 Anderson’s assessment was in Whipple’s hands 

by March 1971, but probably came as no surprise, given what was happening even closer 

to home.

Goldberg’s Resignation

Whipple and Goldberg met with Ripley two weeks after Anderson and Jameson’s factfinding trip in June. In November, deeply frustrated, Goldberg reported to Dunlop that not 

much was accomplished there because Whipple expressed nothing but satisfaction with 

the present arrangement, and Ripley said little, taking “comfort in silence.” In the ensuing 

four months, Goldberg claimed, there had been no substantial discussion of the issues, 

even after repeated attempts. “Unfortunately, Professor Whipple and I seem to be far apart, 

both in our understanding of how well the Harvard-Smithsonian relationship is working 

and how it ought to be modified.”1266 Goldberg was convinced that if things did not change, 

astronomy at Harvard “will be in danger of losing its independence and of becoming an 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 259

appendage of the SAO.” Even though both observatories were suffering from “drastic budgetary limitations” at the moment, he darkly knew that Whipple would find a way to revive 

his programs and “I expect the numbers to skyrocket.”1267 Overall, Goldberg remained 

deeply frustrated by the imbalances he perceived in teaching and oversight.

But Goldberg also thought he finally had an ace: an offer to accept the directorship 

of the Kitt Peak National Observatory. Informing both President Pusey and Dean Dunlop 

of the offer, he pushed for a showdown with Whipple in Dunlop’s office. There he boasted 

that colleagues around the country had been urging him to take the job, bluntly stating 

that Harvard was “not exactly an administrator’s paradise.” Its only advantage and “greatest 

asset,” Goldberg asserted, was “its incomparable student body.” He claimed he had to make 

a decision soon, in a matter of days.1268

The job offer gave Goldberg the leverage he wanted to deal with Whipple, and he 

surely applied it.1269 A day after he announced the offer, he devoured background materials 

on the history of the SAO-HCO arrangement to prepare for the showdown with Whipple 

and Dunlop. By the time they met in November 1970, Goldberg had found what he needed 

to argue that what he was proposing for the Harvard-Smithsonian arrangement was in 

fact implied in the original defining documents: parity between the two institutions.1270

Goldberg felt the problem was “clearly and unmistakably expressed by Fred when he said 

that he would refuse to engage in any kind of programmatic discussions with the Harvard 

Observatory Council.” His position, Goldberg asserted, was “in clear violation of paragraph 4 of the Menzel-Carmichael agreement.”1271

Whipple’s intransigence, Goldberg charged, was stimulated by Menzel’s failure some 

five years earlier to secure the Harvard Observatory Council’s approval of his plans for an 

observatory in Hawaii. Goldberg admitted that the council may well have exhibited “bad 

judgment,” but it was merely responding to what it thought were “badly-prepared proposals.” 

Goldberg added that he felt it was “shockingly unfair to accuse the Council, by its actions” 

of having brought about Menzel’s heart attack. He was annoyed that Whipple repeatedly 

used this argument over the past five years as an excuse for not cooperating, especially now 

with the Visiting Committee’s request for better long-range planning for HCO. Revealing 

his bias against building big telescopes for the sake of building big telescopes, a dig at the 

MMT and quite possibly the radio-radar telescope, Goldberg confirmed that he planned to 

resign both as chair of the Department of Astronomy and as director of the observatory on 

1 July 1971. Thus he gave credence to rumors that had been flying, well before any papers 

were signed. Goldberg’s intent was to bring action, and it did.1272

Within a few weeks, both Pusey and Ripley called for yet another blue-ribbon “review 

committee” to examine the Harvard-SAO relationship. Once again Greenstein would take 

the reins, leading what Ripley called a “super nova constellation of astronomers.” There was 

some haggling over the membership of the ad hoc committee; the Smithsonian feared that 

Harvard would fill the chairs with astrophysicists. Lundquist and Whipple both ardently 

campaigned with Ripley’s office to add representatives from planetary astronomy and 

geophysics and space physics: “classical, academically oriented astronomers . . . have little 

understanding of the special organizational problems confronting non-university research 

laboratories such as the SAO.”1273 In this manner the selection process not only became a 
260 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

test case for inclusiveness, but also clearly identified the disparate and competing communities and cultures that SAO now embraced.

When Harvard senior astronomers learned of Goldberg’s decision, and the impending 

inspection by the new Greenstein committee, set for late January 1971, they did not remain 

silent. David Layzer wrote bluntly that Goldberg’s departure was a “heavy blow to the 

University.” Not mincing words, he traced the problems back to the Shapley administration, 

and how in his wake, Menzel’s ascendency and the arrival of the SAO caused Bok to leave, 

which to Layzer was a blow of similar magnitude for Harvard astronomy. Layzer traced how 

the graduate program suffered after Bok’s departure, and how others such as Thomas Gold 

found the Harvard-Smithsonian arrangement untenable and also left: “One of the reasons 

for his departure was concern over the growing ascendancy of the Smithsonian, which he 

used to describe as a huge digestive apparatus indiscriminately gobbling up large contracts 

and excreting small ones.”1274

Layzer, a former Menzel student in atomic physics who had been a postdoctoral fellow 

at Michigan under Goldberg and who had returned to Harvard in the 1950s, outlined how 

Goldberg had tried to take corrective steps once he succeeded Menzel: “For the first time 

in my twenty-seven year long acquaintance with the Observatory, all the professors are 

permanently on speaking terms with one another.” Obviously overwrought given the circumstances, Layzer saw Whipple as the root of all problems and Goldberg as the thwarted 

savior of Harvard astronomy.1275 Layzer copied Goldberg, who responded in kind. They and 

others would be called to testify as “witnesses” in some several days of questioning staff 

and administrators in what Greenstein later referred to as “an emergency in the Astronomy 

Department” at Harvard.1276

“An Emergency in the Astronomy Department”

Greenstein’s committee met on 22 and 23 January in Cambridge with Dunlop and 

Bradley. Their goal, according to Pusey and Ripley’s December letter of invitation, was to 

evaluate the situation and what needed to be done to correct deficiencies.1277 Any thoughts 

that this was a pro forma event were killed with Goldberg’s announcement and letters 

of complaint, which were distributed to the members of the committee. As Greenstein 

described it, the committee’s deliberations were “made in a somewhat more difficult situation than was contained in the original charge.”1278

The meeting opened with Goldberg’s letter, then Whipple spoke and answered questions, and this led to a general discussion. The committee then conducted brief interviews 

with a dozen witnesses, from senior staff to graduate students. Greenstein felt there was 

“frank and full” conversation, and that the committee quickly realized that there was not 

enough time to hear all aspects of the issue. So they left out budgetary matters, there were 

no tours of facilities, no formal or celebratory dinners. This was serious business.1279

Committee members included Greenstein, Kuiper, Purcell, Ed Salpeter of Cornell, 

John Simpson of Chicago, and Spitzer. Whipple’s plea for a more broadly based panel did 

not happen, although Simpson and Spitzer were heavily involved in space research, as 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 261

was Kuiper. Whipple and Goldberg were on call during the two days of hearings. Layzer 

recalled specifically that Ed Purcell seemed “somewhat distressed by the meeting.” Indeed, 

the atmosphere was tense.1280

Greenstein kept detailed notes during the hearings and his liner notes tell the tale: 

“Should boundaries be sharpened?” and should both HCO and SAO “be replaced by 

Astrophysics Center”?1281 He also recorded that Whipple felt that everything was “OK,” giving all credit to Lundquist. Whipple also brought up the student problem saying it was 

distorted, and that the Harvard Council under Goldberg had grown until “it is too large 

and unwieldy.” Layzer, who Greenstein noted was supported by the SAO, was the most 

critical, reflecting a persistent theme in the hallways: “Half of the SAO appointments were 

irrelevant to astrophysics,” and, while they were “not at issue,” they still absorbed resources 

and set priorities. Alex Dalgarno, the distinguished atmospheric physicist who held a dual 

appointment funded by the Smithsonian, was more moderated and diplomatic, saying there 

were good things resulting from the association of the two institutions. But these benefits, 

he added, were “unplanned & accidental.” He also observed that because hirings were not 

bilaterally coordinated, some research programs were planned independently and “often 

duplicated.” His most negative observation was that not all SAO staff were up to par.1282

Although in retrospect Dalgarno recalled that Whipple ran the place “like a kingdom,” at 

the time he moderated his views as a witness, suggesting that fingers could be pointed in 

both directions.1283

Most of the witnesses, other than Whipple, agreed with comments by Associate 

Professor I. John Danziger, who was hired away from Caltech by Goldberg in 1967, that 

the “relation must be reviewed.” But not all of them felt, with Danziger, that the SAO was 

“far too large” relative to the HCO. On the SAO side, John Wood testified that his opportunities were excellent because of the infrastructure and flexibility SAO provided. He added 

that protracted “policy discussions are paternalistic & protective.” Under Whipple, Wood 

claimed, “supervision ends after appointment.”1284 Ed Lilley reflected similar views, strongly 

supporting Whipple’s objection to HCOC oversight: “Council has been a talk factory, wanting unanimity.”1285 Lilley here reflected his failed appeals to Harvard to support his radioradar dreams.

SAO solar astronomer Eugene Avrett thought the relationship worked for him; data 

from OSO were readily available no matter what side of the house he was from. But he 

wished the two directors could be more cordial. Edmond Reeves, a senior research associate at Harvard in Goldberg’s solar group, complemented Avrett’s remarks, citing examples of cooperation and expressing appreciation for the abundant computer time from his 

SAO colleagues. He voiced the common view that “working level people find means to get 

together.” But then, when asked if he was involved with Mount Hopkins, Reeves responded 

that “Whipple ran away with it.1286

The MMT was a sore point. But Danziger countered Goldberg’s claims, saying that, 

indeed, Goldberg was always informed, because he asked Danziger to attend the planning 

meetings. Danziger, though, had other gripes: “Only Goldberg and Dalgarno care about 

teaching” and Harvard’s “excessive dependence upon Smithsonian for app[ointments]” was 

a real problem.1287
262 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Lundquist tried to clarify how Whipple managed the some 50 projects at the SAO that 

were presently funded or somehow related to outside agencies. He explained that Whipple 

“reshuffles people as project leads require” in support of a wide range of projects, including 

Harvard projects like Goldberg’s OSO. His strategy was to demonstrate all the support the 

SAO was providing Harvard, real and in kind. He was not shy about expressing his frustration with Harvard’s project management, or, more pointedly, lack thereof. As Greenstein 

recorded his testimony: “Cannot find any consensus at HCO. No one to talk to—no administrative manager for science.” Lundquist felt that the working groups were well integrated 

because the workers found ways to manage their projects. However, on the Harvard side, 

“some mechanism for consensus” was needed. There had to be some clear mechanism for 

decision making so that priority decisions can be made. People had then only to learn to 

“live with system.”1288

Indeed, but which system? The committee looked for systemic causes for the problems. Did the physical isolation of the HCO-SAO complex, almost a mile up Garden Street 

beyond Harvard Square, make the staff too “mentally isolated” from campus? Did the SAO’s 

presence make Harvard staff feel isolated from academic affairs? Was there a better way to 

organize the staff? The committee discussed options for changing the relationship, ranging from terminating the arrangement completely, to continuing with two directors but 

creating a strong advisory group drawn from both institutions. They also explored ways 

to strengthen the Harvard department to address hot areas in astrophysics. Many names 

were raised to take over key positions or to succeed Goldberg. This bouncing around finally 

stabilized on the single major question: In effect, was the $2 million annual federal appropriation for SAO enough for Harvard, given the fact that the HCO lacked an academic 

endowment but got back a fraction of the Harvard overhead from its large NASA grants? 

It was clear that the budget situation was complex but it was also clear that the HCO was 

aided substantially by the SAO. Before that question was answered, another was raised: Has 

“the potential of this combination . . . been fully realized?” The sense of the committee was, 

on both points, no.1289

Greenstein, clearly pained by the proceedings, jotted, “Collaboration must cause serious emotional problems for both top administrators.”1290 His draft summary, written in late 

February, noted the “strong difference” between Goldberg and Whipple, resulting in almost 

complete lack of communication between them. Maybe, Greenstein reflected, it was time 

to combine the directorships. But how could this be done if the two institutions had to 

remain distinct, yet cooperate? SAO wanted unity, and HCO diversity, as reflected in the 

two directors:

Whipple operates part of the SAO like an efficient government laboratory which 

seems quite independent of Harvard and without much impact on it. He feels, with 

some emotion, that he should not compromise his authority on important decisions 

regarding SAO. He expressly said he would feel unbearably constrained by the need 

to submit appointments or major policy decisions to a council or committee. He 

feels that the indecision of the HCO Council shows the failure of the committee 

approach.1291
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 263

Goldberg also possessed a “strong personality” and “in spite of a devotion and outstanding ability in research is also strongly interested in teaching.” Their clash, Greenstein 

wanted to believe, was not so much personal animosity, but caused by the fundamental 

differences between the two organizations. The SAO’s research effort was bifurcated: “one 

part centered on the interests of the Director” which he described as largely “special tasks 

for NASA.” The other half included broad aspects of astrophysics, and it was in this half they 

found “a close and successful collaboration with HCO personnel and students.” However, 

it was just in those areas of overlap where “the most serious questions of principle arose, 

representing the area of conflict between the Directors of the two institutions. Perhaps this 

was inevitable.”1292

Greenstein’s draft analyses were tortured and indecisive. His early drafts had produced 

strong pushback from some of the members of the committee. Everyone seemed to agree 

that there had to be a clearer institutional separation while retaining collaboration at the 

working level. This was considered the norm among those, such as Spitzer, who were familiar with the complexities of associating industrial-scale laboratories with universities.1293

At one point, someone suggested establishing a Joint Advisory Committee, four representatives from each organization to advise both directors. “The Joint Advisory Committee 

should exclude from its interests the area of direct active scientific responsibility of Professor 

Whipple,” one draft suggested, something that clearly would not fly with Goldberg. Its purpose was to promote coherent “science-policy-planning.”1294

At the very top of the legal yellow note pad Greenstein had used to keep track at the 

January 1971 meeting was the telling query, “Age of retirement at Smithsonian?” Harvard’s 

retirement age was effectively 65 in spite of the Age Discrimination in Employment Act of 

1967, and James Bradley confirmed that Smithsonian high administrators typically retired 

at that age as a matter of good form, though they retained their grade and could serve in 

various capacities after that time. Bradley also reported that Whipple had once confided 

to him, “When you go, I go” but, Bradley added, he could stay until age 70, some six years 

hence.1295 Greenstein did some checking as he prepared the report for Ripley and Pusey, and 

in fact suggested they seek a lower mandatory age limit and that it be made the same for the 

directors of both institutions.

Greenstein took well over a month to revise the draft, adding numerous comments 

and suggestions from members of the committee. Spitzer worried that an early draft 

seemed too hard on SAO and Whipple.1296 He did some editing he hoped would reduce 

the appearance of blaming it all on Whipple. Kuiper was adamant that “it would be 

unfair and not in the national interest to suggest a replacement for Fred Whipple.” For 

Kuiper, the man who headed an Institute defined that Institute, reflecting on his experience inspecting the Kaiser-Wilhelm-Gesellschaft in Germany right after World War 

II, “the directors of these Institutes were irreplaceable because the Institutes reflected 

the particular insights and drives of the directors.” The Dutch-American Kuiper then 

added: “The U.S. has been slow in learning from this German experience.” Kuiper indeed 

had struggled to build just this kind of institute at the University of Arizona in Tucson, 

his Lunar and Planetary Institute, and was sure that Fred felt the same about his in 

Cambridge.1297
264 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Before modifications were made, both Pusey and Ripley had seen a leaked rough 

draft, and this annoyed Spitzer no end. Spitzer’s anger centered on “certain derogatory 

implications that might be read into this draft.” It was Bradley who leaked them, Greenstein 

replied darkly to Spitzer, “Apparently any business with Smithsonian may otherwise 

become public knowledge.”1298 Greenstein hastily prepared the final draft, telling Dunlop 

that it was the only one to believe.

Meanwhile, Goldberg announced formally that he was taking a two-year leave of 

absence from Harvard to head Kitt Peak. He would definitely step down as HCO director, 

but he held on to his professorship for the time. Clearly, neither the Greenstein committee, nor Pusey and Ripley, were ready to meet Goldberg’s demands. But equally likely, 

he relished the new challenge. One way or another, his departure sparked a whole new 

round—in fact, several rounds—of committees, oversight hearings, and search committees that kept all the same issues in the air for months. Goldberg did not leave empty 

handed. He told Greenstein that his “decision to leave Harvard” should not be viewed as 

a “negative one.” In fact, the shock of his leaving had finally loosened up the purse strings 

at the university; Dean Dunlop had just assured him that he would increase the faculty 

slots in astronomy, and that Ed Purcell would lead yet another interdepartmental committee to search for candidates, including a new director and at least two additional senior 

professors.1299

On 1 March, Greenstein submitted his final report, recommending strongly that 

Alex Dalgarno assume the HCO directorship in an acting capacity, and announcing that 

George Field topped the list of candidates that the new Purcell search committee should 

consider, along with other prominent names. Harvard, above all, needed a strong leader 

“interested in the Harvard problem.” But on the other side of the matter, the Smithsonian 

also had to think about new leadership. “Given the age of the present Director,” it was 

time, Greenstein felt, to plan for Whipple’s successor. The new director had to be a 

Harvard professor, and had to agree to oversight by a Joint Advisory Committee. For the 

moment, Greenstein advised, the Joint Advisory Committee should not oversee any of 

Whipple’s areas of “direct active scientific responsibility,” just those of joint concern with 

Harvard.1300

Although there had been questions about their administrative reality, no one 

questioned Whipple’s personal areas of “direct active scientific responsibility.” No one 

attempted to publically enumerate them as they were clearly stated in Whipple’s own 

blueprint.1301 More than half of his statement highlighted satellite-tracking data, and 

linked Mount Hopkins activities to the measurement of atmospheric and environmental conditions. The SAO’s stellar atmospheres activities were summarized in two short 

sentences relating to OSO data, whereas several paragraphs were devoted to planetary 

studies and work on the “smaller bodies in the solar system” including a full paragraph 

devoted to laboratory facilities for “mineralogy and isotopic composition of meteorites 

and lunar rocks.” He also acknowledged the SAO’s international services, such as the 

“IAU Astronomical Telegraph [sic] Service,” the Central Bureau for Satellite Geodesy, and 

the “Smithsonian Center for Short-Lived Phenomena.”1302 Whipple’s focus on the areas in 

which the SAO provided unique products and services confirmed Kuiper’s arguments for 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 265

the criticality of Whipple’s leadership. Greenstein’s final report expressed this view, dividing the SAO universe in half, describing one half as Whipple’s interests, and the other as 

“a broad range of astrophysics.”1303

This distinction did not please Whipple, nor would he accept the specter of retirement. 

Later in May, after additional rounds of meetings by the Overseers Committee to Visit the 

Department of Astronomy that still involved Greenstein, and the efforts of Purcell’s search 

committee, where many of the same issues rose again, Whipple wrote very personally to 

Greenstein: “The Grim Reaper is taking my old friends at such a fast rate that I certainly do 

not wish to lose any because of misunderstandings or lack of communication.” He wanted to 

believe that Greenstein had tried to be “fair and unbiased in judging situations,” so he wrote 

a very long letter to state his case. At the top, the letter read, “My real concern is the shock 

of your refusal to believe that I was responsible as Director for the good aspects of the SAO 

outside the field of my own interest.”1304

Whipple was very proud of the stellar atmospheres group, which he knew Greenstein 

cited as “perhaps the best in the world.” Whipple felt he deserved full credit for this, because 

it came about in “consequence of a long-range planning and effort on my part,” recalling 

his feelings at the outset of the Celescope program that the “space program” would return a 

flood of astrophysical data that had to be analyzed. Personally, Whipple added, somewhat 

disingenuously considering the topic of his doctoral thesis and his various attempts to break 

into astrophysics in the 1930s, that he claimed to have found stellar atmospheres “boring,” 

but he did encourage Charles Whitney “and backed him to the limit in setting up the group 

which you now see.” Whipple added that he had hoped that Whitney would have been his 

successor as SAO director someday, and also regretted that Stephen Strom left because he 

was not respected by Goldberg and Harvard. But overall Whipple felt that it was because 

of his own “foresight and action” that the group was brought into existence and remained 

strong.1305

Whipple also raised Lilley’s frustrations, claiming that Goldberg did nothing to support 

Lilley and so that was when he had stepped in, bringing the resources of the Smithsonian to 

the challenge. “However disgruntled Leo may feel at the result of his lack of action and my 

initiative, I take the credit for doing something constructive, useful and with considerable 

potential for the future.”1306

Conversely, Whipple openly acknowledged that the “Dalgarno group” owed its 

life to Goldberg. But, in fact the SAO paid all the bills, and “the dollar cost is great.” 

This was Whipple’s main gripe: The SAO had paid the bills not only for Dalgarno, but 

for Goldberg as well until 1966, and in fact for all of the new Harvard professorships 

in recent years. He had built up an institutional infrastructure that made it possible 

to attract first-rate scientists and provide a stage to plan on a scale unprecedented for 

university-based astronomy. “I think, Jesse, that you grossly underrate my ability to 

engineer large projects.”1307

For examples, Whipple summoned his universe of projects such as the SuperSchmidts, the Baker-Nunns, and even Celescope, which he asserted “has attained its original goals but was expanded by NASA and became so distorted from our original concept 

that I have never been happy about it.” Next came the SAO’s ongoing campaign to build a 
266 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

major telescope at Mount Hopkins. Whipple was proud of their progress thus far, with “no 

encouragement whatsoever from Leo and mostly with our interior funds.” He had great 

confidence in the MMT concept, and felt it was “too bad HCO shows no inclination to 

join us.” This was much the same, he felt, for NEROC: “It falls into the category of a large 

national facility and I merely try to do what I can towards its fulfillment.”1308

Greenstein gingerly took Whipple’s points one by one. He agreed that they were losing 

too many friends these days “to enjoy losing more by unfortunate differences of opinion.” 

But, he added, “It is hard to mediate between friends when a situation arises with attitudes 

so frozen that conciliatory gestures would appear merely spineless.” Asserting that “there 

is no one who can step into your shoes,” he advised Whipple to craft a solid succession 

plan. “I most certainly do not underrate your ability to engineer large projects,” Greenstein 

continued. “Anybody who can live through being involved with a space program as you 

have, has both self-control and scientific leadership.” But from the testimony they collected, 

Greenstein also delineated Whipple’s blind spots. He was “distant” as a director and was 

“difficult to access,” protected by an administrative assistant who took too much responsibility and authority, assuming too much “power” himself. Greenstein also reported that 

people suggested he create formal divisions led by strong associate directors to lessen this 

negative impression.1309

Greenstein also worried what all this fuss would look like to a new Harvard president, as Pusey was retiring. What would he think of these committee reports and critical letters in the file? “The letters put on record by friends and foes of both sides will do 

astronomy no good in the University, and I wish that some of them had been much more 

restrained.” But it was this deep polarization that had to be mended: There was too much 

gossip, not enough communication, too much “inbreeding” within competing cliques. In 

sum, Greenstein sighed with relief that his terms on Harvard’s Board of Overseers and on its 

various Visiting Committees were at an end. He had more than enough travail, “but remain 

concerned about the future of my Institution of 34 years ago.”1310

Menzel watched all of this, but waited until Dunlop asked him specifically for his 

views. Up front, he thought that Goldberg’s “accusations” about the SAO and its director 

were just not correct. Yes, he felt, there were “deficiencies,” but the responsibility lay with 

Harvard: “I know from long past experience that there is no real problem communicating 

with Professor Whipple.” Menzel and Whipple certainly had had their own disagreements 

in the past but, as Menzel recalled poignantly, they had sat down and worked out their differences. Goldberg, Menzel felt, was “at least as responsible as [Whipple] for any breakdown 

of communication. . . . [S]ome of the sarcastic letters I have seen from him to Professor 

Whipple are not calculated, in my opinion, to help the situation.”1311

Menzel agreed with Whipple’s negative opinion of the Harvard Council. The director had to set research agendas, so there had to be two directors. He also liked the idea of 

a joint advisory committee for scientific and administrative policy. It would consist of the 

two directors, the chair of the department of astronomy, and senior staff up to six or eight 

people. Goldberg and Whipple were, of course, “among my very best and oldest friends. 

They both were students of mine.” So, Menzel pleaded, “Let us ignore and forget the 

hurts, the jealousies, and the irritation.” Somehow the relationship with the Smithsonian 
Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge • 267

had to be preserved. Writing these thoughts, Menzel wearily admitted, “has taken a lot 

out of me.”1312

Committee members offered many names to succeed Goldberg. Some were physicists 

who had experience in government and industrial laboratories. Most concern centered on 

the institutional arrangements they represented that posed options for future cooperation 

between the SAO and Harvard. When Greenstein wrote to Goldberg to congratulate him 

on accepting the Kitt Peak position, putting him in “direct competition with us dinosaurs 

of Pasadena,” Greenstein also articulated the problem: that a great opportunity had been 

somewhat wasted, and not purely because of personalities. “It seems there is a fundamental 

difference in style between a somewhat mission-oriented group and a university group, and 

it will always be hard to stay completely happy under that situation.”1313 What was needed 

was a combination of talents, and an institutional arrangement that minimized the problems. Harvard and the Smithsonian now had to search for both more or less simultaneously, 

looking for a candidate who best fit, and could lead, a new relationship.

269

Chapter 16

Whipple Steps Down

Goldberg’s departure required immediate action. From March through the end of 

1970, aside from the finger-pointing there was constructive debate raising all options, from 

the full merging of the two observatories under one director to their complete separation. 

Even in its earliest deliberations, the Greenstein’s committee wondered whether, somehow, 

the two institutions needed to be combined into a single entity, an Astrophysics Center.1314

There was also persistent talk of Whipple’s retirement, a move that Goldberg himself would 

later strongly urge, saying in November 1971 that a merger “is a small step in the right 

direction,” but to be successful Whipple must step down—he must not be continued beyond 

the normal Harvard retirement age.1315 Indeed, Whipple’s general opposition to many of 

the suggestions emerging from these discussions only heightened thoughts of his retirement. In a long letter reporting on a fact-finding trip to Cambridge, where he found that 

Whipple had not budged from his demand for autonomy, David Challinor advised Ripley 

to ask Whipple “what his plans are when he reaches 65.” Whipple had only two more years 

as a Harvard professor, and because under the agreement the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory (SAO) director had to be a professor at Harvard, “This is something we should 

be working on now so we have a clear understanding of what we would like to do in two 

years hence.”1316

Goldberg’s position had to be filled immediately. Alex Dalgarno soon emerged 

as the leading choice to take the chair of the Department of Astronomy as well as become 

the acting director of Harvard College Observatory (HCO). His name appeared early in the 

Greenstein’s committee deliberations and, in his last report to the Visiting Committee, 

Goldberg expressed relief that “a man of Professor Dalgarno’s scientific eminence and 

wisdom is willing to accept this responsibility.”1317 Goldberg also suggested that Harvard 

and the Smithsonian adopt a new management template, like that of the Joint Institute for 

Laboratory Astrophysics at the University of Colorado, which had close connections with 

the National Bureau of Standards. But he also looked for a way to decrease the isolation 

of the 60 Garden Street complex from the rest of the university: “that the Harvard College 

Observatory might someday evolve into a center for astrophysics which would serve all 

University departments in which astrophysical research was being carried on. I believe it is 

not too soon to consider this suggestion very seriously.”1318

Other management templates soon emerged, such as the one at Greenstein’s institution: the California Institute of Technology and the Carnegie Institution of Washington had 

operated the Mount Wilson-Palomar Observatories since the late 1940s, funded respectively by the Carnegie and the Rockefeller foundations. These ideas were not generated 
270 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

at a single point in time, or by a single person. However, it will facilitate our narrative to 

focus on the selection of George Field, first to take the directorship of the Harvard College 

Observatory, then the combined directorship. How that happened is the key issue to understanding the transformation.

Enter George Field

Kuiper first suggested Field at the January meeting of Greenstein’s ad hoc committee. 

Purcell’s search committee soon added others. Purcell was also asked, but declined outright. 

By late July 1971, Field had emerged as the leading candidate and Purcell pressured him to 

take the job, reporting that Field was asking “hard & good questions” but was “apprehensive 

about doing lots of administration.” Field also wondered about the possibility that Goldberg 

might return.1319

Field also knew Whipple’s ambitions; he had been a core member of the Greenstein 

Decadal Survey, chairing the theoretical astrophysics subcommittee. He was also a member 

of its subcommittee for radio astronomy starting in July 1969 and well through 1970, just 

as the NEROC initiative was being debated. Field was also familiar with Harvard’s history, in that he had been awarded a postdoctoral position there after his 1955 Princeton 

PhD under Spitzer in which he modeled radio outbursts from the Sun.1320 His three-year 

appointment as a junior fellow had given him the opportunity to collaborate with Purcell, 

studying hyperfine structure to better understand physical processes responsible for the 

21-centimeter radiation. He then had accepted a faculty appointment at Princeton and 

later moved to Berkeley in 1965 after a sabbatical at Caltech in 1964.1321 Overall, Field had 

been exploring the physical processes underlying radio and infrared phenomena, applying 

this framework to studies of the interstellar medium, star formation, and planetary atmospheres. He regarded astronomy as a “multi-wavelength business” and worked to broaden 

the department at Berkeley to this end.1322

In summer 1971, Field and his wife were in New Hampshire to be near family. He got 

a call from Purcell, who had a retreat nearby in the White Mountains. “Hey, George! Why 

don’t you come over for a visit?” Field recalled, and as the two sat on Purcell’s porch, Purcell 

put it to him once again: “Look, are you interested in becoming the director of the HCO?” 

Field recalled not wanting the job at first, even before he was made aware of the management problems. He and his wife enjoyed Berkeley, and after he learned why Goldberg left, 

he was none too anxious to be his replacement status quo ante.1323 But Purcell persisted, 

negotiating with Field through the rest of 1971 in parallel with deliberations over the 

nature and powers of the Joint Advisory Committee. By late November, Field had been 

formally offered the position as Harvard director. Greenstein was delighted, knowing that 

he would be accepted by both institutions as Harvard director. “Harvard and Smithsonian 

will share a brighter and easier future,” he wrote Ripley optimistically.1324 At the same time, 

Goldberg wrote Dunlop, happy about Field, but disappointed that the newly approved 

“Memorandum of Agreement [MOA] Creating a Joint Advisory Committee to Assist 

the Directors of the Harvard College Observatory and the Smithsonian Astrophysical 
Whipple Steps Down • 271

Observatory” meant that that there would still be two directors and that “there is no 

immediate hope of solving the fundamental problem in the Harvard-Smithsonian relationship, namely, the continuance of Fred Whipple as Director of the SAO beyond the 

usual retirement age.”1325

Ripley leaked news of Field’s appointment to the regents in January 1972 and in April, 

Dalgarno reported to the Visiting Committee officially that Field would be joining Harvard 

as a professor of astronomy in July, in residence locally in New Hampshire through the 

summer and fall. He would become HCO director in July 1973. He also announced that 

the Smithsonian had funded a new “Chair in Optical Astronomy at Harvard” and that the 

Smithsonian now had signed an agreement with the University of Arizona for the further 

development of Mount Hopkins that centered on “a new concept in large telescopes”—the 

MMT. Dalgarno said nothing of the fate of NEROC, nor the possibility that the two institutions might combine, though he mentioned in passing that there were continuing negotiations to create the joint advisory council to both observatories.1326 Field’s appointment was 

publically announced to staff in early 1972.1327

With Field working in the wings, Challinor and Dunlop explored options for the relationship between the two observatories. They debated the options that had been raised, 

like the Joint Institute for Laboratory Astrophysics at the University of Colorado (JILA), 

and the Mount Wilson-Palomar Observatories/Caltech model. The question was, which 

better fleshed out Goldberg’s “Astrophysics Center”? But there was another ingredient to 

factor in, and this was the most delicate of all: What would happen to Fred Whipple’s SAO 

directorship?

After considerable back-and-forth between Dunlop, Challinor, and Bradley, Ripley 

visited Harvard to meet with Whipple on the morning of 5 May 1972 and then with 

Dunlop. In the afternoon he presented Whipple with a formal letter asking that he resign 

the directorship on 1 July 1973, suggesting as well that Field assume the combined directorship of the Center for Astrophysics (CfA). “He would have thus had a year’s indoctrination period at Harvard in order to learn the ropes from all sides.” Dunlop assured Ripley 

that Whipple would retain his professorship until his seventieth birthday, and Ripley also 

offered Whipple an appointment as Senior Scientist starting on 1 July 1973 through the 

equivalent period of his Harvard appointment.1328 Ripley made every effort to assure 

Whipple that he was very much needed. He asked him to serve on the Joint Advisory 

Council and to continue working toward the MMT “as well as the whole spectrum of 

Harvard/SAO projects for the future.”1329 Ripley and Dunlop also created a new deputy 

director position to be filled on a rotating basis, depending on the affiliation of the new 

director. Ripley hoped this would help to convince Whipple that the balance of power 

would not be completely in Harvard’s favor. He also hoped that stepping down would not 

dampen Whipple’s enthusiasm for the future health and welfare of the institution, repeating an encouragement he gave that morning, urging Whipple to “‘go for broke’ and develop 

new dimensions in astrophysical research.”1330

Whipple certainly knew this meeting was coming, but possibly did not appreciate its 

full scope. Bradley and Challinor had tried to prepare the way, and Dunlop had already met 

with Whipple the previous March to discuss stepping down and eventual retirement. Yet, 
272 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

as his wife Babette recalled, her husband was prepared for Field as Goldberg’s replacement, 

but not his own: “That was a big blow to Fred.”1331

These were delicate matters, to be sure, converging just at the time that NEROC had 

been finally closed out when Ripley endorsed the Very Large Array (VLA).1332 The Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory (OAO) program was not going well, and there was constant 

pressure from NASA and elsewhere to centralize satellite tracking. At least the MMT was 

working its way through the budget process and was a bright spot. Accordingly, Dunlop 

would not discuss the next director at that time, or if there was to be a single director, with 

anyone outside an extremely small circle, especially not with anyone with strong partisan 

views such as Goldberg. He saw the extension of Whipple’s tenure and the directorships 

as two separate items.1333 The decisions were made between March and May 1972, and 

were kept very quiet as all the parties, including Whipple, deliberated over details. When 

Goldberg offered names to Dunlop to succeed Whipple, Dunlop would only accept them 

informally over the phone.1334

After their meeting, Whipple wrote an uncharacteristically long and frank letter 

to Ripley, one so effective it held up the public announcement for months. Whipple 

readily accepted retirement and a senior research associate position, openly and warmly 

expressing his gratitude for the “extraordinary support” given him by “Jim” Bradley. But 

there the warmth stopped. Whipple detailed the pros and cons for uniting under a single 

director, concluding that “my considered opinion is that, on balance, both institutions 

will lose by amalgamating under a single director.” Harvard would end up controlling the 

SAO; there was no doubt in his mind. This was especially ironic, Whipple felt, because 

the SAO was on the ascendency, whereas Harvard was deteriorating: “Thus, I see the 

SAO as a young giant now constrained by being forced to walk in step with a handsome, 

but older and weaker companion.” Whipple knew he was in the minority, which only 

made him more strident. However, he assured Ripley that, whatever the decision, “I will 

try to further the individual and mutual welfare of the two observatories to the best of 

my ability.”1335

Whipple’s “pros” included removing incompatibilities between two directors, simpler 

and smoother relations, increased attractiveness of the SAO to top scientists, and increased 

chances for teaching. Whipple’s “cons” were far more extensive and designed to worry 

a man like Ripley. There would inevitably be a weakening of support from the Office of 

Management and Budget (OMB) and Congress; both would be confused and concerned 

by a private/public hybrid rather than by “a unique United States astrophysical observatory.” Moreover, Congress considered Harvard the richest among universities and shied 

away from supporting it. And there might be new restrictions on affiliations with other 

organizations. But there was more; reaching deep, Whipple’s institutional identity was at 

stake: “Much of the current strength of SAO scientific research lies in the broadness of 

innovative programs, which range into areas well beyond the boundaries of conventional 

astronomy.” Those areas were Earth dynamics via satellites, where Whipple claimed SAO 

was a “world authority.” There was also meteoritics, which he asserted had only recently 

become “respectable” among astronomers for the lessons they were teaching about the solar 

system, again, through contributions of the SAO. Both of these areas had grown to become 
Whipple Steps Down • 273

the largest sources of income from institutional overhead. Whipple made clear that this 

income had been supporting mainstream astronomical activities. Without this support, 

there would have to be a new strategy for maintaining what was now an expected part of 

the landscape. And worst of all, SAO would be subjected to the “‘diffused’ decision making 

as practiced at Harvard Observatory.”1,336

Whipple distrusted, and felt alienated from, Harvard astronomy. He truly believed 

that it would continue to deteriorate, especially if it continued its dependency on the SAO. 

Then the SAO would be forced to amalgamate “into some other department of the government, as is suggested perennially in Washington.” He also expressed the fear (no doubt 

something he already appreciated from direct experience with OMB) that if the SAO were 

to grow as a result of the merger, the closer association would create a larger entity in the 

minds of Washington bureaucrats and feed the impression that “SAO has outgrown the 

appropriateness of attachment to the Smithsonian.” The best guard against this was to have 

two distinct and autonomous directors. They would garner twice the support and also 

ensure diversity. Sure, there would be tensions between them. But with a single director, 

Whipple mused, think of the tensions between competing staff members! Whipple believed 

that independence of action was all important. The SAO was at that point independent 

and free to associate with outside institutions, and was then working with several dozen 

throughout the world, operating some 16 observing stations in 14 different countries. It 

enjoyed “international rapport” by which he meant independence from “pressures by special interest groups. Such cannot be said of any university today.”1337

Bradley, Challinor, and Ripley took Whipple’s arguments to heart. In the midst of 

continuing difficulties with NSF over its support for basic rather than applied research in 

Federal agencies, they learned that, out of the blue, H. Guyford Stever, the new National 

Science Foundation (NSF) director and former MIT aeronautical engineer, CarnegieMellon president, and future presidential advisor, had just announced that he was to visit 

Harvard and the observatory in March, and wanted to stop in to see his old friend, Fred 

Whipple, to “talk about astrophysics.” Ripley worried what Whipple might say. Whipple, 

however, remained loyal, performing flawlessly, following Challinor’s plea to keep the 

matter low key and just “brief Stever about the SI in general and in particular its role 

in astrophysics and other sciences,” which included the MMT, NEROC, and the VLA. 

But Challinor also implored Whipple to learn exactly what “the change in policy” at the 

NSF was going to be, and if there was one brewing. Specifically, just how “operational 

does the NSF intend to become?” And how would this apply to individual Smithsonian 

researchers and to institutions SAO partnered with, such as the University of Arizona?1338

Soon after the meeting, Bradley happily reported back to Ripley that Stever, Whipple 

felt, “believes there will be some additional support for basic research.” At least there was 

confirmation that individual Smithsonian proposals would be honored, and there was 

sympathy for the Smithsonian’s efforts with other institutions to build new large optical 

and radio facilities.1339

Whipple’s reputation and connections and his evident loyalty to the cause could 

not be taken lightly. The strength of his reaction to the idea of a single director made 

Bradley far from sure they were embarking on the right track, so he prepared yet another 
274 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

set of “preliminary thoughts” on the implications if Field were appointed to both posts. 

Appointments, support for students, joint versus individual initiatives, OMB issues, NSF 

issues, congressional confusion—all factored as unknowns. Bradley wanted to think that 

success was still possible: In all ways, both observatories as well as the department of 

astronomy had to retain sufficient identity to secure and hold respective sources of funding. In whatever they chose to do, success “depends upon the solidarity and clarity of our 

presentations.”1340

Ripley played his part. In May 1972, a few days after receiving Whipple’s response and 

ever mindful that Stever had sought out Whipple specifically, Ripley lunched with Stever 

and asked him for assurance that a closer association between the two observatories would 

not “prejudice the University’s ability to seek valid support from whatever Government 

granting agency it may wish to apply.” Ripley had already approached NASA and found no 

“prejudice.” He hoped he could have the same assurance from NSF so that he could then 

assure his Harvard counterparts that there will be no “discrimination into entering into 

such relations.”1341 Ripley had less success with Stever, who regarded astronomy as an especially sensitive area, particularly determining the proper balance between supporting specific research projects by individuals and groups, with supporting infrastructure: the cost 

of building new facilities and maintaining national observatories. Stever, Ripley reported 

to Whipple in his response to Whipple’s first letter after their meeting, only saw the “contest between support of ‘national laboratories’ . . . and support for universities” becoming 

“increasingly competitive, and increasingly subject to political pressures . . . ,” and so it was 

all the more important to “think seriously about the future of SAO.”1342 Indeed, Whipple’s 

letter had convinced Ripley that they were not close to making the transition public. On the 

eve of the next Visiting Committee, on 12 May, Ripley remained unsettled enough to advise 

Dean Dunlop to avoid the issue of a single director at the meeting. He included a copy of 

Whipple’s letter, “which contains much food for thought.”1343

Whipple continued to pour it on, repeatedly calling Challinor and Bradley to plead 

that it was “a gross mistake to have one Director for both observatories.” Whipple sent extensive “pro” and “con” listings to Caryl Haskins and James Webb, both regents, and continued 

to pound Challinor. “I think Fred feels that the Harvard attitude is that Harvard really owns 

the SAO,” Challinor advised Bradley, “and that this feeling of Fred’s was exacerbated when 

HCO started complaining when SAO gave a scholarship to a Brandeis student.” Whipple 

would bristle at any hint of oversight and constantly sought ways to get around any obstacle, as Challinor quipped to Bradley: “Remind me to tell you of Fred’s alternative plan for 

funding MMT. I don’t want to put it in writing yet.”1344

Whither the Relationship?

Communications like these between Bradley, Ripley, and Challinor about Whipple’s 

views continued over the next few months and were the foundation for the real business 

at hand, which was to decide on a new management structure. The only consensus that 

emerged over the summer was that deep changes were necessary. For Ripley and Bradley 
Whipple Steps Down • 275

(who had just retired but who had been brought back as consultant), the challenge was to 

win over Whipple somehow. Which of the two options might be more acceptable to him?

They continued to look at the JILA model, assisted now by George Field. JILA, which 

had been created and supported by the National Bureau of Standards (NBS), consisted of 

a faculty composed of university and NBS staff. The wartime radio-propagation group at 

the NBS had moved to Boulder in the mid-1950s and by the end of the decade, two leading 

physicists at the NBS in Washington, Lewis Branscomb and former Harvard astrophysicist 

R. N. Thomas, the same Thomas who had campaigned for the “solar associates,” explored 

ways to combine the talents of the University of Colorado with the legacy of solar research 

in Boulder. This legacy was the result of Walter Orr Roberts’s efforts to associate the High 

Altitude Observatory with the university after his association with Menzel and Harvard had 

deteriorated. Thomas moved the “solar associates” concept in the late 1950s to Colorado as 

a jointly run institute via “a new mechanism for governance” crafted by the Department of 

Commerce’s Office of the General Council.1345 There would be a single director, and each of 

its four major elements included full appointments and joint appointments from a variety 

of local astrophysics-related groups at the NBS together with faculty from departments 

at the University of Colorado, namely, laboratory astrophysics, theoretical astrophysics, 

and atomic physics, as well as aerospace engineering. This was not unlike what Goldberg 

had envisioned for an Astrophysics Center that would strengthen the Harvard College 

Observatory to be competitive with the SAO.1346

By August 1972, Field had examined a copy of the MOA establishing JILA and summarized it for Challinor. JILA acted as a “training facility” as well as a place for laboratory 

astrophysics that would foster better communication between astronomers and physicists, “particularly to keep the N.B.S. Laboratories for Astrophysical and Plasma Research 

responsive to the needs of astrophysics.”1347 Field also heard from Louis Branscomb, who 

described JILA as a joint government/university entity linking public institutions at the 

state and federal levels. Leadership roles, including a single director, were collectively determined, rotating from one to the other institution.1348

Also in August, Bradley interviewed Caryl Haskins, former president of the Carnegie 

Institution of Washington, now its trustee and an SI regent, and “found him to be enthusiastically in favor of the integrated operation.”1349 The California Institute of Technology 

and the Carnegie Institution had agreed in 1948 to combine all astronomy activities into 

a single operation, the Mount Wilson and Palomar Observatories, under a single director.1350 Through the 1950s, the arrangement had included the management of two autonomous groups of astronomers: faculty such as Jesse Greenstein at Caltech and astronomers 

at Mount Wilson who were housed in Pasadena a few miles from campus. The union had 

continued to operate smoothly through the tenure of the first director, the physicist Ira S. 

Bowen, from 1946 to 1964. But several years after astronomer Horace Babcock succeeded 

him, from the Mount Wilson side, the Caltech “physicists began agitating for a divorce.” 

The administrative changes in January 1970 that had created the new Hale Observatories 

improved management, with an associate director representing each of the units. Overall, 

the institution operated under “a single director, rotating between the two observatories,” 

who had “overall responsibility for the administration of the observatories.”1351 There was a 
276 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

single salary scale, and all appointments were consensual between the director and associate director. Finally, all Caltech faculty teach, and though Carnegie astronomers were not 

required to teach, they could do so. Most critically, the combined body would be subject to 

periodic review by an active advisory board.

Bradley felt the successes of the JILA and Hale models gave them the ammunition 

they needed. Above all, there would be retention of identity, clearly delineated funds and 

programs, equal compensation for staff members, and frequent communication between 

the parent organizations. As Bradley articulated acceptable management models, Challinor 

focused on personalities and proclivities. Tellingly, he reported from an earlier meeting 

with Field that he actually regarded the SAO to be stronger than the HCO, and so “would 

really like to be the Director of SAO rather than HCO if he had his choice.” Field evidently 

was also looking for a way to combine the two directorships, Challinor reported, “in a way 

that would not be a threat to Harvard.” Both Challinor and Bradley worked on Whipple, 

getting him to agree that of the two options, what they called the “Hale Observatories” 

option, was the best. And because he now knew too that Caryl Haskins endorsed the “integrated operation,” Bradley called for a showdown with Whipple.1352

Ripley, Bradley, and Challinor visited Cambridge on August 23. Bradley took great 

care setting up the meeting, making sure that Whipple felt he was in control and that 

everything was clear and open. He suggested that the meeting be held in Whipple’s office. 

He also asked whether Whipple wanted to invite Field and Dalgarno to the meeting, and 

confirmed with Whipple that the agenda would include discussion of which model made 

the most sense, and that Field would be asked to assume the joint directorship. At long 

last, the deed was done. All that was left was to work out the details. Accordingly, within 

two weeks of the meeting, Field drafted a preliminary proposal listing himself as director of both observatories, with an assistant director who would be designated Director of 

the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, following the pattern of the Mount WilsonPalomar agreement.1353

Word started leaking out in late October 1972. So Challinor once again traveled to 

Cambridge to speak with Whipple and to New Hampshire to negotiate with Field. Knowing 

that Dunlop was about to address the Harvard Corporation and that the Smithsonian 

regents were soon to meet, on 30 October Challinor felt it was time to announce Field as 

combined SAO/HCO director and the formation of the CfA. Ripley penned into the margin 

of Challinor’s note, “Yes, of course.”1354

Harlow Shapley died the next day, and on the day following that, the Smithsonian 

issued a press release announcing Whipple’s retirement, to be issued after 4:00 PM, after 

Whipple had assembled his staff to give them the news.

Building the CfA

In his first draft proposal, dating from early November 1972, Field, in line with 

Dalgarno and others, envisioned that the combined body would be split into divisions. 

Each division would enjoy considerable autonomy, with access to a single centralized 
Whipple Steps Down • 277

administration that coordinated and apportioned administrative and technical services. 

There would still be the traditional Department of Astronomy and it would place stronger 

emphasis on teaching, whereas the SAO would concentrate on “national service.”1355 Field 

identified seven divisions, but did not name any associate directors. His job over the next 

few months was to identify them, which included both promotions from within, and some 

significant new hires.

Field’s divisions worried Lundquist. How would SAO remain visible enough so 

that it could remain viable for competitive funding as well as for congressional appropriations?1356 Lundquist agreed that some of the divisions would be led by the HCO and 

some by the SAO, especially the geophysical ones, but within that structure, especially 

when federal funds were being sought, he saw problems. The discipline groups would 

cut across organizational structures. The present radio group under Lilley, for instance, 

included both SI and Harvard staff. But if run by HCO formally now, SAO “management 

would have largely a support function and might not formulate an independent scientific 

program.”1357

Field knew that problems like these existed, and invited Lundquist to help him solve 

them. Lundquist agreed, but declined his offer to head a geophysics division as SAO’s “part 

of the NASA-sponsored Earth and Ocean Physics Program” as well as the continuing 

satellite-tracking program. Lundquist found the role “unattractive” because his colleague 

George Weiffenbach had been leading this effort for two years and especially in the past 

year had worked very hard to define and establish the area. Lundquist also admitted the 

role would not be to his “scientific taste.” It would be too restrictive unless the division were 

expanded to include all of the space sciences conducted at the SAO. This would include 

present and proposed SAO activities such as “the hydrogen maser flights, orbiting observatories, planetary spacecraft experiments, perhaps our balloon astronomy program, and 

shuttle experiments toward the end of the decade.”1358

Lundquist well knew that such a division would be a difficult sell for Harvard, for the 

SAO, and indeed for any academic institution. “Space science” was not a disciplinary field 

itself, despite the fact that the term was coined by the National Academy of Sciences in 

creating its Space Science Board. Rather, it was a capability that supported and enabled disciplinary research. It could make parts of that disciplinary research possible, it could greatly 

aid other parts, but it did not circumscribe the discipline itself. The SAO was building 

expertise in high-energy astrophysics and infrared astronomy. Although defined by specific 

technologies, and dependent on access to the high atmosphere and space, disciplinary ties 

in terms of the questions that stimulated problems in these specialties remained strong. 

Lundquist knew this: “Unless these uncertainties are resolved, I fear that such ambiguities 

in lines of authority might ultimately lead to troubles.” Further, he knew, there was probably 

not a single disciplinary area at the SAO that could not, somehow or another, “be encompassed naturally in one of your more basic scientific disciplines.”1359

But Lundquist also sensed that matters most dear to him, centering on the geodesy work, were not favored by the new director nor by the majority of the Harvard staff. 

Lundquist had quietly expressed these fears to James Bradley in the fall of 1972, and Bradley 

confirmed them after a talk with Field. As he reported confidentially to Ripley in September, 
278 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

“Field is not enthusiastic about the geodesy component,” even though, as Bradley well knew, 

it continued to support much of the planetary research and associated personnel at SAO.1360

There were also fiscal uncertainties in Field’s organizational structure. Lundquist had 

asked John Gregory to estimate what fraction of the SAO budget would fall in the space 

science category and what fraction in the more conventional areas of astronomy and astrophysics. A “large majority” would fall into the space science bag, all of it from NASA. The 

OMB had already criticized the SAO for asking for too much space science funding; it was 

almost twice what it allowed for conventional areas.1361 Of course, as Lundquist well knew, 

“This split depends somewhat on the definitions of space science versus conventional astrophysics.” Lundquist also made “philosophical” points about Field’s organizational structure: 

“organization by discipline under a discipline leader.” This was very much like the present Harvard academic structure, “each tub on its own bottom,” which would lead to problems based on the past behavior of senior Harvard professors. Harvard, Lundquist sharply 

observed, echoing Whipple, “has never been able to assemble a majority of these discipline 

leaders to back any major scientific undertaking beyond what each discipline group could 

accomplish alone.”1362

The best example of this, for Lundquist, was the MMT, which required consensus 

over a broad range of disciplinary specialties, though it was not necessarily optimized for 

any one of them. This had been possible only by strong leadership at the top. And it was 

only possible because it was identified as a Smithsonian project in annual appropriations 

hearings. Thus it was critical, Lundquist advised, that the SAO maintain “enough scientific 

identity” to preserve its image and faith within the Smithsonian itself, with the OMB, and, 

most of all, with Congress. To make this happen, the SAO had to be designated the lead 

organization in selected activities with Harvard in a supporting role. It had be able to assert 

“that in specific areas it aspires to national and international leadership.” This, Lundquist 

passionately added, had been a successful strategy in the past and had to continue in the 

future: It was the “correct role . . . to undertake ambitious programs of a scope beyond the 

capabilities of a typical university department.”1363

Lundquist served Field faithfully in the identification and procurement of new staff. 

He went after Alastair G. W. Cameron, a broadly talented astrophysicist who had contributed to many fields and wanted to lead a group that would concentrate in planetary studies, 

in a sense Whipple’s intellectual successor.1364

Field had been active in x-ray astronomy and predicted it was likely to be the most 

exciting part of astronomy in a few years as descendants of Uhuru, the first dedicated, all- -

sky x-ray mapper, started flying.1365 Leo Goldberg knew that Riccardo Giacconi, Uhuru’s 

principal scientist, was interested in closer ties with Harvard, as his x-ray group at nearby 

American Science and Engineering had many connections with Harvard staff. Giacconi 

was, in Field’s words, the “leading x-ray astronomer in the world.” He would be more than 

acceptable to both Harvard and the Smithsonian. Giacconi and three of his core staff would 

make the SAO a very strong, if not the strongest, x-ray astronomy center, anywhere. Field 

estimated that he would eventually require at least 10 additional slots.1366

With both Field and Whipple away in early 1973, Lundquist was in charge and distributed a broad statement describing Giacconi’s anticipated role at the SAO, rationalizing 
Whipple Steps Down • 279

how his work would enhance SAO activity in high-energy astrophysics, building on Trevor 

Weeke’s Large Optical Reflector (LOR) installation at Mount Hopkins and Giovanni Fazio’s 

gamma-ray balloon work. The SAO, Lundquist reminded everyone, had long been interested in x-ray work ever since Whipple had tried to add the field but was denied the chance 

by NASA program managers “because of the demands of Project Celescope.” As Lundquist 

observed, “It has long been a regret of the SAO directorate that SAO has no activities in 

x-ray astronomy to complement its gamma ray activities. . . . [T]he x-ray region is the only 

gap in the SAO-Harvard capability.”1367

Throughout this time, Whipple and his wife were at their retreat in the British Virgin 

Islands, called the “Porthole.” They were hardly alone, entertaining visitors including 

George Field. In late February, Lundquist reported to Field, still away in New Hampshire, 

that “Fred has returned full of vim and vigor after his rest in the Virgin Islands” and that 

everyone looked forward to Field’s return “under similar circumstances.” He appended status reports on various SAO initiatives that made it clear that the “unstructured” growth that 

the OMB had worried about in August 1970 and Goldberg complained about in January 

1971 was still very much alive (Figure 56). Field had promised that it would be curbed in 

his November 1972 draft “Proposal,” but at least now it seemed to have stronger disciplinary 

rationales. Chief among his new proposals were a series of multi-million dollar programs: 

Figure 56 Comparative growth of SAO and HCO, prepared for a periodic review by the HCO 

Visiting Committee. From the Papers of Jesse L. Greenstein. Courtesy of the Archives, California 

Institute of Technology.
280 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

“High Energy Gamma Ray Astronomy—gamma ray balloon flights leading to Shuttle based 

missions”; “3-meter balloon borne telescope for far IR astronomy”; “Study of Earth Physics 

by Laser Ranging to artificial earth satellites”; “High Precision Antenna for millimeter wave 

observations”; “A small but heavy satellite for measuring the Earth’s Gravity Field”; and 

“X-Ray astronomy. . . . rocket flights and eventual follow on to Uhuru.”1368

Lundquist created these status reports to prepare senior staff for the many reviews 

they expected were not far off. The HCO Visiting Committee met in its regular cycle 

in April, and started digging, but now heard mainly positive news.1369 By May the new 

Harvard president, Derek Bok, readily approved Giacconi’s and Cameron’s appointments 

and Greenstein endorsed promotions for internal candidates for the remaining division 

chairs. Dalgarno had asked him for support to promote Robert Noyes to full professor, 

and also to suggest names of promising women and minority candidates. There certainly 

were good candidates, such as Andrea Dupree, but no one, they thought, seemed ready for 

a leadership role.1370

Also by May, even though there were remaining issues, especially the problem of 

assessing overhead requirements for funding proposals that consisted of both Harvard and 

Smithsonian staff, the Harvard Corporation approved the establishment of the CfA.1371 This 

led to press releases and the inevitable media play. The Boston Globe in particular described 

the new entity as “Harvard’s Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.” Jim Cornell, totally 

in the spirit of the moment, gleefully sent a copy of the news piece to a friend in the 

Smithsonian administration with the inscription: “the take-over is accomplished. Wear 

your Harvard sweater and Veritas tie next week or we won’t let you in the door. Best, John 

Harvard.”1372

More to the point, but possibly not as newsworthy, the press release finally identified 

the divisions: Cameron would head Planetary Sciences; Dalgarno would lead Theoretical 

Astrophysics; Giacconi would direct the High-Energy Astrophysics division; Lilley, the 

Radio Astronomy division; Noyes would direct Solar and Stellar Physics; W. H. Parkinson 

would head Atomic and Molecular Physics; and Weiffenbach, as Lundquist suggested, 

would take Geoastronomy. The only division left for appointment was Optical and Infrared 

Astronomy.1373

When David Challinor asked Field to join him for an inspection tour of Mount 

Hopkins in February 1973, as if to indoctrinate the new director to Whipple’s legacy, Field 

agreed, knowing it was an important gesture. But he also felt strongly that Whipple should 

be invited too. Field had just returned to campus, and felt deeply about his visit with Fred 

and Babbette Whipple in the Virgin Islands. Above all, Field expressed warm appreciation 

for the man and his accomplishments, but was mostly “impressed by his gallantry in what 

must be a rather difficult situation”1374 (Figure 57).

Field wanted to do something for Lundquist, because he had done a heroic job consolidating resources and keeping lines of communication as open as possible. No one had better comprehension of how SAO worked as a government laboratory, and no one at SAO was 

more adept with that mode of operation.1375 But Lundquist soon had an offer he couldn’t 

refuse: directing NASA’s Huntsville-based Space Science Laboratory at the Marshall Space 

Flight Center.1376 So he left the SAO a few weeks before Whipple stepped down as director in 
Whipple Steps Down • 281

July 1973. From Huntsville, Lundquist wrote warmly to Challinor, reflecting on 11 years at 

SAO, especially their time together hiking around Mount Hopkins and then when Challinor 

had made kind comments at his retirement dinner. Lundquist hoped for a “bright future” 

for the CfA under Field and assured Challinor that in his new capacity at NASA/Marshall 

he looked forward to many collaborations. But most of all, Lundquist concluded, “I know 

that Fred Whipple can be rightly proud of his substantial accomplishments as director.”1377

Figure 57 George Field, David Challinor, and Fred Whipple at the Mount Hopkins 

Baker-Nunn site. February 1973. From the Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory Event History, 

Harvard-Smithsonian Center for Astrophysics (CfA).
Figure 58 Fred Whipple liked to punctuate his talks with a meteoritic stone. Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory, Publications and Information. Smithsonian Institution Archives 

Acc. 16-263-B&8Whipple.
283

Chapter 17

Whipple’s Legacy

Our spiritual godfather, founder of the modern SAO, and by extension the CFA. 

1955, the SAO, nearly moribund, all solar stations closed down, staff reduced to 

a few astro archivists and some pseudo botanists in a Quonset hut behind the 

Castle. FLW accepts directorship.

—James Cornell, circa 1990s1378

We have benefited greatly from working in “the house that Fred built.”

—George Field, Myron Lecar, Irwin Shapiro, 

20011379

In 1964, when Leonard Carmichael retired as secretary of the Smithsonian, news 

accounts of his administration were not kind. The Washington Post described Ripley’s 

ascension as the “renaissance” of an institution that “had gone to sleep under a ‘timid’ 

and ‘safe’ man.” Even Science implied that the Smithsonian under Ripley’s predecessors 

was invisible; at least that part that engaged in fundamental research had declined “as a 

scientific establishment,” wherein the status of research “was deplorable.” One indicator 

of its status, D. S. Greenberg believed, was the fact that the SAO received only $1.2 million in support from the Smithsonian whereas it was awarded “about $4 million from 

NASA.”1380

Fred Whipple wanted Carmichael to know that he did not share Greenberg’s views. 

The article “disturbs [me],” Whipple wrote, especially because no mention had been made 

of the “predominant role you played in rescuing the Astrophysical Observatory from the 

dismal depths to which it had descended.” Whipple was annoyed, but not enough to go 

public.1381 Carmichael thanked Whipple for his support, adding, “I do appreciate it very 

much!” (emphasis in original). He acknowledged that he had the good fortune of being 

secretary when there had been a “tremendous increase” in federal funding, and then added, 

oddly, as an informal postscript: “I define you as: ‘the greatest physical scientist of this era 

at the Smithsonian.’”1382

Some 34 years after the Harvard Crimson first took notice of the Smithsonian’s arrival 

at Harvard in 1955, the Crimson returned to examine how the institutional arrangement had 
284 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

fared over the years after combining into a single Center for Astrophysics. Less concerned 

with historical details than the overall import of the association, the Crimson reporter 

claimed that the “unusual collaboration” was the first government/university arrangement 

“to take advantage of pooled resources and helped stake the U.S. to an early lead in international astrophysics.”1383 Quoting John Huchra, a leading Smithsonian astronomer who was 

one of few who held a dual appointment as professor of astronomy at Harvard, the Crimson

offered aphorisms reminiscent of Whipple’s in 1955, that “the amalgam of the institution 

is greater than the sum of its parts.” But even though the merger created a satisfying “symbiosis” of strengths, the Crimson made the point that the Smithsonian had, over the years, 

paid most of the bills. In return, the Crimson pointed out, again quoting Huchra, Harvard 

offered an “academic atmosphere [that] is very good. . . . One of the draws for me to the 

Smithsonian is the ability to teach.”1384

The Crimson also reported that the merger did not resolve all the initial administrative complexities. Twelve Harvard full professors “are jointly tenured by Harvard and the 

Smithsonian but are paid by the Smithsonian.” And of the Center for Astrophysics’ 140 tenured faculty overall, the Smithsonian paid for 119 of them, but “paid salaries of its staff have 

lagged behind Harvard’s over the past 15 years.” “There’s always a friction,” Huchra reported, 

bristling at “the perceived ‘second-class’ citizenship of the Smithsonian staff.” There also 

seems to be resentment that Harvard “prefers to rely for now on the Smithsonian facilities” 

and had not made good on plans for new Harvard facilities in the Southern Hemisphere. 

Huchra hoped that the pay scales would soon equalize, but observed that the coming of the 

Smithsonian in 1955 and the merger in 1973 meant that the “HCO has gotten smaller and 

the Smithsonian has gotten bigger. . . . If [the Smithsonian] weren’t here, there’d only be 

about eight people.”1385

The mid-1960s were peak growth years, as growth tables for funding and staffing 

clearly showed.1386 By the end of the decade, support for science and its institutions had 

changed profoundly, and Whipple could no longer hope to maintain his endlessly expansive posture. He knew it, but still, when Ripley finally advised him to step down as director, 

assuring him of a continuing place of honor at the Smithsonian, but making it clear that the 

institutional autonomy he treasured was no longer possible, the reality must have stung. He 

had agreed to back down on NEROC only when he knew he lacked Ripley’s strong support, 

and only when his rift with Goldberg had brought upheaval to both institutions. Even so, 

from impressions of his widow well after the fact, and from his own testimony at the time, 

his act of stepping down was not as painful as the merging of the two institutions under one 

director.1387

Whipple never separated himself and his projects from the CfA and remained a senior 

staff member through his emeritus years right up to his death in 2004. It is the life of the 

institutional arrangement that he, Menzel, and Carmichael built that effectively ends with 

the merger of the Harvard and Smithsonian observatories into a single functioning unit. It 

was, in that regard, the end of an era, because, although it continued as one of the largest 

astronomical institutions in the world, most of the core programs that built it have since 

ended. Whipple’s legacy remains, however, an infrastructure and a capability that expanded 

what it meant to be an astronomical observatory (Figures 59 and 60).
Whipple’s Legacy • 285

Figure 59 Whipple at the May 1982 rededication of the Mount Hopkins 

station as the Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory. Smithsonian Institution 

Archives, Image # 2002-32272.

Figure 60 Fred, with Babette, 

posing at a plaque rededicating 

the observatory in his name. 

Smithsonian Institution Archives, 

Image # SIA2017-077253.
286 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Through the rest of his life, Whipple maintained an active and vigorous agenda of 

publishing, lecturing, and providing testimony to government and other deliberative bodies. His focus remained on comets, meteoroids, and dust particles in the solar system and 

their interaction with the Earth and Sun. He also engaged broader topics, frequently commenting on the state of astronomy, the way to maintain a vigorous space research program, and the future of science education. Over half of his some 150 scientific publications 

appeared after he stepped down from the SAO directorship in June 1973.

For most of his career, Whipple consistently pushed for new technologies and innovative ways to apply old technologies. In oral histories, he cited his early advocacy of radio 

astronomy and his promotion of instrumenting V-2 rockets for all sorts of scientific problems including x-ray studies of the Sun as early examples.1388 And most definitely his push 

for vastly improved optical meteor-tracking and satellite-tracking systems and his recognition of their value for geodedical problems of all kinds stimulated new instrumentation as well as computing and reduction techniques. And even though the scientific return 

from the decade-long Celescope program was meager, by his own admission, it is also 

clear that here too he pushed the state of the art, promoting the development and use of 

radical and still experimental electronic-imaging technologies. Finally, his advocacy of the 

multi-mirror telescope concept stands as a milestone in the exploration of alternative ways 

to improve optical instrumentation. In many ways, Whipple acted as a catalyst, directing 

attention of astronomers to new technologies associated with rocketry and satellite flight. 

Certainly his early advocacy for these radical means of doing astronomy in the late 1940s 

and early 1950s marks him as a passionate visionary, second only to his remarkable ability 

at building up the institutions he thought were necessary to pursue, in McGeorge Bundy’s 

words, “his dear dream.”

Whither the “Dear Dream”?

I assumed from the beginning of this historical work that Whipple’s “dear dream” 

was space travel, as Bundy suggested. He certainly shared and campaigned for the grand 

vision fostered by von Braun, Willy Ley, and others in the 1950s, and did all he could 

to get involved. But Whipple’s “dear dream” may also have been building something like 

the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory. As we have shown here, using Whipple’s own 

testimony and his actions, his dear dream was not just space, but was deeper and more 

personal. It was to be a “success,” as he remarked early on in an oral history, describing it 

as his parents’ expectation. And that success came partly with his scientific attainments, 

but the watershed was clearly his experience in World War II, learning that he could build 

teams, compete for contracts, and work at a level far beyond his individual capacity, leveraging his own talents. “Consequently I got into administrative things to push projects that 

I thought ought to be done.”1389 These “administrative things” were at the root of Whipple’s 

dear dream. Building an infrastructure, a capability, an entity, to get things done he wanted 

to get done. He sensed early on that the future of astronomy was going to be very different: 

“The big change in my lifetime is from the individual scientist, who occasionally has an 
Whipple’s Legacy • 287

assistant or two and has graduate students around, to the team operations, with the big 

things. It’s big science, is the change.”1390

It is too limiting to state simply that Whipple’s “dream” was the institution he built. 

When asked about his talents as an administrator, he scoffed, minimizing his abilities 

while stating clearly his one guiding principle: “The simple thing is that when you delegate 

responsibility, at the same time you delegate authority. As simple as that. That’s all there 

is to it.” He believed, moreover, that he was lazy when it came to administration, and that 

was the key to his success. Not acknowledging his initial resistance to the Smithsonian 

administration’s demands that he acquire administrative assistants and managers in 1959, 

Whipple rationalized that his success was also because he was “just so lazy on administration that I believe in getting the professionals [to] do it, I would never turn a hand in that 

area if I could find somebody else who knew what he was doing to do the job for me. And 

not many administrators would have worked that way.” 1391

Whipple, of course, knew that the key was to bring in the right people, but he also 

knew, as did the British literary critic F. R. Leavis in his debates in the 1960s with C. P. Snow, 

that the “talented individual” was not enough; traditional institutional structures also had 

to change to “sustain the capacity of creative thought.”1392 At some level, he could control 

who he brought in. But he could not control those administrating above him. When he 

threatened to resign in early 1959, he was dealing with administrators at the Smithsonian 

who he felt were destructive and anything but enabling. All that changed when Carmichael 

asked James Bradley to look after their investments in Cambridge. As Whipple recalled:

There’s the guy who really put the finishing touches on the final growth of the 

Smithsonian Observatory. I mean, he just knows the Hill like nobody. He was the 

guy who put the right touches on the right people.1393

Whipple credited Bradley for pushing through the MMT, for instance. And as we 

have seen through this work, indeed, Bradley often was the key individual making things 

happen, right up to convincing Whipple to step down.

Whipple’s Many Worlds

Whipple parlayed his scientific interests in the many tiny worlds strewn throughout 

the solar system—comets and meteors—into institutional constructions that, in many ways, 

constituted a whole new set of earthly worlds within which he deftly moved as administrator and entrepreneur. As he told McCrosky in 1958, his first love remained meteors, and 

everything else was a vehicle to study them, from the high atmosphere, from hyperballistics 

and reentry problems, to the retrieval of remnants from falls, both natural and artificial: 

“The way you get money to study meteors is to study the atmosphere.”1394 He retained this 

view throughout the rest of his career, which more than exemplifies historians’ view that 

“in the last half of the twentieth century, any sharp distinction between military and civilian 

science has become almost impossible to make.”1395
288 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

Meteors were indeed Whipple’s raison d’être. As a featured speaker at the bicentennial celebration of the birth of James Smithson in September 1965, lavishly orchestrated 

by Dillon Ripley, including academic processions across the National Mall, Whipple stood 

before his audience brandishing a meteoritic stone “to illustrate progress in our knowledge of the physical universe.”1396 Far more than a prop, the stone represented how, in “the 

flow of time,” knowledge had led to human progress, not only in the sciences, but also in 

culture writ large, from child rearing and the sustainability of the human race, to health, 

physical comfort, and to the shift away from religion to science as a means of salvation and 

self-realization.

Whipple entered professional astronomy when it was changing profoundly. It led to 

his own transformation. Whipple had long studied the tiny worlds of space, the meteors 

and the comets, and always returned to them as he tried and failed to conquer larger worlds 

in mainstream astrophysics. Transformed by the experience of wartime research, however, 

he found that there were even larger worlds available to him, worlds in fact in need of his 

skills. He thus entered the world of military-based science in Washington. He was the only 

elite astronomer to engage space research, combining his interests in meteoric bodies as 

denizens of deep space and as probes of Earth’s uppermost atmosphere, with his dreams of 

space travel, intent on building a new institutional world that would lead the way. In doing 

so, as a Space Age entrepreneur, he created a new space for research—a new physical space, 

actually a series of spaces, operating in new economic spaces, and even new political spaces. 

All these spaces had new as well as traditional intellectual dimensions, but they tested and 

stretched the borders of what constituted academic astronomical practice within traditional 

institutional boundaries.

In company with people like Lloyd Berkner, Whipple was one of “an astonishingly 

small number of visionary figures” who seized on opportunities to align and profit from 

the multiple sources of funding offered by the postwar world.1397 Even though he failed to 

establish an academic base for space science infrastructure on a national scale, he more 

than managed to garner support from many civilian and military sources to provide tracking facilities and other expertise in the space sciences, which fueled the spectacular growth, 

and visibility (Figure 61) of his institution.

Among the goals of this work has been to better appreciate how NASA, as a Cold 

War institution, influenced the development and growth of the space sciences. The SAO 

story has shown how NASA priorities vastly accelerated the scope and complexity of 

early scientific satellite systems while confining the role of the academic community, and 

also how it encouraged experimentation with new technologies. In addition, we have 

also illuminated the changing character of the national infrastructure for astronomy 

fostered mainly by the National Science Foundation’s creation of national observatories, reflecting pioneer efforts in physics and anticipating to a degree what NASA would 

eventually do. Most poignantly, we have seen how Whipple’s ambitions for NEROC, 

aided and abetted by Dillon Ripley’s ambition to re-establish a national role for the 

Smithsonian, brought into question who or what was in control of setting priorities for 

both new radio and optical telescopes in the eyes of the NSF, the OMB, and Congress. 
Whipple’s Legacy • 289

Today, similar efforts involving multiples of observatories and national institutions organized into consortia on both national and international levels have become the norm for 

the 21st century. And the CfA has certainly been part of this process. Under successive 

directors, the CfA has been actively involved in the scientific operation of two of NASA’s 

“Great Observatories,” the Chandra x-ray observatory and the Spitzer infrared observatory, and has continued as a major site for missions in solar physics. It engages in major 

projects and programs both ground based and space based. Combining support from 

direct federal appropriations, as well as support from NASA, the Air Force, the NSF, 

and more traditional support from private and corporate philanthropy, the CfA has also 

established major observing facilities in the southwestern United States, in Hawaii, and 

at the South Pole.

The creation of the CfA did eventually stabilize the relationship between Harvard 

and the Smithsonian, although not all administrative problems were solved or have been 

solved to this day. George Field immediately faced the thorny problem of establishing equitable and realistic overhead rates for both competitive federal funding and for 

private patronage strategies, and also experienced renewed scrutiny from the General 

Accounting Office and the House Appropriations Committee. Calls for placing Mount 

Hopkins administratively under Kitt Peak, or even giving over the SAO to the NSF did not 

Figure 61 Whipple surrounded by family holding Life magazine covers recording the SAO’s early 

space exploits. Courtesy Sandra and Laura Whipple.
290 • Fred Whipple’s Empire

disappear altogether in the 1970s. Even so, Field carried the CfA to funding levels even 

greater than Whipple’s.

What is fact is that the institution Whipple created and guided has continued to grow 

and prosper. The CfA continues today as one of the great astronomical institutions of this 

world. Its legacy should be appreciated not only in terms of the new knowledge about the 

physical universe it has helped reveal, but also in terms of the scope of the human universe 

that can be called an astronomical institution.
291

NOTES

See Bibliography, Archival Source Abbreviations (p. 361), for explanation of abbreviations in Notes.

Introduction

1. Stuart Leslie (1993), 1. 

2. Jacket blurb for Westwick (2003). 

3. “Whipple Speaks on Sputnik,” Newsletter of Harvard Foundation for Advanced Study and 

Research, 31 December 1957. Folder “Harvard University 1943–1961.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

4. Whipple, “Proposal for the Initiation of an Optical Tracking and Scientific Analysis Program 

for the U.S. Earth Satellite Program.” 29 November 1955. Folder “Earth Satellite Project.” Box 13. 

RU50. SIA.

5. Blakely to Whipple, 2 April 1958. Folder “C, general.” Box 1. RU7431. Ser. 1. SIA. See http://

en.wikipedia.org/wiki/Cabot,_Cabot_%26_Forbes (accessed 21 July 20s12).

6. Needell (2000); Wang (2008); Newell (1980); DeVorkin (1992). 

7. Forman (1987), 150.

8. Leslie (1993); Slayton (2012), 258–259; Dennis (1991); Doel (2003); Westwick (2003). 

9. On the Golden Triangle, see Leslie (1993), 2.

10. Hershberg (1993), 396–397.

11. On the reticence of astronomers to follow the pattern, see DeVorkin (2000b), “Who 

Speaks.” On the pattern, see Forman (1987). Overall, American astronomy was organized around 

what John Lankford has described as “a self-conscious power elite: observatory directors.” Lankford 

and Slavings (1997), 182. 

12. DeVorkin (1992), 159.

13. On Yerkes-McDonald, see Osterbrock (1997), and Evans and Mulholland (1986). And on 

the Mount Wilson-Caltech-Palomar arrangement, see Osterbrock (1992); Florence (1994), ch. 29. 

See McCray (2004), chs. 1, 2, for an overview of the state of telescope building in the 1950s; for new 

arrangements in solar physics, see Hufbauer (1991), ch. 4, as well as Bassi (2015). 

14. McCray (2000, 2004); Edmondson (1997).

15. See Dupree (1963), 456, for his distinction between a central organization and a predominant organization. Consider the venerable Kaiser Wilhelm Institutes in Germany, transformed as the 
292 • Notes

Max Planck Institutes after World War II, or the National Physical Laboratory in Britain or the civil 

service structure that supported major observatories in France. See, for instance, Meadows (2009).

16. See Multhauf and Good (1987); Dupree (1959).

17. Bassi (2015).

Chapter 1 – The Many Worlds of Fred Whipple: From Meteors 

and Comets to Artificial Satellites

18. Whipple OHI (1977), 5–8. He read Andrew Lang’s Blue Fairy Book and Yellow Fairy Book

and then Henry Rider Haggard’s She, which stimulated his science fiction interests. He loved Edgar 

Allen Poe and H. G. Wells. In his oral history, he seamlessly segued from his reading to a “latent memory of a traumatic early childhood experience,” constructed from repeated hospital visits for a range of 

maladies during which he was examined by hooded and masked nurses and doctors. These, he realized only late in life, fostered memories of being abducted by aliens. See also Fred L. Whipple, “UFO 

or Early Childhood Trauma?” Boston Globe, 30 June 1992, n.p., clipping in SIA Acc. 04-183 Box 1 

“Historical.” Also in this folder are articles on the “abductee” phenomenon and its possible causes, 

including everything from New Age beliefs to sleep paralysis, and notes taken on “dreams.” See, for 

instance, “Alien Abduction Claims Are Examined,” Harvard University Gazette, 20 February 2003, 1, 8.

19. “I was very conscious of it, because it was 40 miles from Omaha to Council Bluffs, and a 

gun that could fire that distance was fantastic. That was really exciting.” Whipple OHI (1977), 7–8.

20. As he recalled in a speech given in 2000. See “My Conversion to Atheism.” Acc. 10-017. Fred 

Whipple Papers. SIA.

21. Whipple OHI (1977), 16.

22. Whipple OHI (1977), 121; Whipple, “My Conversion to Atheism,” 4. She was also on the 

honors list in late 1928. See “University Honors List Announced,” LA Times, 14 October 1928, 10. See 

also Babette Whipple OHI (29 October 2007), AIP, 26–27.

23. Herget (1978), 127–147.

24. Bower and Whipple (1930). Whipple OHI (1977), 22. Earle was born in Alameda, just 

south of Oakland, on 14 January 1930. “Earle Raymond Whipple,” California Birth Index (https://

familysearch.org/ark:/61903/1:1:V2RH-PQN, accessed 27 November 2014).

25. Whipple (1932).

26. Herget (1978).

27. Whipple OHI (1977), 32–36, on 35. Menzel autobiography (1974), 231–233.

28. Jones and Boyd (1971); Bailey (1931). Comparative perspective from Lankford (1997), 

notes 102–107, and Gingerich (1988), 23–30. Whipple opted for the “big puddle.” Whipple OHI 

(1977), 34–35.

29. Jones and Boyd (1971), 458, note 61, provides illuminating background on how Pickering 

resisted taking on instruction responsibilities in the 1880s.

30. Cannon (1922).

31. “The Harvard College Astronomical Laboratory,” in “General Notes,” PASP 40 (1928): 

147–148.
Notes • 293

32. On Cecilia Payne, see Haramundanis (1996); Payne-Gaposchkin et al. (2001); Boyd (2014).

33. Menzel autobiography (1974), 231–233.

34. Visher (1947), 116–117.

35. Boyden Observatory, in “General Notes,” Popular Astronomy 42 (1934): 115–116. Harlow 

Shapley (1928), 297–298.

36. Hershberg (1993), 72–73.

37. Hershberg (1993), 106–110; Keller and Keller (2001), 66–67.

38. Shapley to Whipple, 15 June 1931. Folder “S.” Box 2. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

39. Whipple’s meteoritics have been examined by Doel (1996), 68–72, in context of atmospheric research, and by McCray (2008), 44–55, as an expression of entrepreneurial engineering.

40. Owen Gingerich recalls Whipple’s accounts of these battles. Private communication.

41. Earle Raymond lived with the Cornell family until he moved to Boston to live with his 

father in 1940. Life impressions at this time gained from Earle Raymond Whipple to the author, 10 

October and 21 November 2006; Babette Whipple OHI (2007), 28–30, AIP, and Laura Whipple OHI 

(2007), 19, AIP.

42. Whipple (1938), on 502, 544. See also Hoppe (1937), 233–240.

43. Whipple (1972) in Berendzen (1972). Whipple’s goal was to improve Lindemann and 

Dobson’s work. Whipple (1939), 419–425. In 1922, Öpik had wanted to determine the physical 

processes involved in the passage of a meteoroid through Earth’s atmosphere. He was followed by 

Lindemann and Dobson to create the first comprehensive density profile from 30 to 150 kilometers. 

Lindemann and Dobson (1923), 411–437, on 435.

44. Earle Raymond Whipple to author, 10 October 2006. Author’s files. Earle had also stayed 

with Whipple’s parents.

45. Bart Bok to Whipple, 12 August 1942; Shapley to Whipple, 18 August 1942. Folder “S.” 

Box 2. HUG 4876. HUA.

46. See Kidwell (1992).

47. Whipple OHI (1977), 61.

48. Whipple to Spitzer, 21 December 1942. Folder “S.” Box 2. HUG 4876. HUA. Earle prospered at Hillside, graduating from eighth grade in June 1943 with a good citizenship award. He was 

class speaker at his graduation, where he introduced his father as the commencement speaker. Earle 

then returned to California to continue his studies in Ojai, California. Hillside School Graduation 

Program, 18 June 1943; “Whipple, Earle Raymond,” file. SIA Acc. no. 10-017 “Earle” folder. Earle 

Raymond Whipple to author, 10 October 2006. Author’s files.

49. Jones (1978), 290–291.

50. See McArthur (1990), 71–72; Baxter (1968), 93; Stewart (1948). On Whipple’s work at the 

RRL, see “Records of the Radio Research Laboratory, 1942–1946.” Box 20, “Whipple” UAV 728.95.1. 

See also G-500 and subseries UAV 728.95.4, “Records Concerning Demobilization and Laboratory 

History, 1942–1946 (inclusive).” In a barrage of meetings in London, Whipple and MIT electron tube 

specialist D. B. Langmuir met with officers at the Grosvenor Square RDM Signal Office to compare 

American and British chaff designs. “Window of definite value to 8th A.F.,” Whipple recorded, but 

the question was, which system would be chosen? 21 January 1944 entry. See also entries between 

11 and 17 February. Box 1, “Misc,” containing “F. L. Whipple Diary.” Harvard University Archives, 

Pusey Library.
294 • Notes

51. The significance of his contact with General LeMay is not known, but at war’s end LeMay 

became deputy chief of Air Staff for Research & Development at the Pentagon and helped to create 

think tanks like Project RAND at Douglas to explore missiles as an extension of airpower. See Collins 

(2003).

52. Whipple OHI (1977), 65; see 61–66 for a general discussion of his experiences. Whipple’s 

experience was exactly opposite Harold Urey’s, who was, according to Matthew Shindell, “traumatized” by his managerial duties during World War II. See Shindell (2014), 107–139, on 113.

53. Whipple (1943), 246–264.

54. Sterne to Whipple, 20 October 1941. Folder “S.” Box 2. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

55. Whipple OHI (1977), 61.

56. Whipple OHI (1977), 70. Whipple later recalled: “After nearly three decades of reading, 

talking, and dreaming science fiction . . .” it was the German V-2 missile that made him realize there 

was a “high probability that I could actually see artificial satellites, and, I hoped, manned space travel 

in my lifetime.” Whipple, “Recollections of Pre-Sputnik Days,” 127–134, in Ordway, Liebermann, 

and Bova (1992). See also Whipple (1972), 967.

57. Whipple “Memorandum,” 30 April 1945. Box 2. Folder “Harvard University 1943–1961.” 

RU 7431. SIA.

58. Doel (1996), 69.

59. Ralph Bacon (Frankford Arsenal in Philadelphia) to Whipple, 10 February 1944. Box 2. 

Folder “B, 1940–1950.” Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. Reference courtesy P. McCray.

60. Smith (1989), 30–31; Collins (2002).

61. Whipple concluded that a strike from a body about 1,000 times fainter than can be seen 

with the eye could puncture a metal skin 1

∕16 inch in thickness, and there was a 1-in-40 (2.5%) chance 

this would happen in an exposure to space of only 120 hours. He cautioned that his statistics might 

be off by a factor of 100. Fred Whipple, “Possible Hazards to Satellite Vehicle from Meteorites,” app. 

III in Clauser (1946), 1072–1079, on 1079. General report accessed 8 April 2012 at http://www.

rand.org/pubs/special_memoranda/2006/SM11827part1.pdf. Whipple’s supplement is reprinted in 

Whipple (1972).

62. DeVorkin (1992), 94–96.

63. C. S. Piggot to Whipple, 10 September 1947. Box 10. “RDB” folder. Whipple Papers. HUG 

4876.808. HUA. Whipple initially declined after considerable discussion with Johnson, claiming lack 

of time, but eventually agreed.

64. Putnam to V. M. Slipher, 6 February 1946. Lowell Observatory Papers, microfilm edition. Buck to Whipple, 25 July 1949. Box 2. Folder “Harvard University 1943–1961.” RU 7431. SIA. 

Whipple, “Application for Federal Employment,” 1 July 1949. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876.810; copy 

in Whipple Supplement SIA Acc. 10-017, SIA.

65. DeVorkin (1992), 96, refs. 161–163.

66. Jacchia stayed at Harvard collaborating with Whipple as his expert in numerical techniques 

with computers at MIT and Harvard. He had been at the University of Bologna since the early 1930s, 

but was expelled in 1939 with the enactment of Italian Racial Laws. See Kidwell (1992), 290. See 

also http://www.issawiki.org/wiki/index.php?title=Luigi_G._Jacchia_(1911-1996),_Astrophysicist,_

United_States (accessed March 2014). See also http://library.duke.edu/rubenstein/scriptorium/mazzoni/exhibit/wwii/C929.html (accessed March 2014). On Jacchia coming to the United States, see 

also Russell to Shapley, 27 February 1939. PUL/HNR.
Notes • 295

67. Baker OHI (1980), 129. Baker had more job offers than anyone at Harvard, but remained 

undecided to the point that it put his family “in a nervous state as a result of [his] own doubts, 

cross-purposes, and lack of undisturbed relaxation.” (Ibid) In 1948 he moved to the San Francisco 

area to find a better posting but soon returned to Cambridge to resume a loose connection with 

Harvard and the optical industry in the Boston area. See, for instance, Shapley to Baker, 7 November 

1945; 6 April 1946; Baker, for the record, 25 March 1946; Baker to Shapley, 25 February 1946; 

16 December 1946. Shapley Papers. “HCO Optical/Baker.” UAV 630.22. HUA.

68. Menzel et al. (1937), 87–98; Menzel (1936), 164. Baker (1939), 255. Baker OHI (1980), 

54–69, 98–99.

69. Baker OHI (1980), 98–99.

70. Kidwell (1992), ref. 42.

71. Baker OHI (1980), 105–107.

72. Baker OHI (1980), 107. J. G. Baker. U.S. Patent 2458132. “Schmidt image former.” 4 January 

1949.

73. Muir-Harmony, Abrahams, and DeVorkin (2012). The glass was the key issue: when commercial optical firms balked, the National Bureau of Standards made the blanks for the optics, yielding a 12.25 inch effective aperture, a field of view of 55 degrees, and a focal length of 8 inches, 

operating at an astounding focal ratio of f/0.85. In 1951, Perkin-Elmer Corporation agreed to produce them for Harvard. Two cameras were placed at Sacramento Peak and one at Organ Pass, some 

50 miles apart, and they were operated in unison to photograph meteors. The remaining two cameras were operated by Peter Millman, who was then at the Dominion Observatory in Canada. Fred 

Whipple (1951), 144–145 [abstract].

74. McCrosky, (1955a), 170, McCrosky (1955b). See also McCrosky OHI (2005).

75. DeVorkin (1992), ch. 15.

76. Whipple (1950b), 83 [abstract]; (1950a), 375–394. Whipple’s comet model is discussed 

more fully in DeVorkin (1992), 291–293, and DeVorkin, “Pluto, the Problem Planet,” in Launius 

(2013).

77. Quotes from Babette Whipple OHI (2007), 18–20.

78. Whipple never really opened up about his life to Babette; she realized this only after his 

death, going through his correspondence. He did seek her help with his dreams, or demons, as he 

called them, specifically a red eye. “He would wake up in the middle of the night seeing this red eye, 

which was frightening.” Whipple worried whether the shock treatments he had received at McLean 

Hospital in Belmont, Massachusetts, in late 1942 and 1943 had damaged his brain. He never told her 

that these were a continuation of his treatment in Milwaukee. Babette Whipple OHI (2007), 30–33.

79. Whipple to Dr. and Mrs. William Hutchings, 16 October 1946. Box 4. Folder “H, 1940–

1950.” Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. See also Whipple to W. Baade, 19 June 1947. Box 2. Folder 

“B, 1940–1950,” 1 of 4. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA. Courtesy P. McCray.

80. Whipple to Sturla Einarsson, 23 February 1949. Box 3. Folder “E, 1940–1950.” Whipple 

Papers. HUG 4876. HUA. Courtesy P. McCray.

81. Whipple to Greenstein, 11 March 1949. Box 3. Folder “G, 1940–1950.” Whipple Papers. 

HUG 4876. HUA. Courtesy P. McCray.

82. He was none too happy if someone inadvertently linked him with the Meteoritical Society, 

founded by his old UCLA teacher Frederick Leonard. In May 1949, Harrison Brown of Chicago, 

with whom Whipple had been discussing meteor irradiation mechanisms, lamented the “amazing 
296 • Notes

hold that unadulterated scientific amateurism” has on the group, suggesting that if Whipple were to 

take on the leadership of the society, possibly he could professionalize it. Whipple agreed that the 

group was “quarrelsome” with lots of “bickering” and “heckling” but wished it would disband and be 

absorbed by the AAS or even the IAU. Brown to Whipple, 2 May 1949; Whipple to Brown, 10 May 

1949. Folder “B, 1940–1950,” 4 of 4. Box 3. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. Courtesy P. McCray.

83. Whipple to Robertson, 6 October 1949. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

84. Baker predicted a 40× increase in capture rate. In fact, they proved to be 25× the best prewar surveys on predicted shower nights, and over 1000× the original Harvard patrol system. See 

Millman and McKinley (1963), 685, table 2.

85. Agencies included the Naval Bureau of Ordnance, Naval Office of Ordnance Research, the 

Air Force Cambridge Research Center (AFCRC), and the U.S. Office of Ordnance Research. See, for 

instance: Whipple to M. L. Wasser, ARDC, Rome Development Center, Rome, NY, 24 January 1955; 

Whipple to Capt. Frank S. Attinger USAF—Admin Officer, SAB, office of the chief of staff, USAF, 

18 January 1955; Pratt (Harvard Office for Research Contracts) to Menzel, 11 January 1955, clipped to 

RFP from USAF Rome Air Development Center, dated 5 January 1955, asking for proposals for “Study 

of Meteors at Altitudes of 100 to 1000 Miles.” Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

86. Donald E. Taylor to Whipple, 25 March 1947. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

87. Launius, “Outstanding Analysis of the Romance of Aviation,” http://www.amazon.com/

The-Winged-Gospel-Americas-Aviation/dp/0801869625. See also works by Green and Lomask 

(1970), Neufeld (2000), and citations therein.

88. Whipple (1992), 128; Whipple, “The Heavens Open” in Ryan et al. (1952), 132–143, on 137.

89. Ryan (1952), 140–143.

90. Whipple, “Recollections of Pre-Sputnik Days,” in Ordway and Liebermann, eds. (1992), 

127–134, on 128–129.

91. Whipple review of Clarke (1951). Saturday Review, 5 July 1952, 13–14.

92. Whipple and Wernher von Braun (1952), 36–47.

93. Whipple (April 1953), 151.

94. Whipple, typescript, “Why Conquer Space?” (1953). Box 19. RU 7431/SIA. Published in 

Astronautics 1, no. 1 (1954): 7.

95. Singer to Whipple, 17 June 1954. Folder “S.” Box 14. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

96. Neufeld (2007), 234.

97. Whipple to Singer, 7 October 1954; 28 October 1954. Folder “S.” Box 14. Whipple Papers. 

HUG 4876. HUA.

98. Whipple manuscripts, 22 September 1954: “First Steps in Using Artificial Satellites,” folder 

“Scientific Advisory Board of the USAF.” Box 23. RU 7431. SIA. On Mouse, see Green and Lomask 

(1970), 17–22; and “Report on the U.S. Program for the International Geophysical Year,” IGY General 

Report, no. 21 (November 1965). World Data Center A., National Academy of Sciences (U.S.), 

National Research Council (U.S.), 421–422.

99. “First Steps,” 47. On the matter of precision, see MacKenzie (1993).

100. Fred L. Whipple, “On the Security Classification of Upper Atmospheric Techniques and 

Data.” Manuscript draft, Folder “Whipple Security Classification.” Box 16. Acc. 04-183. SIA.

101. On IGY aspects, see Needell (2000), ch. 12.

102. See Needell (2000), Neufeld (2007), McDougall (1985), Wang (2008).

103. Needell (2000), 336.
Notes • 297

Chapter 2 – Harvard Astronomy Post–World War II

104. See Peggy Kidwell (1992), refs. 72–74. DeVorkin (2006b), 12.

105. Bart Bok memorandum, “Some Notes About Finances and Personnel of the Harvard 

College Observatory,” 27 February 1948. Box 2 Folder “HCO Council 1946–48” RU 7431 Ser. 1/SIA.

106. Bart Bok Memorandum.

107. Harvard ranked third in the production of collegiate degrees in 1943, behind Michigan 

and California. It was woefully outdistanced in PhD production of starred scientists (Harvard effectively had none) who had received degrees between 1926 and 1943. Visher (1947), tables 4-16 and 

5-8. Payne-Gaposchkin was, in fact, starred in 1926, but was listed under Radcliffe. Visher (1947), 

116–117. DeVorkin (2006b), 12.

108. Hershberg (1993), 618. James Hershberg, Conant’s biographer, has argued that Conant’s 

actions were prompted by political expediency arising from his primary motivation to protect 

Harvard, rather than by adherence to moral or philosophical considerations relating to Communist 

sympathies Shapley was alleged to harbor. Shapley, however, was among only a few Harvard faculty 

with leftist leanings who, owing to their high visibility, as Jonathan Beckwith has observed, survived 

the 1930s. See Beckwith, “The Science of Racism,” in Trumpbour (1989), 242. Also see Trumpbour 

(1989), 383–389, on student reaction to Marxist leftists on campus.

109. DeVorkin (1992, 2000b).

110. Baker OHI (1980).

111. He was then 67 years old, which was consistent with other Harvard faculty facing the 

mandatory retirement age. Desmond to Conant. 21 June 1952. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

112. Shapley to Buck, n.d. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA. This normalization was 

consistent with Conant’s goal of instilling a meritocratic dynamic in faculty hiring and retention. 

Keller and Keller (2001), 66.

113. Harvard College Observatory Council (HCOC) to Buck, 5 February 1952; Shapley to 

Buck, 14 February 1952. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

114. On their contact, see Geiger (1993), 35–37; and Westwick (2003), 30–31. Oppenheimer 

also took Conant’s chemistry courses in the 1920s. See Cassidy (2005), 76.

115. Oppenheimer to Buck, 7 April 1952. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

116. Conant to Oppenheimer, 17 April 1952. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

117. Buck to Oppenheimer, 11 March 1952. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

118. Strömgren, written notes to Oppenheimer, n.d., ca. 18 June 1952. Box 128. Oppenheimer 

Papers. LC.

119. Strömgren, 18 June 1952.

120. “Observatory Committee Report,” 18 June 18 1952. Perkins Room, Massachusetts Hall, 

Harvard University. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

121. Whipple to Buck, 13 February 1952; Whipple to Buck, 6 August 1952. Whipple Papers. 

HUG 4876. HUA. Although Whipple had been highly successful securing external funding for his 

meteor studies, the Super-Schmidts were not yet on line and Shapley had just made him chair of the 

department, which increased pressure.

122. “Observatory Committee Report,” 18 June 1952; Shane to Oppenheimer, 3 November 

1952. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.
298 • Notes

123. Which Shapley complained to Henry Norris Russell were “completely deceptive, erroneous, misleading, and out of context!” Shapley to Russell, 3 March 1953. Reel 38. Russell microfilm. 

PUL/HNR.

124. Conant to Oppenheimer, 28 July 1952. Oppenheimer Papers. Box 128. LC.

125. Paraphrased and quoted statements from Strömgren, n.d. “Observatory Committee 

Report,” 18 June 1952; Draft report “Astronomy at Harvard,” 28 October 1952; 11 November 1952; 

Oppenheimer et al. to “The Corporation,” “Draft Report on Astronomy at Harvard,” and Conant to 

“Dear Opie,” 7 January 1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

126. Conant to “Dear Opie,” 7 January 1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

127. Conant to “Dear Opie.”

128. “I am sorry to bring this matter to you,” Shapley closed, “but I have a life-time invested in 

the fame, happiness and effectiveness of the Harvard Observatory and I feel obliged to do something 

to protect my investment.” Shapley eagerly reported anything he thought would be embarrassing to 

Menzel. Shapley to Conant, 22 July 1952; Shapley to Paul Buck, 16 July 1952; Worth to Shapley, 9 July 

1952. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA. Hoffleit OHI (1979), 61. AIP.

129. Menzel (HCOC) to Observatory Personnel, 24 October 1952; and Menzel (HCOC) to 

Observatory Personnel: “University has asked HCO to abandon Building B as soon as possible.” 

24  October 1952. “Donald Menzel 1952–1958.” Box 22.5. Hoffleit Papers. MC 529. Schlesinger 

Library, Radcliffe College.

130. Menzel to Dorrit Hoffleit, 3 November 1952; Menzel to “All Observatory Personnel,” 

23 January 1953. Hoffleit had already performed an assessment and felt strongly that everything had 

to be preserved. Hoffleit (2002), 61. Still, Menzel directed Payne-Gaposchkin to organize a major 

“weeding” and consolidation of the collection to make it fit on two floors of Building A instead of 

three floors, relieving the third floor for offices. By 24 November, she announced the detailed plan 

and said it would work. For “weeding and consolidation,” see “C.P.G. Reorganization of the Harvard 

Plate Collection,” 24 November 1952. Hoffleit Papers. Box 22.5, “Donald Menzel 1952–1958,” MC 

529, Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe College.

131. On the concept applied to the night sky, see Schaffer (1998), 189. On the connection to 

natural development over time, carried into the photographic era, see Nasim (2013), 229–230.

132. Menzel to Observatory Personnel, HCO, 2 February 1953; “Students and junior staff of 

HCO” (26 signatories) to Dean Buck, 3 February 1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC. On the 

divestiture of Boyden, see Levy (1994), 43.

133. Menzel to Buck, 8 August 1952. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

134. Paul Buck to “Dear Don.” 11 March 1953. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA. 

On the consortium, see Elbers (2015), ch. 7, “Cooperation with Belgium.” See also A. H. Jarret, 

“Boyden Observatory: A Concise History,” Acta Academica 12 (1979). http://natagri.ufs.ac.za/dl/

userfiles/Documents/00001/1087_eng.pdf (accessed 25 May 2012). On the eviction of the AAVSO, 

see Williams and Saladyga (2011).

135. Buck to Oppenheimer, 16 February 1953; Lawrence Terry to Oppenheimer, 19 February 

1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC. Menzel autobiography (1974), 530.

136. Bundy to Oppenheimer, 25 September 1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

137. These included Strömgren, Jan Oort, Otto Struve, Martin Schwarzschild, Leo Goldberg 

and Jesse Greenstein. See DeVorkin “Serving the Muse” in Philip (2006), 11–20. Menzel to Buck, 

24 April 1953. Dean’s Papers (Buck) UAIII 5.55.26. HUA; Strömgren to Buck, 10 July 1953; Bundy 
Notes • 299

to Struve, 11 December 1953; Struve to Bundy, 21 December 1953; Bundy to Oppenheimer, 

14 December 1953. Box 128. Oppenheimer Papers. LC.

138. Oppenheimer to Buck, 15 April 1953. Folder “Ad Hoc Committee.” Box 128. Oppenheimer 

Papers. LC.

139. Payne-Gaposchkin to Buck, 13 April 1953. Folder “Harvard College Observatory 1952–

1953.” Dean’s Papers UAIII 5.55.26. HUA; Luyten to Hoffleit, 2 June 1984, Hoffleit Papers 22.19 MC 

529, Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe College.

140. Menzel autobiography (1974), 530.

141. Menzel, “Interim Report on Observatory Problems,” 13 February 1953. Dean’s Papers. 

UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

142. Keller and Keller (2001), ch. 8, quote from 175.

Chapter 3 – The Creation of the SAO 

143. Clymer (1955).

144. Clymer (1955).

145. Clymer (1955).

146. A useful overview is Hacker (2000), 309–313.

147. Doel (1996), 198.

148. One exception found in the Astrophysics Data System, http://www.adsabs.harvard.edu/, 

was the Department of Theoretical Astronomy and Astronomical Geophysics at the Jagellonian 

University in Cracow, created in 1960. Searching and allowing for synonyms reveals that astronomy 

and geophysics were first associated somehow in the late 1940s, though rarely, with a small jump in 

the 1960s, a spike in the mid-1980s, and a significant jump after 2000.

149. For a general history of the APO, see Jones (1965), 13–14, 70. See also Portolano (2000), 

480–503, who clarifies Adams’s motives for supporting astronomy.

150. Jones (1965), 81.

151. Langley (1888). See also “Langley’s Researches on Solar Heat” in “Notes,” The Observatory

(1885): 309–310. There were at least several definitions of the term in the 1880s. See Butler (1993).

152. Butler (1993), 141. Langley to Baird, 27 January 1886 [sic; actual year 1887], as cited in 

Jones (1965), 102, ref. 17, 319.

153. Hellman (1978), 117–121.

154. Langley to W. C. Endicott, Secy. of War, 18 December 1888, in Jones (1965), 119.

155. These included A. A. Michelson, Edward Morley (in a separate venture unrelated to 

optics), Wolcott Gibbs, and astronomer Edward Holden. Jones (1965), 128.

156. Abbot (1947), 1. This section and chapter partially derive from DeVorkin (1990, 1998).

157. On the balloonsonde work, see DeVorkin (1990).

158. H. H. Clayton had been the Chief Forecaster of Argentina and a colleague of A. Lawrence 

Rotch, of the Blue Hill Meteorological Observatory outside Boston. Clayton had excitedly written 

Abbot in 1912 about correlations he had found with Abbot’s changes in the solar constant. Abbot and 

Clayton remained close allies. True (1929), 70.
300 • Notes

159. Abbot to Marvin, 27 April 1925. Abbot Papers. SIA.

160. The patronage of individuals and institutions is detailed in Jones (1965), ch. 9.

161. On Langley’s campaign for interchangeability, see Langley (1891), 197.

162. For instance, he was elected the first president of the new International Astronomical 

Union’s Commission 10 on Solar Radiation at its inaugural meeting in Rome in 1922, and received 

endorsements from other commissions. See Transactions of the International Astronomical Union 1

(London: Imperial College Bookstall, 1922), 28–33.

163. Members included Merriam, Abbot, Isaiah Bowman, and various CIW and Weather 

Bureau people. The Cycles Conferences encompassed the disciplines of climatology, paleontology, 

botany, geology, physiology, economics, archaeology, and astronomy. They were held between 1922 

and 1933.

164. M. M. Paranjpe and D. Brunt, “The Variations of the Solar Constant and Their Relation to 

Weather,” Quarterly Journal of the Royal Meteorological Society 64, no. 276 (1938): 459–476. Paranjpe 

was an assistant lecturer in physics at the Royal Institution of Science.

165. Sterne (1939), 563.

166. Sterne et al. (1940).

167. Aldrich to W. S. Adams, ca. 30 January 1946, Abbot Papers, SI.

168. Upon his succession Wetmore darkly noted that the Smithsonian had been stagnant for 

many decades. He dedicated himself to changing that situation. Hellman (1978), 211.

169. Alexander Wetmore, “Report of the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution for the 

Year Ended June 30, 1946,” in Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution, 1946 (Washington, DC: 

Smithsonian Institution, 1946), 10.

170. Wetmore, “Report,” 10–11.

171. Alexander Wetmore, “Report of the Secretary of the Smithsonian Institution for the Year 

Ended June 30, 1950,” Smithsonian Institution (1950), 1.

172. “An Act to Provide for the Reorganization of Government Agencies, and for Other 

Purposes,” 20 June 1949, 81st Cong., 1st Sess., 1949, 63 Stat. 203, ch. 226. This act gave the president 

the powers to periodically review and reorganize the federal government. Agencies could be reorganized, abolished, or consolidated. Deliberations would take the next few years and be transmitted to 

Congress by 1 April 1953.

173. Keddy to Wetmore, 19 December 1949, citing a report in the file dated 19 February, 

“Office of General Services.” Box 1. “Keddy” files. RU 175. SIA.

174. Keddy to Wetmore, 4 November 1946. Box 1 “Keddy” files. RU 175. SIA.

175. See the folders “APO: Proceedings of the Annual Meeting of the Board of Regents” and 

“Board of Regents Meeting Jan. 12, 1951.” Boxes 15 and 148. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–

1964.” SIA. One aspect of the deliberations is presented in Jones (1965), 286–287, who cites the 

debate as recorded in the Congressional Record.

176. Draft of “Survey of Research Interests of the Staff of the Smithsonian Institution,” 

1  November 1954. Circulated on 27 September 1954 from the Sub Committee on New Work 

Programs, mainly on how to use the Barro Colorado facility, cooperating with military interests. RU 

50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964,” and RU 175. Box 2 “Research Policy.” SIA.

177. “Subcommittee on New Work Programs,” and “Program Subcommittee,” ca. 9 July 1954, 

n.d. Box 2. RU 175. SIA. A summary of meetings 24 May through 9 July after a year-long exploratory 

discussion on the future of research at SI.
Notes • 301

178. “Statement by L. B. Aldrich concerning the work of the Astrophysical Observatory,” 

29 October 1953. “SAO General Corr. A–K 1950–1962.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

179. D. H. Dunkle to Philip Drucker, 8 July 1953. “Analysis of SI Research Programs 

1952–1953” and “Research, New Work Programs.” Rough notes, n.d. Box 2 “Research Policy.” 

RU 175. SIA.

180. Emphasis in original. Lomask (1976), 98–101, on 100. https://babel.hathitrust.org/cgi/pt?

id=umn.31951d00291901g;view=1up;seq=112.

181. Abbot to Carmichael, 14 August 1953. “Keddy” files. Box 1. RU 175. SIA.

182. Abbot to Carmichael, 29 October 1953. “Statement by L. B. Aldrich concerning the work 

of the Astrophysical Observatory.” “SAO General Corr. A–K 1950–1962.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

183. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

184. Stanley S. Ballard to Carmichael, 3 November 1953. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office 

of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

185. Keddy notes 9 November 1953, appended to Aldrich’s appeal, “Statement by L. B. Aldrich 

concerning the work of the Astrophysical Observatory” 29 October 1953. Carmichael memorandum to staff, 7 December 1953. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” SIA.

186. Roberts, in residence at the HAO, had obtained his PhD from Harvard in 1943 with a 

study of the dynamics of solar spicule activity and their relationship to subsequent activity in the 

solar corona, a valuable hint in predicting coronal activity and hence ionospheric disturbances on 

Earth. See Bassi (2015).

187. Quoted in Carmichael to Roberts, 25 August 1954. RU 50. Box 16 [Carmichael] “APO 

Correspondence M–R (1951–1964).” “Report on Trip to Boulder, Colorado and the High Altitude 

Observatory at Climax, Colorado, August 11–13, 1954.” Folder “APO Future.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA. 

Doel (1990), 140.

188. Bundy to Ward Darley, President U. Colorado, 29 March 1954; Thomas Knowles to Ward 

Darley, 4 May 1954. “University of Colorado President’s Office Correspondence” files. Archives, 

University of Colorado at Boulder. Courtesy Joseph P. Bassi. Notes on Carmichael’s conference with 

Shapley, 6 October 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. 

SIA. Menzel and Roberts did not share the same views regarding classified research and both had 

experienced considerable disruption from hurtful and damaging investigations questioning their 

loyalty to the United States. They also were suspect by factions within the astronomical community 

debating the form and character of a national optical observatory. See Bassi (2015), 91–97.

189. The discussion here parallels Doel (1990), 137–153, and Bassi (2015).

190. “Committee on New Work Programs” to Scientific Personnel, 27 September 1954. Box 1. 

RU 175. “Graf/Keddy” files. “Survey of Staff Research Interests” and “Notes on Conference.” Folder 

“A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

191. Bowen to Bush, 7 October 1954; Leonard Carmichael to Robert R. McMath, 18 October 

1954; J. E. Graf to Carmichael, 13 October 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA. Carmichael wrote only after J. E. Graf initiated a security investigation finding no evidence of subversive connections nor that he was unfit for employment at the Smithsonian. 

He was found, moreover, to have “something the Institution could use.”

192. Robert R. McMath to Carmichael, 12 November 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.
302 • Notes

193. Edmondson (1997), 29. Quoted from a “memorandum of conversation” between 

Carmichael and R. R. McMath.

194. Notes on phone call from Menzel; notes from conference with Spitzer, 4 November 1954. 

Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA. George Field, a 

Spitzer student at Princeton, was about to complete his thesis on applying plasma physics to stellar 

atmospheres.

195. Carmichael to Bowen, 21 December 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the 

Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

196. Buck to Menzel, 14 April 1953. Dean’s Papers UAIII 5.55.26. HUA; “Notes on conference 

between LC and Dr. Richard Nelson Thomas of Harvard,” 15 December 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” 

Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA. R. N. Thomas to Whipple, 29 December 

1954. FLW SIA. Box 2. Folder “Harvard University 1943–1961.” Box 2. RU 7431 SIA. Doel (1990), 

137–153, has discussed the solar associates, including a telling diagram by Thomas.

197. Bowen to Bush, 7 October 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

198. “Notes on conference between LC and Bowen,” 7 December 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” 

Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

199. Goldberg to Carmichael, 20 December 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the 

Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

200. Hunsaker to Carmichael, n.d. clipped to 17 December 1954, Carmichael to Hunsaker. 

Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

201. Leonard Carmichael, “Telephone Conversation with Dr. Donald H. Menzel,” 20 December 

1954. Folder “Whipple 1954–1955.” Box 24. RU 50. SIA.

202. Doel (1990), fig. 2. “Notes on conference between LC and Dr. Richard Nelson Thomas 

of Harvard,” 15 December 1954. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” 

RU 50. SIA. R. N. Thomas to Whipple, 29 December 1954. Folder “Harvard University 1943–1961.” 

Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

203. Roberts to Carmichael, 5 January 1955. Folder “APO General Correspondence.” Box 15 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA. Graf to Carmichael, via Keddy, clipped to Roberts to 

Carmichael, 5 January 1955. “APO Correspondence M–R (1951–1964).” Box 16. RU 50. SIA.

204. Carmichael response to Roberts’s 5 January letter, 27 January 1955. “APO Correspondence 

M–R (1951–1964),” Box 16 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

205. Roberts to Carmichael, 5 February 1955. “APO Correspondence M–R (1951–1964).” 

Box 16 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

206. Graf to Carmichael, 16 February 1955. “APO Correspondence M–R (1951–1964).” Box 16 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

207. Menzel to Dean McGeorge Bundy, 19 January; 24 January 1955. Dean’s Papers, 

“Correspondence 1954–1955 Harvard College Observatory,” Dean of the FAS. UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

208. Menzel to Bundy 24 January 1955. Menzel had also been spearheading an effort by East 

Coast institutions to establish a radio astronomy consortium. The cross-field nature of this research 

effort naturally promoted multi-institutional collaborations. See Munns (2003), 101, and Munns 

(2013), 157; Needell (1987), 261–288.

209. Bundy to “Dear Nate” 26 January 1955. Dean’s Papers, “Correspondence 1954–1955 

Harvard College Observatory,” Dean of the FAS. UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.
Notes • 303

210. Bundy to “Dear Nate” 26 January 1955. Dean’s Papers, “Correspondence 1954–1955 

Harvard College Observatory,” Dean of the FAS. UAIII 5.55.26. HUA.

211. Whipple OHI (1977), 81.

212. Whipple to Burbidge, 27 March 1964. Folder “B.” Box 7. RU 7431. SIA. Despite Whipple’s 

contentions, Harvard was certainly not unfriendly to contracting. During the period 1940 to 1954 

they amounted to some 16 percent of Harvard’s operations. See Keller and Keller (2001), 179.

213. On Orbiter, see Neufeld (2000), 231–257, and (2007), 304–305.

214. He was acceptable as a research associate. Bundy to Menzel, 3 December 1956. Harvard 

College Observatory Council (HCOC) 55/56. RU 7431-2. SIA.

215. E. O. Hulburt, director of research at the Naval Research Laboratory, had been trying 

to bring Whipple to the NRL since 1950. Whipple’s indirect methods of utilizing meteor trails for 

upper air studies were then proving valuable as calibrations of in situ measurements from rockets. At 

first, Hulburt wanted him to head their Optics Division. Then in June 1955, anticipating retirement, 

Hulburt asked Whipple to be his successor. Whipple refused, fearing the “politically befuddled atmosphere of Washington.” Quotes from Whipple to Hulburt, 16 September 1955. See also Hulburt to 

Whipple, 10 January 1950; 3 June 1955; 13 July 1955; 28 July 1955; Whipple to Hulburt, 16 January 

1950; 26 July 1955. “NRL Correspondence.” RU 7431. SIA.

216. Keddy, “for the Record,” 11 March 1955. “APO Future.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

217. Aldrich to Carmichael, 25 October 1954; Carmichael to Aldrich, 2 November 1954; 

Aldrich to Carmichael, 14 January 1955. “APO General Corr.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

218. Graf to Carmichael, n.d. “APO General Corr.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA. “APO General Corr.”

219. Carmichael to Whipple, n.d. “Never Sent.” “APO—Harvard College.” Box 16. RU 50. SIA.

220. Menzel to Bundy, 16 March 1955. “APO Future.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

221. Carmichael to Whipple, 9 May 1955; Whipple to Carmichael, 5 May 1955; “Memorandum, 

Telephone Conversation with Dr. Whipple,” 22 May 1955; Carmichael to Menzel, 21 June 1955. 

Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

222. Carmichael to Whipple, 9 May 1955.

223. Carmichael to Franklin Floate, 11 June 1956. APO Harvard Observatory Building 

1955–1963. Box 17. RU 50. SIA.

224. “Minutes—HCOC.” 11 March 1955. “HCOC 55/56.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

225. Whipple to Keddy, undated, clipped to Keddy to Whipple, 18 March 1955, containing a 

draft of Aldrich to “Staff of the Division of Astrophysical Research, Astrophysical Observatory,” and 

comment dated 25 March 1955. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” 

RU 50. SIA.

226. Sterne to Menzel, 18 June 1955. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

227. Menzel to Carmichael, 28 June 1955. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA. On Sterne’s background, see “Sterne, Theodore.” Box 5. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA. 

See also Bergin (2000), 70.

228. Menzel to Bundy, 8 December 1955. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

229. Max Krook, “Interstellar Matter and the Solar Constant,” in Shapley, ed. (1953).

230. Menzel to Bundy, 8 December 1955. RU 7431. Box 2. HCOC 55/56. Whipple Papers.

231. On Project Lincoln, see Slayton (2012), 255–262. There are numerous parallels in this case 

study, with the notable exception that SAO was not considered, then or now, a military laboratory 

explicitly focused on defense research.
304 • Notes

232. Menzel to Bundy, 8 December 1955. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Hynek is popularly remembered as an advocate for the scientific study of unidentified flying objects. Balanced 

insights into his efforts can be gleaned from Jacobs (1975) and Dick (1996).

233. Menzel to Bundy, 8 December 1955. Other names Menzel mentioned whom they might be 

looking at included Guido Műnch of Caltech and Allan Sandage of the Mount Wilson and Palomar 

observatories.

234. Whitney OHI (2005), 22. Hoffleit (2000).

235. Whitney OHI (2005), 22, 27–28.

236. Keller and Keller (2001), 337.

237. Menzel to Bundy, 8 December 1955. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

238. Sterne to Carmichael, 31 January 1956, clipped to Carmichael to Whipple, 8 February 

1956. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

239. “HCOC Minutes” folder. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

240. Whipple to Bundy, 15 February 1956. “SAO/CfA Historical Information 2 of 2.” Box 1. 

Acc. 04-183. SIA. On the issue of retaining staff, see Keller and Keller (2001), 67–68.

241. Whipple to Bundy, 15 February 1956.

242. Whipple to Bundy, 15 February 1956.

243. Pusey to Bundy, 20 March 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

244. Pusey to Bundy, 20 March 1956.

245. The fact that Bart Bok, Harvard’s strongest advocate for radio astronomy, had loudly 

announced that he planned to leave Harvard did not help one bit. Replacing him became a “matter 

of urgent concern.” Pusey to Bundy, 20 March 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Bok had 

options such as becoming “Director of Research” of the new “National Radio Observatory” when it 

was funded. There was also an offer to be director of the Commonwealth Observatory in Australia. 

Bok even felt he was at odds with Whipple and Menzel over what type of radio facility was needed. 

Bok wanted to optimize for 21-cm studies of galactic structure, whereas, as he recalled, Whipple 

urged meteor-echo work to study the physics of the upper atmosphere. Bok to Carmichael, 4 February 

1955; Carmichael to Bok, 17 February 1955. “APO General Correspondence A–K (1950–1962).” 

Box 15. RU 50. SIA. On Bok’s claims, see Bok OHI (May 1978), 38–40, 99, 103–105. AIP. Levy (1993).

246. Menzel and Whipple to Bundy, 6 April 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

247. Menzel and Whipple to Bundy, 6 April 1956, 3. One matter Menzel raised illuminates the 

excruciatingly slow liberalization of the entrenched elitism on college campuses, especially Harvard. 

Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin was designated Phillips Astronomer in 1938, but was still not of professorial rank. Struve chided Harvard: “She enjoys a world-wide reputation and clearly deserves this 

recognition from Harvard.” Although Pusey initially turned her case back to Menzel and the HCOC, 

they fought back with a strong endorsement in April, which ultimately made her the first tenured 

woman at Harvard to become a full professor. DeVorkin (2000a), 204–205.

248. Menzel and Whipple to Bundy, second letter, 6 April 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 

7431. SIA.

249. To make sure this suggestion was dead on arrival, he had his office draft a new policy limiting the nature of any academic relationship for a full-time employee of the Smithsonian Institution. 

Carmichael to Whipple, 17 April 1956. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

250. Munns (2003), 109.
Notes • 305

251. Menzel to Bundy, 20 June 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Menon headed the 

radio group till late 1958. On T. K. Menon’s life, see T. K. Menon, “The Discovery of the First HI Shell 

in the Galaxy,” in Seeing through the Dust, ed. A. R. Taylor, T. L. Landecker, and A.G. Willis, ASP 

Conference Series, vol. 276 (San Francisco: Astronomical Society of the Pacific, 2002), 23–26.

252. Struve to Menzel, 9 July 1956; Bowen to Menzel, 18 July 1956. Support for Gold also came 

from Arthur Kantrowitz to Menzel, 31 July 1956; D. R. Bates to Menzel, 31 July 1956; Harold Spencer 

Jones to Menzel, 1 August 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

253. Menzel to Bundy, 9 November 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

254. Vestine to Pusey 17 October 1956; “HCOC Minutes,” 8 November 1956, 2. HCOC 55/56. 

Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

255. Menzel to Bundy, 16 November 1956; Menzel to Reynolds, 26 October 1956. HCOC 

55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

256. “HCOC Minutes,” 1 March 1956, 1. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

257. Velma A. Adams to Harvard College Observatory Council, 18 June 1956. HCOC 55/56. 

Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Adams was replaced by Helen Federer as administrative assistant and Rose 

Murray as executive secretary, who would oversee the growing secretarial and clerical staff, with 

administrative oversight for the maintenance staff and the “maids.” Managing contracts and grants 

alone required full-time attention but she went on to list dozens of other duties and presumed responsibilities. Memorandum, Velma to “Dr. Whipple,” 3 May 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

258. “HCOC Minutes,” 1 March 1956, 1. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

259. Menzel and Whipple both became deeply involved in the deliberations over a national 

observatory, taking major roles in various aspects of the negotiation leading to its definition and 

management. See Edmondson (1997), 60–67, and England (1982), 290–292. On Menzel’s role in the 

establishment of the National Radio Astronomy Observatory, see England (1982), 284–287.

260. England (1982), 280–286.

261. Menzel to Putnam, 13 November 1956. HCOC 55/56. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. On YerkesMcDonald, see Osterbrock (1997) and Evans and Mulholland (1986). And on the Mount WilsonCaltech-Palomar arrangement, see Osterbrock (1992); Florence (1994), ch. 29. See McCray (2004a), 

chs. 1, 2, for an overview of the state of telescope building in the 1950s.

262. Menzel to Putnam, 13 November 1956.

263. Menzel to Putnam, 13 November 1956.

264. Menzel to Putnam, 13 November 1956.

265. This would include Armagh in “Northern Ireland,” Dunsink in “Southern Ireland,” and 

observatories in Sweden, Germany (Hamburg), and Belgium. They would manage an old 60-inch 

telescope as well as its newer and highly innovative Armagh-Dunsink-Harvard (ADH) wide-field 

Baker-Schmidt reflector. On the ADH, see Lindsay (1953), 140–146. This was the largest expression 

of James Baker’s modification of the original Schmidt design.

266. Menzel to Carmichael, 28 June 1955. Folder “A.P.O. Future.” Box 15 “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

267. Mother to Dorrit, 20 June 1955. Hoffleit Papers. Schlesinger Library. Radcliffe.

268. On the decision for Vanguard instead of Orbiter, see Green and Lomask (1970), ch. 3.

269. Whipple to Keddy, 26 February 1957. “Organization Charts.” Box 19. RU 50. SIA.

270. McCray (2008), ch. 4.
306 • Notes

271. Muir-Harmony (2012); Hayes (1967).

272. Burgers (1957).

273. Whipple to Carmichael, 25 May 1956. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

274. It was later designated the third such world symposium on cosmic aerodynamics; the first 

two, held under the auspices of the International Astronomical Union, occurred in Paris in 1949 and 

Cambridge, England, in 1953.

275. Fred Whipple, “The Committee on Needs of Astronomy,” 3 April 1955. Folder “N.” Box 15. 

HUG 4876. HUA.

276. Whipple, “The Committee,” 4.

277. DeVorkin (2000b); Whipple (1956).

278. Quote from https://siarchives.si.edu/history/joseph-henry (accessed 24 March 2017).

279. Whipple (1956), iii–iv.

280. Toward a Fuller Understanding of the Universe (Cambridge, MA: Harvard College 

Observatory, 1956).

Chapter 4 – Whither the Solar Constant: A Referendum 

on Basic Research 

281. Carmichael, draft letter to Whipple, n.d., ca. spring 1955. “Whipple 1954–1955.” Box 24. 

RU 50. SIA.

282. Hufbauer (1991), 154–156.

283. R. N. Thomas to Whipple, 1 March 1955. “SAO/CfA Historical Information 2 of 2.” Box 1. 

Acc. 04-183. SIA.

284. Fred Whipple, “Future Research Plans,” 11 November 1955. Copies to “DHM and CHPG.” 

“SAO/CfA Historical Information 2 of 2.” Box 1. Acc. 04-183. SIA.

285. Indeed, as John Keddy reported to Leonard Carmichael in the latter part of 1955, SAO 

and Whipple were “almost wholly absorbed in the Satellite Tracking Program.” Keddy to Carmichael, 

undated. “APO Budget 1955–56.” Box 12 “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” RU 50. SIA.

286. Whipple, “Future Research Plans,” 11 November 1955, 3.

287. Whipple to Sterne, 27 September 1955. Folder “Sterne, Theodore.” Box 5. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

288. Struve’s remarks, in P. Th. Oosterhoff, ed., Transactions of the International Astronomical 

Union IX 1955 (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press, 1957), 14–15.

289. Whipple to Sterne, 27 September 1955. Folder “Sterne, Theodore.” Box 5. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

290. “Board Room SI October 3, 1955.” This document was part of a historical file that was 

deposited in the SI archives well after his primary collection. Evidently, given the nature of these 

two folders, he made an effort to reserve these documents for a possible history of his involvement in creating the SAO. “SAO/CfA Historical Information 2 of 2.” Box 1. Acc. 04-183. SIA.

291. Whipple to Sterne, 13 February 1956. “SAO/CfA Historical Information 2 of 2.” Box 1. 

Acc. 04-183. SIA.
Notes • 307

292. Whipple to Sterne, 4.

293. Whipple to Keddy, 26 February 1957. “Organization Charts.” Box 19. RU 50. SIA.

294. Newcomb, a legendary name in American mathematical astronomy, had no obvious connection to either the Smithsonian or Harvard, though he trained at the latter under Benjamin Peirce. 

He was also antithetical to astrophysics. “Astrophysicist Gets 2 Posts,” New York Times, 20 July 1956, 4.

295. Whipple to Sterne, 21 November 1956. Folder “Sterne, Theodore.” Box 5. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

296. Aldrich to Whipple, 24 June 1955. “Aldrich.” Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

297. Keddy to Carmichael, 28 July 1955. “Phone conversation with Dr. Whipple July 27, 1955 

relative to APO matters.” “APO Administrative.” Box 11. RU 50. SIA.

298. Butler was one of several to write Whipple about the fate of the instrumentation there, 

particularly a Dobson spectrograph that had been in use since 1928 and was potentially available to 

anyone who might have a use for it. See Annals of the Astrophysical Observatory of the Smithsonian 

Institution, vol. 5, ch. 1 (1932), 55.

299. Preston Butler to John Graf, 6 January 1957. “APO General Corr.” Box 15.

RU 50. SIA.

300. On his visit to Table Mountain, see Whipple to Stanley Aldrich, 25 September 1956. “APO 

General Correspondence A–K.” Box 15. RU 50. SIA.

301. Sterne and Dieter (1957), 147.

302. Sterne and Dieter (1959), 9–12.

303. Carmichael to Sterne via Whipple, 16 July 1957. “APO Administration.” Box 11. 

RU 50. SIA.

304. Carmichael to Sterne via Whipple, 2.

305. Carmichael to Sterne via Whipple, 2.

306. See numerous letters between 1954 and the 1960s in “Secretaries—Abbot, Charles Greeley 

1945–.” Box 192. RU 50. SIA. Abbot also sent a particularly strong endorsement from A. Ångström: 

Abbot to Whipple, 27 June 1955. “Abbot” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA. Ångström, the retired head 

of the Swedish Meteorological Service, quipped, “I think scientists are apt to be too skeptical against 

periods—especially if the periods are not their own.”

307. Carmichael to Commander, Air Force Cambridge Research Center, 3 August 1956. 

“Abbot” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

308. Abbot to Carmichael, 27 May 1963. “Secretaries—Abbot, Charles Greeley 1945–.” 

Box 192. RU 50. SIA. Carmichael to Abbot, 3 August 1956. “Abbot” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

309. Carmichael to Sterne via Whipple, 16 July 1957. Both Graf ’s and Keddy’s initials at the 

bottom of the internal copy of this letter indicate that they had a strong hand in drafting it.

310. Keddy to Whipple, 11 July 1955; 5 January 1956; 3 July 1956. “APO Administration.” Box 

11. RU 50. SIA.

311. Carmichael to Sterne via Whipple, 16 July 1957. “APO Administration.” Box 11. 

RU 50. SIA.

312. “Meeting, Regents Room.” 23 August 1957. “August 23, 1957 meeting.” Box 19. 

RU 50. SIA.

313. “Meeting, Regents Room,” 4.
308 • Notes

314. Sterne to Carmichael through Whipple, 10 September 1957. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. 

RU 7431. SIA. “Backwaters” from Whipple to Sterne, 27 September 1955. “Theodore Sterne” folder. 

Box 5. RU 7431. SIA.

315. Sterne to Carmichael, 10 September 1957.

316. Sterne to Carmichael.

317. Sterne to Carmichael, 5.

318. Sterne to Carmichael, 10.

319. Carmichael to Whipple, 11 October 1957. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7 431. SIA.

320. Abbot (1958b), quote on 21.

321. Carmichael to Whipple, 14 October 1957. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA, copy 

in RU 50. Box 11. “APO” folder, with copies to Eisenhart and Keddy, noting that Graf and Keddy 

prepared the draft.

322. Carmichael to Whipple, 14 October 1957. Emphasis in original.

323. Carmichael to Whipple, 14 October 1957.

324. Sterne to Whipple, 31 October 1957. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

325. In 1962, the Smithsonian transferred its U.S. Forest Service lease for Table Mountain to 

NASA’s Jet Propulsion Laboratory. See http://tmf-web.jpl.nasa.gov/index.html and http://tmoa.jpl.

nasa.gov/History2.htm (accessed 17 March 2012). For a sense of the descendants, see Klett (1992), 

119–120.

326. Carmichael to Whipple, 8 March 1961. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

327. Carmichael to Whipple, 8 March 1961; Whipple to Carmichael, 9 March 1961. 

“Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

328. Hufbauer (1991) offers the most comprehensive review and analysis, 165–176, and especially ch. 7, “The Inconstant Sun.” See also Hoyt (1979) for a discussion of the failure of the program 

and its importance for climate change studies, and Newkirk (1983), 429–467, on 446.

329. Foukal et al. (1977), 954–955. But there was some substance in the long record of 

Smithsonian data. Discrepancies between the Mariner 6 and Mariner 7 data stimulated a retracing 

that confirmed that there was a modulation in solar irradiance at Earth’s surface caused by the presence of active regions on the Sun. The modulation was neither direct nor visible from Earth. Newkirk 

(1983), 446.

330. Dupree, “Paths to the Sixties,” in Arm (1965), 3.

331. In conformance with Peter Galison’s view of how experiments end, “as [the] progressively 

refined articulation of a set of phenomena.” Galison (1987), 127.

Chapter 5 – Optical Satellite Tracking: Establishing 

the Smithsonian’s Central Role 

332. Cornell OHI (2010), 188–189, reading excerpts from working notes prepared for Irwin 

Shapiro’s remarks in an appreciation of Whipple’s contributions.

333. Thomas (1963); Hayes (1967); Green and Lomask (1970); McCray (2008); Muir-Harmony 

(2009). For a technical treatment: Veis (1963).
Notes • 309

334. TPESP minutes, meetings 4 and 5, cited in Green and Lomask (1970), 149.

335. Leland Cunningham to Whipple, 30 July 1955. Folder “C-D-E-F.” Box 14. Whipple Papers. 

HUG 4876. HUA.

336. Needell (2000), 336–340, on 339.

337. Whipple (1992), 132. On the committee and its decisions, see Michael Neufeld (2000), 

240; Needell (2000), 343–345; Green and Lomask (1970), 97–98. See also Hayes (1962), 282.

338. Bergaust and Beller (1956), 36; Needell (2000), 344.

339. “Minutes of the Special Meeting LPR Committee Technical Panel on Rocketry USNC for 

the IGY,” reprinted in Logsdon et al (1995), 299–315.

340. Green and Lomask (1970), 146, citing Corliss (1967), chs. 2, 14.

341. Henry B. Allen (Franklin Institute) to Whipple, 12 October 1955. Folder “C-D-E-F.” Box 

14. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

342. Whipple to Carmichael, 9 November 1955, enclosing a copy of a paper he was to present 

at the American Astronomical Society in Troy on Nov. 12. Folder “Whipple, Fred L. (APO) 1954–

1955.” Box 24. RU 50. SIA.

343. Quotes from Whipple to Hulburt, 16 September 1955. See also Hulburt to Whipple, 10 

January 1950; 3 June 1955; 13 July 1955; 28 July 1955; Whipple to Hulburt, 16 January 1950; 26 July 

1955. Whipple Papers, NRL Correspondence. HUG 4876.808. HUA.

344. Singer OHI (1991), 30–32. Whipple did not meet the same fate as Fred Singer, who, in the 

wake of the decision for Vanguard, was effectively frozen out of the continued satellite instrumentation deliberations, even though he made entreaties. On his proposals to the NSA, see Singer, via J. 

Crone, to Director, NSA, 14 September 1955. “Ranger Box 110.7.” “Maryland 55-59” folder. Singer 

Papers, NASM.

345. “Outline of Conference in Los Angeles 16 July 1955 on Proposed Artificial Satellite 

Program—Project Orbiter,” notes by Frank Estabrook, OOR western branch, 16 July 1955. Office of 

Ordnance Research. Courtesy M. Neufeld. See Neufeld (2000).

346. Tombaugh, in fact, had been no stranger to competition; at White Sands, he faced the 

same sort of skepticism from radio technicians and traditional tracking specialists, but as he and 

others well knew, a combination of as many techniques as possible, limited only by budget, was the 

right course to take. See DeVorkin (1992), 112–113.

347. By the mid-1950s, he and his staff took some 15,000 photographs at varying tracking 

rates, and believed they were picking up some evidence for near-Earth bodies. Roemer (1971), 643. 

See also Tombaugh et al. (1959), 110.

348. “Outline of Conference,” Estabrook notes.

349. E. P. Martz Jr. to Gerhard Heller, 22; 24 August 1954. Von Braun Papers, Huntsville, courtesy M. Neufeld. See also document 11-7, Wernher von Braun, “A Minimum Satellite Vehicle: Based 

on components available from missile developments of the Army Ordnance Corps,” 15 September 

1954. In Logsdon, et al, eds. (1995), 274–281, on 280.

350. Joseph Kaplan to “Dear Dr. . . . ,” 2 October 1955, reprinted in Logsdon (2001), 57–58, 

contained within USNC, “Minutes,” First Meeting TPESP Technical Panel on the Earth Satellite 

Program.

351. As derived from general comments in McCrosky OHI (2005).

352. Rinehart (1999), 146.
310 • Notes

353. Rinehart (1999), 119.

354. Whipple to Carmichael, 23 September 1955. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

355. Whipple to Rinehart, 11 July 1955. Folder “R.” Box 16. Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

356. Whipple to Frederick J. Maxwell, 7 December 1955. Folder “M—Meteor Project.” Box 15. 

Whipple Papers. HUG 4876. HUA.

357. Generally regarded as terminal ballistics, which included the study of high-speed penetration of gaseous and metallic media, the nature of resultant impact cratering, mechanisms of 

spalling and fracturing, and means to prevent these erosive processes.

358. Memo from Keddy to Whipple and Rinehart, 4 June 1956. “APO Air Force Cooperation 

File 1956–1959.” Box 12. RU 50. SIA.

359. Keddy memo, 4 June 1956.

360. Whipple to Carmichael, 25 July 1956. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

361. E. P. Henderson to Keddy. “Meteorites and Ballistics,” 20 March 1958. “APO General 

Correspondence M–R 1951–1964.” Box 16. RU 50. SIA.

362. Henderson to Rinehart, 25 April 1958, with comment by Cooper dated 28 April, clipped 

to Rinehart to Henderson, 14 May 1958. “Henderson, E. P.” Box 13. RU 188. SIA.

363. Rinehart (1999), 148.

364. http://www.nmt.edu/new-giving/endowments-and-funds/3337-dr-john-s-rinehart-memorial-endowment.

365. Henderson felt considerable pressure to build his collection and maintain the authority 

of the National Museum and was annoyed with Whipple for being critical of H. H. Nininger. Roy 

S. Clarke Jr., Howard Plotkin, and Timothy J. McCoy, “Meteorites and the Smithsonian Institution,” 

in McCall et al., eds. (2006), 250–251. On contentions between factions in meteoritics, see Plotkin 

(1997), 32–38.

366. Clarke et al., in McCall et al., eds. (2006), 250–251.

367. Rinehart (1999), 150. See also Marvin (1992).

368. Whipple and Spitzer, “Tentative Optical Observing Program for Earth Satellites, undated 

report (November 1955).” Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1955.” Box 13. RU 50. “Office of the 

Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

369. “Tentative Optical Observing Program.”

370. “Tentative.” See McCray (2008), 67–68.

371. “Tentative,” 5–6.

372. “Tentative,” 7.

373. “Tentative,” 6–9. Whipple and Spitzer also briefly considered, but rejected, an old suggestion by Ernst Öpik to use a fixed camera with periodic oscillatory motion.

374. “Tentative,” 9–10.

375. “Proposal for the Initiation of an Optical Tracking and Scientific Analysis Program for 

the U.S. Earth Satellite Program,” 26 November 1955. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1955.” Box 13. 

RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

376. Whipple to Carmichael, with cover Keddy to Carmichael, 26 November 1955. Folder 

“Earth Satellite Program, 1955.” Box 13. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.
Notes • 311

377. Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution, Publication 4272 

(Washington, DC: U.S. Government Printing Office, 1957), 69.

378. Letter from Hugh Odishaw to USNC Executive Committee, 30 November 1955. “6.11 

Earth Satellite Program, Project 30.3.” “Smithsonian Inst: Initial Dev. of Optical Tracking System, 

1955–1959, IGY/NAS.” Cited in Muir-Harmony (2009), 19, ref. 31.

379. Whipple, “Proposal for the Initiation of an Optical Tracking and Scientific Analysis 

Program for the U.S. Earth Satellite Program,” 29 November 1955. Two short descriptions of these 

functions after they were later assumed by the SAO are Gingerich (1968) and Marsden (1988).

380. “Earth Satellite Program, 6.11 Project 30.3: Smithsonian Inst: Initial Dev of Optical 

Tracking System, 1955–1959.” Odishaw to Executive Committee, 30 November 1955, “Proposal for 

the Initiation of an Optical Tracking and Scientific Analysis Program for the U.S. Earth Satellite 

Program.” Quotation from appended letter, Kaplan to Waterman requesting grant for the STP, 

5 December 1955. NAS Records courtesy Muir-Harmony.

381. Green and Lomask (1970), 146, citing Corliss et al. (1967), 14.

382. Charles A. Whitney and George Veis, “A Flashing Satellite for Geodetic Studies,” SAO 

Special Report no. 19 (1958): 9–20. Acknowledges discussions with Davis, H. E. Edgerton, Jacchia, 

McCrosky, and Whipple.

383. Davis OHI (2005), 26–28. NASM/AIP.

384. On Stanton, see Hon. Ralph M. Hall, “Tribute to Inventor Austin Stanton,” Congressional 

Record 141, no. 40 (3 March 1995). Extensions of Remarks, p. E508. http://www.gpo.gov.

385. Whipple, “Proposal for the Initiation of an Optical Tracking Network,” 29 November 

1955, 3, 6, attached to Carmichael to Odishaw, 29 November 1955.

386. Alan T. Waterman to Leonard Carmichael, 14 December 1955. “Earth Satellite Program.” 

Box 13. RU 50. SIA.

387. Whipple to Hynek, telegram, 11:45 PM, 30 December 1955. “Hynek, J. Allen.” Box 2. RU 

7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

388. Keddy to Whipple, 30 December 1955. “Keddy” folder. Box 3. RU 7431. SIA.

389. Keddy to Whipple, 28 December 1955. “Keddy” folder. Box 3. RU 7431. SIA.

390. Keddy to Whipple, 28 December 1955. Whipple and his staff would soon come to know 

the pleasures of dealing with standard forms such as SF 52, SF 57, the SI form 4 (“white”) for purchases from federal appropriations, or the “yellow” form 8 for other purchases, and the importance 

of always using the proper billing terms for his many projects, whether they be “APO-NSF Grant” for 

the $49,000 to plan the satellite-tracking facilities, or the designation “APO S&E” for actual federally 

appropriated activities.

391. Rinehart to Keddy, 3 January 1956; Keddy to Whipple, 5 January 1956. “APO General 

Correspondence M–R (1951–1968).” Box 16. RU 50. SIA.

392. Whipple to Hynek, 16 December 1955. Folder “Hynek, J. Allen.” Box 2. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

393. Hynek (1951).

394. Whipple to Hynek, 30 December 1955. Folder “Hynek, J. Allen.” Box 2. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

395. Whipple, undated notes, “STP” folder. Acc. 04-183. Box 4. SIA. Whipple to Baum, 

13 February 1956. “Baum, William A., 1956–59.” Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.
312 • Notes

396. Keddy to Whipple, 16 December 1955; 23 December 1955. “Keddy” folder. Box 3. 

RU 7431. SIA.

397. Carroll (1951), 122–123; McCrosky (1955). On McCrosky’s relationship with Whipple: 

McCrosky OHI (2005), 84.

398. Undated telegram clipped to Whipple to Otto Struve, 28 February 1956. Folder 

“Cunningham, Leland.” Box 1. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

399. Whipple to von Braun, 9 January 1956. Folder “Von Braun, Wernher.” Box 5. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

400. Von Braun to Whipple, 4 February 1956. Folder “Von Braun, Wernher.” Box 5. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

401. Vanguard Staff (1956), 46–47.

402. Whipple to Keddy, 7 February 1956. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1955.” Box 13. RU 

50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

403. Whipple to Keddy, 7 February 1956.

404. Whipple to Alan Waterman, 8 February 1956. Folder “National Science Foundation.” Box 

4. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

405. Whipple to Hynek, 26 March 1956. Folder “Hynek, J. Allen.” Box 2. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

406. Keddy to Whipple, 9 March 1956; 14 March 1956. Keddy, “Note for the Record.” Folder 

“Earth Satellite Program, 1956.” Box 13. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

407. Whipple to Graf, 30 March 1956. Folder “Graf.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Whipple’s diffidence 

toward Keddy is evident in his oral histories: Whipple OHI (1976), 11, and OHI (1977), 112.

408. Whipple to Graf, 30 March 1956. Folder “Graf.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

409. Whipple, “Proposal.” ca. April 1956. “STP” folder. Box 4. Acc. 04-183. SIA.

410. “Proposal.”

411. Green and Lomask (1970), 80–81, 89–90.

412. Green and Lomask (1970), 90.

413. Whipple, “The Satellite Program,” 12 November 1955. Text of a talk given at meeting of 

AAS in Troy, New York. Folder “Whipple, Fred, 1954–55.” Box 24. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” SIA. See also Whipple and Spitzer, “Tentative Optical Observing Program for Earth 

Satellites.”

414. Needell (2000), 336. See also Muir-Harmony (2009), 33–35.

415. “Winner: SPOT—Smithsonian Precision Optical Tracking,” “Norris, Kathryn” folder. 

Box 4. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

Chapter 6 – Satellite Tracking: Building and Operating 

the Program 

416. Both the CIA and the Office of Defense Mobilization evidently intended to fund additional Vanguards beyond the IGY period. See Needell (2000), 345.
Notes • 313

417. Baker OHI (1980), 152–153.

418. Baker OHI (1980), 153.

419. Hayes (1962), 287.

420. Hayes (1962), 293–296.

421. Hayes (1962), 22.

422. Carmichael to Whipple, 8 August 1957, re: “Immediate Crash program in Satellite 

Tracking Program Until First Camera is Approved.” Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1957.” Box 13. 

RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” Eisenhart memorandum (29 August 1957) for the file: 

placed in “Extension of Statement for the Record made August 21 1957 relative to proposed increase 

in contracts with Nunn, Boller and Chivens, Incorporated, and with Perkin-Corporation.” “STP” 

folder. Box 25. RU 522. SIA. Green and Lomask (1970) point out, without explicit documentation 

(ch. 9), that R. W. Porter had also visited Perkin-Elmer during this time, found that they had grossly 

underestimated the magnitude of the job, and so directed the Smithsonian to renegotiate the contract to allow Perkin-Elmer to at least break even. The Academy through NSF provided the funding.

423. “Minutes of administrative meeting based upon remarks by Whipple, Carmichael, Keddy, 

Eisenhart, 23 August 1957.” Folder “August 23, 1957 Meeting.” Box 19. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” SIA.

424. “Minutes of administrative meeting.”

425. In a comprehensive technical review of optical satellite tracking, Veis (1963), 284–285, 

identifies only the Baker-Nunn in the three-axis category.

426. Strömgren (October 1956), 354–355. Clyde Chivens and Harry Boller, both Caltech graduates, built specialty instruments for many uses, from motion picture editing systems to deep well 

diagnostic instruments. Chivens was well known to Mount Wilson astronomers and to the physicist 

Ira Bowen, who engaged him in several Office of Scientific Research and Development contracts. 

Bowen OHI (1969), sess. I. AIP. On Boller and Chivens, see http://bollerandchivens.com/?p=42 

(accessed 10 July 2012).

427. Eisenhart to Keddy, 28 June 1956. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1956.” Box 13. RU 50. 

“Office of the Secretary,1949–1964.” SIA.

428. Eisenhart to Keddy, 28 June 1956. Hynek to Eisenhart, August 1956. Rough-draft statement by Hynek on “the history of our relations with Joseph Nunn and Associates, Mechanical 

Engineers, of Los Angeles, California,” 3, 4–5, 7. Folder “Eisenhart 1956–1957.” Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

429. In contrast to Hynek’s own testimony to Eisenhart, Hayes asserted that Whipple and 

Hynek “had wide contacts throughout the rather specialized field of optical instrumentation” and 

were convinced they had made the best choice. Hayes (1962), 298–299. Reference deleted in Hayes 

(1967), 25.

430. Muir-Harmony thesis (2009), 33–34. “December 3, 1956 minutes of the Tracking and 

Computation Working Group,” Folder “4th meeting of Tracking and Computation,” series 4.11, IGY/

NAS. At this December meeting, Whipple also had to defend his design for the Moonwatch network 

of visual observers. The Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), long a critic of this plan, along with 

skeptical National Academy officials, had argued that professionals had to be involved, and the NRL 

even proposed its own visual tracking network. As Patrick McCray has shown, Whipple successfully 

resisted these claims, and the panel turned down the NRL proposal. See McCray (2006, 2008).

431. Muir-Harmony (2009), 35–36, 38–41.
314 • Notes

432. Muir-Harmony (2009), 49. On the delays, see 60–62.

433. Hayes (1968), 25. Hayes, however, did not emphasize the tensions that existed through 

the summer of 1957 between the Smithsonian, National Academy, industry, and SAO participants 

over the delays.

434. Hayes (1962), 320–321. Berkner’s announcement and his recollection of it are from 

Needell (2000), 346–347.

435. McCray (2008), 142; Green and Lomask (1970), ch. 9. See also “Minutes of the 12th Meeting 

of the TPESP,” 3 October 1957. NAS/IGY series 4.10.“12th Meeting.” Courtesy Muir-Harmony.

436. Needell (2000), 346–349; McCray (2008), 141; Newell (1980), 55–57.

437. K. Auchincloss and A. Friendly Jr., “Russians Launch Artificial Satellite: Scientists Here 

Direct Spotting,” Harvard Crimson, 5 October 1957. http://www.thecrimson.com/article/1957/10/5/

russians-launch-artificial-satellite-prussias-announcement/ (accessed 15 July 2012). Carmichael 

more than once reminded Whipple that public pronouncements had to be passed by him. See 

Carmichael to Whipple, 9 August 1955. Folder “Earth Satellite Program.” Box 13. RU 50. SIA. 

Whipple to Carmichael, 16 October 1956. Folder “Carmichael, Leonard.” Box 1. RU 7431. Ser. 1. 

Box 1. SIA.

438. Hayes (1967), 50–51.

439. A detailed accounting is available in Hayes (1967), ch. 2. See also McCray (2008), ch. 5.

440. “Minutes of the Fourteenth Meeting,” reprinted in Logsdon, ed. (2001), 85.

441. “Minutes,” 86.

442. Hynek to Chief of Ordnance, 2 December 1957. Folder “Small Missile Telecameras.” 

Box 130. RU 188. SIA.

443. See Muir-Harmony (2009), 63, on jurisdictional issues at the Iran site.

444. Porter to Whipple, 22 November 1957. “General Correspondence M–R.” Box 16. RU 50. 

SIA. Whipple did hire an assistant director for management in 1959, but he was vaguely positioned 

as “administrative officer” with poorly defined all-purpose duties.

445. E. Stuart Ferguson to Whipple, 11 December 1957. Resignation as executive officer of 

STP. Ferguson became an engineer for the Harvard Radio Meteor Project, but soon resigned. See 

Whipple, “Termination,” 7 December 1960. Folder “F, general.” Box 2. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

446. Carmichael to Whipple, 16 December 1957. A few days later, in a less stern mood, 

Carmichael sent Whipple an “English analysis of our problems,” sharing the fact that “you and I 

are both tarred with the brush of research administration.” The tongue-in-cheek analysis “A Fable,” 

created by E. S. Hiscocks for the National Physical Laboratory News, ended with a moral: “The camel, 

even when mangy, bears the burden of many asses.” Carmichael to Whipple, 23 December 1957, with 

attachments. Folder “Carmichael.” Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

447. “Minutes of the Fifteenth Meeting, Technical Panel for the Earth Satellite Program January 

7, 1958,” 2. Folder “ F-TPESP” (1 of 4 folders). Box 17. RU 188. SIA.

448. Memo regarding the SAO Public Information Unit and the SI Editorial and Publications 

Division, 9 January 1948. Folder “APO General Correspondence S–W 1954–1964.” Box 16. RU 50. 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

449. Carmichael to John Willard, 6 December 1957. “APO General Correspondence S–W 

1954–1964.” Box 16. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.
Notes • 315

450. Carmichael to Willard, 21 January 1958. Folder “APO General Correspondence.” Box 15. 

RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

451. Eisenhower telegram, 1 February 1958, congratulating SAO. Folder “Earth Satellite 

Program, 1958.” Box 14. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

452. Paul Hodge to Whipple, 10 February 1958. Folder “H, general.” Box 2. RU 7431. Ser. 1. 

SIA. On Whipple’s opinion of Keddy and Odishaw, see Whipple OHI (1976), 2, 11, 25, and Whipple 

OHI (1977).

453. Whipple to McCrosky, 3 March 1958. Folder “McCrosky, Richard.” Box 3. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

454. Whipple to McCrosky, 13 January 1958. Folder “McCrosky, Richard.” Box 3. RU 7431. 

Ser. 1. SIA.

455. Henize to Morgan Thomas. Folder “Iran Outgoing Correspondence 1958–59.” Box 21. 

STP/SIA. See Muir-Harmony (2009), 62–64, on the difficult initial relations in Iran and India.

456. Baker to Richard S. Perkin, 5 April 1958. Folder “Baker James G.” Box 1. RU 7431. Ser. 1. 

SIA.

457. Whipple to Baker, 9 May 1958. Folder “Baker James G.” Box 1. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA. On 

the Air Force system, see Wilkes and Gleditsch (1978), 205–225.

458. On the details, see Hayes (1967), 64–69. And on the variations, see Muir-Harmony (2009). 

See also various status reports in SI Astrophysical Observatory Quarterly Progress Report No. 5 for 

the Establishment of Optical Tracking Stations for the IGY Earth Satellite Program. Project Director: 

Whipple. Prepared by: Henize and David Self. NAS/IGY records 6.11 “Earth Satellite Program:” 

Project 30.6. STP/SIA.

459. Hayes (1967), 40–42; McCray (2008).

460. John J. Barry, VP Shawmut Bank, to Whipple, 9 December 1957. Folder “B General.” 

Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

461. Sterne (1958), 1245.

462. Jacchia (1959), 335.

463. Jacchia (1958).

464. What eventually appeared in the 16 August issue carried his past affiliations at the end of 

the article. Carmichael to Whipple, 7 March; 18 March 1958. Folder “Whipple, Fred L. (APO) 1958.” 

Box 24. RU 50. SIA. Whipple to Carmichael, 26 March 1958. Folder “C.” RU 7431. SIA. Whipple 

(1958a), 32–33, reprinted in Whipple (1972a).

465. Maynard and Co., “An Administrative Analysis of the Optical Satellite Tracking Program,” 

11 April 1958. “Earth Satellite Program, 1958.” Box 14. RU 50. SIA. Hereinafter “Willard Report.”

466. “Willard Report,” 1, 4.

467. “Willard Report,” 4–5.

468. “Willard Report,” 5.

469. “Willard Report,” pt. 2, 2.

470. “Willard Report,” pt. 2, 3–4.

471. “Willard Report,” 10 and chart D. See also Organization Chart, “Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory,” 25 March 1957, with annotation dated 3 April 1957. Folder “APO Organization.” Box 

19. RU 50. SIA.
316 • Notes

472. Rinehart (1999), 152, recalled he privately felt it was something of a “hodgepodge . . . a 

fact that often made me uneasy.” See also McCrosky OHI (2005), 64–65; Avrett OHI (2005), 28–30; 

Whitney OHI (2005), 30. Whitney describes Whipple’s management style as a network of “invisible 

threads in a well-built suit” crediting Whipple with the metaphor, 36.

473. “1/3 of 112 people × average of 20 minutes per day × 5 days × 52 weeks = 3235 hours.” 

“Willard Report,” pt. 2, 22.

474. “Willard Report,” pt. 2, 13.

475. “Willard Report,” 14.

476. “Willard Report,” 26, emphasis in original.

477. See “NSF” folder. Box 4. RU 7431. SIA.

478. “Statement by the President released to press,” 29 July 1958. Folder “National Aeronautics 

and Space Admin. 1958.” Box 258. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

479. Roland (1985). Carmichael to T. Keith Glennan, 20 August 1958. Folder “National 

Aeronautics and Space Admin. 1958.” Box 258. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

480. Hugh Odishaw to Carmichael, 30 December 1958. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1959.” 

Box 14. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

481. Hayes (1967), 124–126; McCray (2008), 226–228.

482. Hayes (1967), 110–111.

483. FLW to A. L. Loomis, 9 April 1958. Folder “L, general.” Box 3. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

484. James Bradley to Fred Whipple, 26 January 1959. “STP-NSF Correspondence, 102.” Box 1. 

RU 522. SIA. Announcing Bradley’s retirement in Smithsonian Year 1972, Ripley added: “His ability 

to handle the various threads of administration and to support the Secretary’s Office in all its aspects 

has been outstanding and one of my personal pleasures is the fact that he will continue to work for 

the Institution on a part-time basis in the future.” S. Dillon Ripley, “Statement of the Secretary,” in 

Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution for the Year Ended 30 June 1972 (Washington, DC: 

Smithsonian Institution Press, 1972), 14.

485. J. E. Luton (NSF) to Keddy, 9 February 1959. “STP-NSF Correspondence, 102.” Box 1. RU 

522. SIA.

486. D. L. O’Hara to James C. Bradley, 1 March 1959. “STP-NSF Correspondence, 102.” 

Box 1. RU 522. SIA. Most critically, the Baker-Nunn stations needed to add staff partly to handle the ever-increasing numbers of satellites to track. Keddy to Odishaw, 12 August 1958. Folder 

“Operation of Optical Tracking Stations: 1956–1963.” NAS IGY records 6.1 Earth Satellite Program: 

Project 30.8. SIA.

487. “Helter Skelter,” The Washington Post and Times Herald, 3 March 1959, A14. “Critical 

Statements in the Press,” James Bradley to Carmichael. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1959.” 

Box 14. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

488. On 12 March, Hynek responded to the question whether “the rivalry among American 

agencies engaged in space programs delayed the tracking of the Discoverer satellite.” SIA. Hynek 

called it all a “misunderstanding,” in that he meant only “as far as the capabilities of the system were 

concerned, we certainly could have tracked it.” Missile Development and Space Sciences: Hearings 

before Committee on Science and Astronautics, 86 Cong., 1st Sess. (1959) (statement of J. Allen 

Hynek), 480–482. George B. Findley, “Project Space Track. A Method of Predicting Satellite Decay,” 

April 1961, Proj. 1772, Task 17721 ESD TH61 38. Folder “Earth Satellite Program, 1959.” Box 14. 

RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.
Notes • 317

489. Whipple OHI (1976), 17–19.

490. Bradley OHI No. 5 (1975), 119. RU 9515.005. SIA.

491. Fred L Whipple to Carmichael. 9 April 1959. “Admin. 1958-88.” Box 1. Acc. 04-183. SIA. 

Both the original and carbon were found only in Whipple’s file.

492. McCrosky OHI (2005), 103. The Mitre connection is from McGrath OHI, 42–43. On 

Tillinghast, see “Carlton W. Tillinghast, Jr., 1933–1969,” SAO News 9, no. 9 (September 1969): 1.

493. Porter to Whipple, 22 November 1957. Folder “General Correspondence M–R.” Box 16. 

RU 50. SIA.

494. Whipple OHI (1976).

495. J. Alan Hynek to STP Staff, 3 October 1958. “First Anniversary of Sputnik,” “Historical 

Sputnik.” Box 4. Acc. 04-183. SIA. McCray (2008) has explored the ramifications of this letter in 

some depth, especially Hynek’s recognition of Moonwatch contributions.

496. James Bradley, Memorandum,” 3 February 1959. “Bradley, James C.” Box 1; also folder 

“Earth Satellite Program, 1959.” Box 14. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

497. “Smithsonian Institution Astrophysical Observatory Civilian Personnel,” 8 December 

1958. “NASA APO Reports.” Box 258. RU 50. SIA.

498. Whipple to Bundy, 10 October 1958. Documents: “APO Harvard Observatory Building 

1955–1963” and “Space Required by the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.” Box 17. 

RU 50. SIA.

499. Whipple to Bundy, 10 October 1958, 1–2.

500. McCray (2008), 53, 187.

501. Galison, “The Many Faces of Big Science,” in Galison and Hevly, eds. (1992), 2.

502. Menzel to Bundy, 10 November 1958. Notes the understaffing of HCO and how the SAO 

“has come to our rescue” with regard to staff. “HCO Council, 1957–59.” Box 2. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

503. T. Keith Glennan, “Statement,” 27 January 1960, 11. “National Aeronautics and Space 

Administration Press Releases.” Box 259. RU 50. SIA.

Chapter 7 – Organizing for Space Research 

504. Portions of this chapter are based on DeVorkin (2005), 229–250, and DeVorkin, “The 

Space Age and Disciplinary Change in Astronomy,” in Dick (2010).

505. Davis OHI (2005), www.aip.org/history/ohilist/32148.html (accessed 27 December 

2011).

506. “Space Research Meeting,” 4 February 1958. Davis Papers, author’s files, source: R. Davis.

507. Davis, “Space Research Meeting.” See also DeVorkin (2005), 234–237.

508. Davis, “Space Research Meeting.”

509. Undated memo from Cecilia Payne-Gaposchkin (1958 undated). “HCO Council, 1957–59.” 

Box 2. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

510. Davis, “Space Research Meeting,” table II.

511. LeCompte (1962); Bushnell (1962). Variants in spelling of Cat Eye are in Gebel and Wylie, 

(1958), 84.
318 • Notes

512. Gebel, at Wright-Patterson since 1948 and searching for solutions to low-light-level 

problems, by the late 1950s claimed light-level gains on the order of 1 billion working with RCA 

and Westinghouse contractors and using Image Orthicon imaging components. LeCompte (1962), 

10–12.

513. Through 1957, Gebel tested his device using a small telescope at a local observatory at 

Wittenberg University, Springfield, Ohio, and was confident of success. Gebel and Wylie (1958), 

84–85.

514. Simons to Whipple et al., 29 November; 13 December 1957. Folder “Report on Operation 

Manhigh II.” “Correspondence, 1948–1974.” Box 1 (2.1.08). Hynek Papers. Northwestern University.

515. R. Aikens et al. (1960), 339. Hynek continued to develop applications for the image 

orthicon after he moved to Dearborn Observatory.

516. Robert J. Davis, “Ultraviolet Stellar Magnitudes,” in Van Allen, ed. (1956), 157–165.

517. Robert J. Davis, SF57 (issued and revised March 1961), “Application for Federal 

Employment (in the Scientist-as-Astronaut program).” R. J. Davis files, NASM. Biographical information is largely from this source as well as from R. J. Davis OHI (2005).

518. Robert J. Davis, SF57. Continuation Sheet for Form 57.

519. Davis OHI (2005), 22. Davis was attracted to radio astronomy by Bok and Purcell. His 

thesis was essentially a mapping project to supplement others initiated by his mentors and other 

Harvard graduate students. Robert James Davis, “A 21-Centimeter Survey” (1959).

520. Davis OHI (2005), 40.

521. Whipple to distribution, 10 June 1958, attaching Whipple, “Notes on the Development 

and Operation of an Astronomical Telescope in a Satellite Orbit.” 5 June 1958. Folder 9. Box 15. 

Martin Schwarzschild Papers, Princeton University.

522. L. V. Berkner, 3 July 1958, night letter to: USNC/IGY/ESO. “Space Science Board Requests 

for Support: Proposals 1958,” folder 1.3, SSB Papers, National Academy of Science Archives (SSB/

NAS). See also Berkner to recipients, 3 July 1958. SSB files, Berkner Papers. LC. On the formation 

and first years of the Space Science Board, see Atkins (1966); Needell (2000), 356–367.

523. Historians have provided a general framework and insight into how scientists responded 

to Lloyd Berkner’s appeal and the continuing efforts of the President’s Science Advisory Committee 

deliberations since late 1957. See Smith (1989), 37–44; Wang (2008) and Needell (2000). Code’s 

response and his creation of the Wisconsin Experiment Package are analyzed in Marché and Walsh 

(2006), 185–199.

524. Berkner to Menzel, 2 September 1958. Folder 1.3. Berkner Papers, SSB/NAS.

525. Keller to Whipple, 26 June 1958; Whipple to Keller, 1 July 1958. “Rocket and Satellite 

Research Panel, 1957–1960.” Box 4. RU 7431. SIA.

526. Whipple and Davis, “Contract Proposal: Feasibility Studies of the Development and 

Operation of an Astronomical Telescope in a Satellite Orbit,” attached to Whipple to Keller, 1 July 1958.

527. Whipple and Davis, “Contract Proposal.”

528. Whipple, notes “Developments on Space Telescope Project after Discussion with Dr. 

Pickering,” 30 July 1958; 1 August 1958. “G.F.S. files.” Box 8. RU 260-8-08/58. SIA. Here Pickering 

was alluding to “Project Red Socks,” which he proposed, with Caltech president Lee DuBridge, barely 

weeks after Sputnik 1 flew, to send an Explorer-class payload (later called Pioneer) to the Moon, 

claiming that it was “‘imperative’ for the nation to ‘regain its stature in the eyes of the world.’” Cited 

in Hall (1977), 5
Notes • 319

529. Whipple notes.

530. Whipple notes.

531. Excerpted from various documents, including “Tentative Work Schedule for Feasibility 

Study” and “Outline of Work,” ca. August 1958. “G.F.S. files,” 1 August 1958. Box 8. RU 260-8-

08/58. SIA.

532. On the properties of this tube, see R. C. Jones (1959), 462–466.

533. Whitney OHI (2005), 18–19.

534. McDougall (1985), 141–176, for a general discussion; Koppes (1982), ch. 7, for JPL; and 

Westwick (2003), 234–235, for the early option of placing the space program within the Atomic 

Energy Commission.

535. Whipple to L. Carmichael, 29 March 1958. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7341 SIA.

536. Needell (2000), 347.

537. Statement of Dr. Fred L. Whipple, Director, Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, 

Cambridge, Mass. In Legislative History on H.R. 12575 “The Space Act of 1958,” NASA Law Library, 

vol. 3, 367–389, on 368, fully quoted in DeVorkin (2005). Whipple’s scenario was similar to one of 

several options envisioned by presidential science advisor James R. Killian Jr., in his “Memorandum 

on Organizational Alternatives for Space Research and Development” (30 December 1957), reprinted 

in David S. F. Portree, ed., NASA’s Origins and the Dawn of the Space Age, NASA Monograph #10 in 

Aerospace History (September 1998), 27–33, see 32.

538. “Statement of Dr. Fred L. Whipple.” In NASA, ed. (1960), on 369–370, 372.

539. Moran, J. Anthony to Carmichael, 10 September 1958; Carmichael to Whipple, 

18 September 1958. Carmichael Papers. Box 1. RU 7007. SIA.

540. Whipple to Carmichael, 26 September 1958. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7341. SIA.

541. McCray (2008).

542. Whipple to Carmichael, 26 September 1958. “Carmichael” folder. Box 1. RU 7341. SIA.

543. For the full listing, see DeVorkin (2005).

544. Whipple to Carmichael, 26 September 1958.

545. Roland (1985); McDougall (1985), Neufeld (2000, 2005), and others have described how 

NASA acquired the NACA and its centers as well as the Vanguard program and chunks of the ABMA 

and associated centers.

546. Logsdon (2001), 1.

547. Berkner to Menzel, 2 September 1958. Berkner files, courtesy Allan Needell.

548. Berkner to Goldberg, 29 August 1958. Berkner files, with attached list “Proposals for Study 

by Space Science Board,” 1 August 1958. ADM:ORG:NAS:SSB, “Requests for Support: Proposals 

Summary 1958.”

549. Keddy to Odishaw, 12 August 1958. NAS IGY records 6.1 Earth Satellite Program: Project 

30.8: Smithsonian Inst.: Operation of Optical Tracking Stations: 1956–1963.

550. Newell to Dryden, 18 February 1960. 6216 Documentation. OAO files. NHO.

551. Newell to Dryden.

552. T. Keith Glennan, The Birth of NASA: The Diary of T. Keith Glennan, NASA SP-4105 

(Washington, DC: NASA History Office, 1993), 139.

553. Rudney (1971).
320 • Notes

554. Rudney (1971), 9. In retrospect, Newell (1980), 356, felt this decision was a mistake.

555. Newell to Dryden. 18 February 1960. 6216 Documentation OAO files. NHO; 

Schwarzschild OHI (1977), 174–175; Goldberg OHI (1983), 37–38, and Goldberg OHI (1978), 

no. 2, 119.

556. Newell (1980), 97, 207.

557. Davis to Roths, 3 March 1959. Davis collection, author’s files.

558. Davis, “Rough Draft of notes for use at the NASA meeting, 9–10 February 1959,” 4. This 

reflects standard astronomical observing practice. Davis files, author’s collection.

559. “Celescope” was, in fact, proposed by Menzel, who won a free lunch from Whipple. 

Whipple to Smithsonian Staff, 17 December 1959, “Code Name for the Orbiting Telescope Project.” 

The name was “intended to convey the concept of a truly celestial telescope,” “Interoffice Memoranda.” 

“Celescope Records.” Box 8. RU 260. SIA.

560. Code OHI (1982).

561. Smith (1989), 40; and Code et al. to Nancy Roman, 15 June 1960. Document III-6 in 

Logsdon (2001), 568–570.

562. Rudney (1971).

563. The launch vehicle was originally envisioned to be NASA’s never-built Vega; six Vegas 

were planned, with some 30 sounding rocket flights as tests. Newell to Silverstein, 16 March 1959. 

Document III-4 in Logsdon (2001), 561–566.

564. Hynek to Kupperian, 24 February 1959. “Old STP.” Box 118. RU 188. On shared interests 

between SAO and the Air Force regarding scintillation, see “Observation Technique, satellites, missiles, etc. 1959–1960 Jeffery.” Box 28. RU 188. SIA. Courtesy T. Muir-Harmony.

565. Marché and Walsh (2006); Roman to Whipple, 15 April 1959; Menzel to Carmichael, 30 

November 1959. Folder “APO Harvard College.” Box 16. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” 

SIA. W. R. Markey’s final report (1960) on the balloon program is in file “Air Force 19(604)5459,” 

Box 32, RU 188; and in Box 28, “Observation Technique, satellites, missiles, etc. 1959–1960 Jeffery.” 

Courtesy T. Muir-Harmony. NASA also refused to fund the SAO’s proposals to test its instruments 

with inexpensive sounding rocket flights from Wallops. Keddy to Glennan, 17 September 1959. 

“Whipple.” Box 6. RU 260. 6-07/59, SIA.

566. Davis to Whipple, 8 June 1959. “Celescope” files. Box 1. RU 260-1-07/58. SIA.

567. Whipple to Baum, 19 February 1959. “Baum, William A., 1956–59.” Box 1. RU 7431. SIA.

568. See, for instance, Tuve et al. (1958), 592, and Baum et al. (1959), 749. Baum OHI (1997), 5. AIP.

569. Whipple and Davis (1960).

570. Davis to Whipple, 10 June 1960. “Celescope” files. Box 1. RU 260-1-07/58. SIA.

571. Lautman to Whipple, 19 February 1960. “Report on the first international space science 

symposium of COSPAR.” “Whipple-Whitney Correspondence 1959–1962.” Box 124. RU 188. SIA. 

Courtesy T. Muir-Harmony.

572. Menzel to Carmichael, 30 November 1959. Folder “APO Harvard College.” Box 16. RU 50. 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

573. Raymond Wilcove to Keddy, 3 November 1959, attached to Bradley to Whipple, 

5  November 1959, asking for a response to the House Committee on Science and Astronautics. 

“Bradley, James.” Box 1. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

574. Personal experience and MacKenzie (1993).
Notes • 321

Chapter 8 – Permanency and Authority

575. See “Contracts SAO ’54–’66.” Box 37. RU 188. SIA.

576. “Moved Again!” SAO News 1, no. 1 (June 1961): 1.

577. “Great Day for Space!” SAO News 1, no. 1 (June 1961): 4.

578. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 37.

579. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 64–75.

580. Whipple to Bundy, 10 October 1958. “Space Required by the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory,” in “APO Harvard Observatory Building 1955–1963.” Box 17. RU 50. SIA.

581. Whipple to Bundy, 2–3.

582. Vaughan Harmon to Eisenhart, 9 November 1958. “APO Harvard Observatory Building, 

1955–1963.” Box 17. RU 50. SIA. See also John R. Adler, “University to Build at HCO, Smithsonian 

Will Rent Observatory Project,” Harvard Crimson, 5 February 1959. http://www.thecrimson.com/

article/1959/2/5/university-to-build-at-hco-pcontracts/.

583. Whipple to Bundy, 10 October 1958, 4. “Space Required by the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory,” in “APO Harvard Observatory Building 1955–1963.” Box 17. RU 50. SIA. Carmichael 

to Bundy, 13 October 1958. “APO Harvard Observatory Building 1955–1963. Box 17. RU 50. SIA. 

Box 17.

584. Menzel to Carmichael, 30 November 1959. Folder “APO Harvard College.” Box 16. RU 50. 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA.

585. John R. Adler, “University to Build at HCO.” http://www.thecrimson.com/article/1959/2/5/

university-to-build-at-hco-pcontracts/.

586. Whipple, “Remarks by Fred L. Whipple at the Ground-Breaking Ceremony of the New 

Building January 11, 1960,” recd. 25 January 1960. “APO Harvard Observatory Building, 1955–1963.” 

Box 17. RU 50. SIA.

587. Whipple, “Remarks,” 2; Menzel, “Remarks by Donald H. Menzel at the Ground-Breaking 

Ceremony of the New Building January 11, 1960,” recd. 25 January 1960. “APO Harvard Observatory 

Building, 1955–1963.” Box 17. RU 50. SIA.

588. “Great Day for Space!” SAO News 1, no. 1 (June 1961): 3.

589. Davis to Nancy Roman, 22 August 1960. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. RU 260-1-

07/58. SIA.

590. Historians such as Robert Smith, Michael Dennis, and Bruce Hevly have long pondered 

what it means to engage in Big Science. Smith quotes a 1988 Office of Technology Assessment report 

that identified these factors: 1. “Large and expensive facilities”; 2. “large, multidisciplinary teams”; 

3.  “cooperative planning”; 4. “alignment of personal goals of scientists with institutional goals.” 

Robert Smith, “The Biggest Kind of Big Science: Astronomers and the Space Telescope,” in Galison 

and Hevly, eds. (1992), 186–187.

591. Whitney OHI (2005), 37. See also Avrett OHI (2005). On the “Research Reserve,” see 

Menzel to Solberg, 5 May 1949, “Navy 1941–1949.” D. H. Menzel Papers. HUG 4567.12. HUA.

592. Y. Kozai OHI (1997). Kozai (1959) developed a sophisticated gravitational model that 

included both atmospheric drag and varying geopotential. See Brouwer (1959).

593. “Minutes of Administrative Staff Meeting,” 1 April 1963. “Admin. Conf. + Meetings.” 

Box 7. RU 188. SIA. Courtesy T. Muir-Harmony.
322 • Notes

594. Powers to Ripley, 18 November 1966, “Summary History of Smithsonian Research Bill.” 

Folder “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA. What actually constituted a “mistake,” in Powers’s words, has not been explored.

595. Draft letter, Ripley to Haworth, 13 November 1967. “NSF General.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

596. Excerpt of a quotation from James Hobbins, in Irvin Molotsky, “S. Dillon Ripley Dies at 

87; Led the Smithsonian Institution during Its Greatest Growth,” New York Times, 13 March 2001.

597. Draft letter, Ripley to Haworth, 13 November 1967.

598. Draft letter, Ripley to Haworth. Securing direct appropriations for research funding 

remained tricky. See Powers to Bradley, 21 August 1964; Ripley to Haworth, 26 February 1965. “NSF 

1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

599. Draft letter, Ripley to Haworth.

600. Gary Bisson (Asst. Gen. Counsel) to Bradley, 25 August 1964, through Powers to 

Whipple, “For information you requested” and “Statutory Authority for programs of the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory.” Cites: “(63 Stat 623; 20 U.S.C. 53a), sec. 2.” “Smithsonian Research 

Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

601. Gary Bisson, 25 August 1964, citing Hon. Ken Regan (House) to John E. Graf, Acting 

Secy., SI, 4 April 1949. Several years later, Powers interpreted the 1949 wording more narrowly, that it 

“provides appropriations, but not basic authority, and by now sounds almost like a limitation of such 

authority.” Powers to Ripley, 18 November 1966, 2. “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” 

Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

602. Tillinghast to James Bradley via T.W. Taylor, 1 September 1964. Bradley to Powers, 

“General Authorizing Bill,” 2 September 1964. Folder “NSF 1963–1972.” Box 47. RU 253. SIA.

603. Whipple to staff, 14 September 1965. Folder “Smithsonian Bicentennial 1965.” Box 8. 

RU 7431. SIA.

604. Galler to Bradley, 20 December 1965. “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” 

Box  7. RU 137. SIA. SIE was the Science Information Exchange, an international service the 

Smithsonian had long fostered and fought to retain, with funding from the NSF. See Ripley to 

DuBridge, 20 March 1969; and Mansfield to Ripley, 24 March 1969. Folder “Mansfield Letter, codify 

SI research authority.” Box 8. RU 137. SIA.

605. Coffey to Tillinghast, “SAO Legislative Proposal,” 5 January 1966; 12 January 1966. Folder 

“Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

606. Phil Ritterbush to Bradley and Galler, 21 January 1966. “Comments on draft legislation in 

the sciences.” Folder “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

607. Ritterbush to Galler, 22 January 1966. “Draft Legislation in the Sciences.” Folder 

“Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

608. Ritterbush to Galler, 22 January 1966. The council was created to “advise the Secretary 

on broad programmatic activities and to offer guidance on Smithsonian contributions to research 

and public understanding in science, history and art.” Board of Regents, “Minutes of Meeting, 

January 27, 1966.” RU 1. SIA.

609. Powers to Bradley, 9 March 1966. “Proposed Research Legislation.” “Smithsonian Research 

Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

610. Ripley to BoB (W. H. Rommel), 6 May 1966; Ripley to Charles Schultze (Director, BoB), 

6 May 1966. “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.
Notes • 323

611. Grasty Crews II to Frank Bow, 16 May 1966. “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–

1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

612. Bradley to Powers, Ritterbush, Galler, 13 June 1966. Folder “Research Bill.” Box 7. 

RU 137. SIA.

613. W. H. Rommel (Asst. Director for Legislative Reference) to Ripley (attn. Bradley), 26 July 

1966. “Smithsonian Research Legislation 1965–1966.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA.

614. Rommel to Ripley, 26 July 1966.

615. Cornell OHI (2010), 177–179. The Smithsonian’s original building is known as “The 

Castle,” and the term colloquially refers to the Institution’s central administration.

616. A. E. Lilley log entries for October 1965. “Lilley Log.” Acc. 83-121. SIA. Hereinafter 

AELL/SIA.

617. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory in the Federal Structure/

Astronomical Community/Cambridge Complex/Great Society,” November 1965 draft. Box 7. RU 

137. SIA.

618. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 2.

619. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 3–4.

620. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 6. On Adams’s campaign, see M. 

Portolano (2000).

621. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 7. 1965 was, in fact, the bicentennial of James Smithson’s birth, not the Institution’s.

622. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 7.

623. “The Role of Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 8.

624. Supplemental Justification, 9. Folder “Goals and Programs, 1967–1976.” Box 7. 

RU 137. SIA.

625. Supplemental Justification, 9.

626. Supplemental Justification, 12.

627. Supplemental Justification, 15.

628. Supplemental Justification, 10. Equipment that the SAO possessed at the time included 

radiation counters, mass spectrographs, high-powered microscopes, and facilities to prepare and 

polish specimens. These needed constant upgrades, the white paper asserted, if SAO were to enjoy 

continued leadership in this research field. They looked forward to additional support to obtain 

expertise and “equipment for etching radiation tracks in solid specimens, an electron probe microanalyzer, and an improved microanalyzer.”

Chapter 9 – Breaking Cognitive Barriers from Meteors 

to Lunar Samples 

629. Whipple to Kuiper, February 1971. “Summary of Programs and Achievements of the 

SAO” presented as “Appendix 2” to 1 March 1971. (Greenstein) Ad Hoc Committee on HarvardSmithsonian Observatory Relations. Folder “Personal and Confidential—Not for Publication—

Recommendations to Harvard.” Greenstein Papers 62.2. CIT.
324 • Notes

630. Doel (1996), 23, 26–27. On Shapley’s interdisciplinarity, see also DeVorkin (1984).

631. DeVorkin (2000b).

632. Cited in DeVorkin (1993), 159.

633. Just as Chandra Mukerji has shown for oceanography. See Mukerji (1989).

634. Doel (1996), 76.

635. Whipple and Hawkins (1959).

636. Whipple and Hawkins (1959), 519. As noted earlier, Whipple avoided amateur groups 

that collected and studied meteorites, including the American Meteor Society, led by Charles P. 

Olivier and devoted to observing meteor trails and radiants. See Brown to Whipple, 2 May; 10 May 

1949. Folder “B, 1940–1950.” Box 3. HUG 4876. HUA. See also Plotkin (1997).

637. Whipple and Hawkins (1959), 560.

638. Whipple and Hawkins (1959), 560.

639. Carmichael to Whipple, 3 May 1960. Folder “APO Whipple, Fred L 1959–1964.” Box 24. 

RU 188. SIA.

640. Whipple OHI #2 (1976).

641. McCrosky and Boeschenstein (1965), 2–3.

642. Plotkin (1997), 32–38.

643. Marvin (2004), A207.

644. Fireman (1960), 1828.

645. Fireman (1960), 1831.

646. Plotkin (1997), 34, quoting Whipple to Bradley, 12 February 1960.

647. Whipple (1959), 267.

648. Gold (1955). Whipple seems to be among the first to relate it to the problem of physically 

landing on the Moon. Compton (1989), ch. 6, pt. 2, indirectly suggests the question was first posed in 

the early 1960s. Hall (1977) cites Gold’s 1955 paper in app. A, but not in context of the controversy. 

Prior to Gold, Wesselink (1948) concluded that the surface of the mare must be a shallow layer of fine 

powder.

649. Whipple (1959). See also J. W. Salisbury, “Geological Problems in the Location of a Lunar 

Base,” in Morrow, ed. (1961), 311–340, on 323.

650. Whipple (1959), 272.

651. Varsavsky (1958), 291–303.

652. Jacchia and Whipple (1961).

653. McCrosky and Boeschenstein (1965), 4.

654. McCrosky and Boeschenstein (1965), 5–9. McCrosky calculated that compared with the 

atmospheric volume patrolled by a single Super-Schmidt, some 6,000 square kilometers at 80 kilometers of elevation, a Prairie Network pair could cover 100 times this amount. Comparing their 

performance with that of the Super-Schmidts, McCrosky and his colleagues estimated that the entire 

network would record at least one bright trail every 12.5 hours, and any one single camera would 

catch a trail in about 800 hours, covering an area of 750,000 square kilometers spread across the 

Midwest from South Dakota to Oklahoma and from Illinois to Nebraska.

655. McCrosky and Boeschenstein (1965), 9–18.

656. Cornell OHI (2010). On the TV character Sergeant Bilko, see http://en.wikipedia.org/

wiki/The_Phil_Silvers_Show (accessed 12 December 2013). Tougas first appears in annual reports 

in 1962.
Notes • 325

657. Plotkin (1997), 35, describes the tensions in some detail.

658. Carmichael added in a penned note, “I do hope this is a good idea in any case!” Carmichael 

to Whipple, 3 May 1960. Folder “APO Whipple, Fred L 1959–1964.” Box 24. RU 188. SIA.

659. Whipple to Carmichael, 5 May 1960. Folder “APO Whipple, Fred L 1959–1964.” Box 24. 

RU 188 RU 188. SIA.

660. Plotkin (1997), 34–36. On earlier efforts to nationalize the meteorites collected from the 

Prairie Network, see Marvin (2004), A209–A210.

661. R. E. McCrosky, C.-Y. Shao, and A. Posen, “Prairie Network Fireballs. I—General 

Information and Orbits,” translated abstract, Meteoritika, no. 37 (1978): 44–59; Ceplecha and 

McCrosky (1976).

662. Plotkin (1997), 37.

663. Sears (2012). Biographical information also from Tammy Peters, “Documenting a 

Geologist’s Adventures,” http://siarchives.si.edu/blog/documenting-geologists-adventures (accessed 

30 December 2013).

664. Marvin (2004), A207.

665. Langway and Marvin (1964), 205. Marvin and Klein (1964).

666. Marvin, et al. (1970), 346–350.

667. King (1969).

668. “Center for Short-lived Phenomena (Cambridge, Massachusetts), Records, 1968–

1974.” Record Unit 607. SIA. See also Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution (1968), 

262–264.

669. A fall in Portugal occurred just a few months before Allende. Citron quickly arranged for 

a 128 gram meteorite to be flown from Portugal to the United States for rapid analysis and it arrived 

barely 30 days after the fall and within 12 days of the center being notified. Fireman (1969).

670. Fireman (1969), 275.

671. This and other aspects of Wood’s career are taken from Sears (2012), 903–915; quote from 

904. See also Wood to Frondel, 17 August 1964; Frondel to Wood, 29 September 1964. Acc. 05-265. 

Box 1. SIA.

672. As deduced from annual reports of that period in SI Year and Bulletin of the American 

Astronomical Society (BAAS).

673. Whipple to Wood, 12 December 1958; Wood to Whipple, 19 May 1965. Folder “Web–

Win 60-01: 1960–1964.” Box 3. Acc. 05-265. SIA. During these years, Wood also had offers from 

other key figures, such as Hess at Princeton. Hess to Wood, 14 November 1960. Folder “Hes–Hy.” 

Box 1. Wood acc. 05-265. SIA.

674. Emphasis in original. Wood was the only East Coast scientist to sign the strong letter of 

protest to James E. Webb, joining Gerald Wasserburg, Bruce Murray, Roger Revelle, and Harrison 

Brown, as well as his former teacher Gordon MacDonald. Wasserburg et al. to James E. Webb, 24 

January 1962. Folder “Web–Win 60-01.” Box 3. SIA. Prospector has been described in Ulivi and 

Harland (2004), 39–40, and more extensively in Burnham (1995), 213–228.

675. Hall (1977), 122. Burnham (1995), 221–222, shows how Jet Propulsion Laboratory’s cost 

overruns for Ranger coupled with NASA’s lack of clarity in its widely varying proposals to Congress 

for a robotic sample return mission led to its cancellation by Congress in 1962.

676. Homer Newell to “Dear Colleague,” 3 May 1966. Folder “Apollo.” Box 3. Acc. 05-265. SIA.

677. Sears (2012), 907.

678. Sears (2012), 908–909.
326 • Notes

679. For a historiographic review, see Shindell (2010), 191–230, esp. 194–196.

680. NASA (1969), 220–241.

681. SAO/NASA Astrophysics Data System. Compilation. http://adswww.harvard.edu/.

682. Wood continued his studies of the thermal histories of chondrites and the origin of planets, publishing “Asteroids, Comets and Meteors” in the high-profile 1967 compendium Odishaw

(1967), 211. See also his detailed but accessible textbook: Wood (1968).

683. Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution (1968), 456.

684. Newell (1980), 214–222.

685. Newell (1980), 294–295; Newell to Wood, 9 March 1967. Folder “Apollo.” Box 3. Wood 

acc. 05-265. SIA.

686. John A. Wood and Ursula Marvin, “Project Information Sheet: Apollo Lunar Sample 

Analysis,” 9 September 1968. Folder “Apollo.” Box 3. Wood acc. 05-265. SIA.

687. See, for instance, McCorkell et al. (1967).

688. Review literature on the nature of the lunar surface reveals that in the 1960s there was little 

consensus over the nature of the mare surface that would be encountered by the Apollo astronauts. 

There were solid arguments for predicting that the surface would be strewn by ejecta, but these could 

be volcanic as well as meteoritic, reflecting the major options for the formation of lunar features. See, 

for instance, Kopal (1965), 737–855, on 822, and Baldwin (1964) 73–94, for a general review of all 

popular mechanisms.

689. Sears (2012), 909. Wood describes in some detail here how he transported his vials of dust 

back to Boston, and how he arranged viewings by colleagues, friends, and family. On LRL, mainly the 

nature of its operations in handling contamination, see Susan Mangus and William Larsen, Lunar 

Receiving Laboratory Project History, NASA/CR-2004-208938. See also Compton (1989), ch. 4.

690. Sears (2012).

691. Sears (2012), 910.

692. Sears (2012), 910.

693. Sears (2012).

694. Wood et al., “Lunar Anorthosites and a Geophysical Model of the Moon,” in Levinson 

(1970), 965–987. See also Wood (1972), 462–501. See also Ulivi and Harland (2004), 142.

695. Sears (2012), 914. On the Allende connection, see Marvin et al. (1970), 346–350. 

Chapter 10 – “Project Celescope”: SAO’s Orbiting 

Astronomical Observatory 

696. Whipple (1972a), 1035.

697. Carmichael to Whipple, 9 December 1957. Folder “Whipple, Fred, 1957.” Box 24. RU 50. 

“Office of the Secretary 1949–1964.” SIA. On Cat Eye, see Bushnell (March 1962) and LeCompte 

(1962). This was very much in the spirit of the new NASA: pushing to get away from the conservatism of the National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics (NACA) for preferring known technologies. NASA programs would foster “larger, more versatile—and more expensive—tools,” a policy 

implicit in the Space Act of 1958. Newell (1980), 97.
Notes • 327

698. Marché and Walsh (2006), 191.

699. Marché and Walsh (2006), 187, 191. There was a long tradition of photoelectric photometry at Wisconsin. See Osterbrock (1976).

700. On the challenges of the contracting process for emerging technologies, see Dennis 

(1991).

701. Mack (1990); Hall (1977); Bester (1966).

702. McGee and Wilcock, preface, in McGee and Wilcock, eds. (1960), viii. Americans 

attended this symposium, including astronomers William A. Baum, John Hall, E. W. Dennison, and 

Kent Ford, meeting engineers from Westinghouse, the Wright Air Development Center (R. K. H. 

Gebel), and the Electron Tube Division, RCA. McGee and Mandel (1962), 328.

703. Code OHI (1982), 36.

704. McGee to Baum, 14 March 1964. McGee Papers, Imperial College Archives. Courtesy 

Samantha Thompson.

705. Davis to Whipple. 27 October 1958. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. RU 260-1-

07/58. SIA. This description closely fits the Corona system. See Day et al., eds. (1998).

706. Davis to Whipple, 27 October 1958. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. RU 260-1-

07/58. SIA.

707. Day, Dwayne A. “Black Apollo.” The Space Review, 29 November 2010. http://www.thespacereview.com/article/1734/1 (accessed 17 December 2010).

708. Nitchie to Davis, 2 May 1960. Davis “Report,” 8 January 1960. “Celescope Project, 1958–

61.” Box 1. RU 260-1-07/58. SIA.

709. R. E. McCrosky to Whipple, 10 June 1960. “Cat Eye” TM-6/10/60 memo. Box 114. RU 

188. SIA.

710. “Quarterly Progress Report No. 3.” Celescope NASA Grant NsG-51-60—March 15 

through June 30 1960 (August 1960). “Progress 1960.” Box 10. RU 522. SIA.

711. Nitchie to Davis et al. (Davis, Grossi, Baez, Rustgi, Cobb, Miles, Arazi), 17 August 

1960; H. W. Cobb to Davis, 22 August 1960. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. RU 260-1-

07/58. SIA.

712. On Fisher’s early work in spaceborne x-ray technology, see Hirsh (1983), 50.

713. Nitchie to Davis, 28 September 1960. “Washington Meeting of 20 September on Celescope 

Budget.” Box 1. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

714. Grossi and Goldstein to Davis, 29 October 1960. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. 

RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

715. Nitchie to Davis, 20 September 1961; 17 March 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 1. 

RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

716. Grossi to Davis et al., 21 July 1960; S. Sydor to Edward Shenton, 17 April 1961. “Celescope 

Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

717. Arazi to Grossi, 24 January 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. 

SIA.

718. J. M. Franklin to Davis, 22 March 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-

70/60. SIA.
328 • Notes

719. Trip reports, Davis et al. to Wallops, 25 April 1961; H. W. Cobb to Davis, Nitchie, Franklin, 

3 May 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

720. Davis to Whipple, 29 June 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. 

SIA. Rudney (1971) states that the scale-up was originally suggested by the primary proposers to 

Berkner’s SSB appeal of July 1958, including Code, Spitzer, Whipple, and Goldberg, citing Jenkins, 

“Rocket Ultraviolet Astronomy,” in Chiu, H. Y., et al, eds., Stellar Astronomy II: Proceedings of the 

Summer Institute for Observational Astronomy. New York: Gordon and Breach (1969). Marché and 

Walsh (2006), 191, note that the scale-up for the Wisconsin package allowed for redundancy.

721. Davis to Whipple, 29 June 1961; Arazi to Davis, 10 July 1961; O. P. Rustgi to Davis, 7 June 

1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

722. Nitchie and Davis to Whipple and Tillinghast, 18 May 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” 

Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

723. Arazi to Davis, 10 July 1961. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

724. “Quarterly Progress Report No. 3.” Celescope NASA Grant NsG-51-60—March 15 

through June 30 1960 (August 1960). “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

725. Davis to Whipple, 25 May 1961, reporting on a trip to NASA 23 May 1961. “Celescope 

Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

726. Code OHI (1982).

727. By 1971, EMR was a division of Weston Instrument, part of the Schlumberger Group. 

EMR press release 16 February 1962. Progress report on Uvicons, “UV Sensitive TV Camera Tubes,” 

7 June 1962. Megerian to Davis, 2 February 1962, “Monthly Report—January 1962.” “Celescope 

Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA. The Schwarzschild optical design, created by Karl 

Schwarzschild, provided for flat uniform aplanatic fields.

728. “Summary of Highlights—Month of August 1963 Progress report no. 23, Sept 30 1963,” 1. 

“Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

729. Hurlbut to Lundquist; 19 December 1963; to Tillinghast, 29 October 1963. “Celescope 

Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

730. Lundquist to Tillinghast, n.d., attached to Hurlbut to Tillinghast, 19 December 1963. On 

the same day Hurlbut wrote to Tillinghast, he lambasted one of the SAO’s management staff, Mark 

Malec, because the SAO financial records and status reports had been tardy. “These repeated delinquencies of a contractual reporting requirement do not shed a very favorable light on Smithsonian,” 

he told Malec, partly to give Malec the ammunition he needed to get the reports done. Clearly, 

Hurlbut saw communications problems rampant. “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-

70/60. SIA.

731. Nancy Roman, “The Orbiting Astronomical Observatory,” lecture, ESRO Summer School, 

13 August 1964. “OAO.” NHO.

732. The overall situation, including delays and cost overruns, are detailed in Rudney (1971), 

12–15.

733. Harry Goett, Director, NASA/Goddard to Whipple, 14 July 1964, 2. “OAO 1964–1965.” 

Box 8. RU 7431. SIA.

734. Davis to Stroup, 1 October 1964; “November Monthly Report no. 37” (13 November 

1964). “Celescope Project, 1958–61.” Box 8. RU 260-8-70/60. SIA.

735. Whipple to Harry Goett, 8 December 1964, 2. “OAO 1964–1965.” Box 8. RU 7431. SIA.
Notes • 329

736. Goett to Whipple, 13 December 1963. “Orbiting Astronomical Observatory, 63–64.” 

Box 7. RU 7431. SIA.

737. Rudney (1971), 17, referencing Newell to Robert Seamans, 24 December 1964. Created 

in April 1960, the Space Sciences Steering Committee consisted of space science program managers within the Office of Space Science (and, variously, Applications), and, significantly, included 

senior consultants and community leaders from the disciplines involved. See Newell (1980), 

113–114, 121.

738. Rudney (1971), 17–19; Marché and Walsh (2006).

739. “OAO-A1 Press Kit.” “NASA Press Release 66-60” (Sunday, 20 March 1966), 23.

740. T. W. Taylor to James Bradley, 11 January 1965. “Celescope Correspondence.” Box 11. 

RU 522. SIA.

741. “Celescope Balloon Experiment—Backup,” n.d.; 13 January 1965; T. W. Taylor “For the 

Record,” 28 January 1965. Celescope 18 Balloon NASA. Box 12. RU 522. SIA.

742. Tillinghast to Megerian, 29 January 1965. “Celescope 18 Balloon NASA.” Box 12. 

RU 522. SIA.

743. Megerian to Tillinghast, 8 February 1965. “Celescope 18 Balloon NASA.” Box 12. RU 

522. SIA. “Change Proposal No. 2,” 26 February 1965. “Celescope 18 Balloon NASA.” Box 12. RU 

522. SIA. The SAO continued on exploring budgets for balloon flights through December, until 

NASA declined their March proposal. Edward R. Redding to Director, Smithsonian Institution, 

16 December 1965. Box 7. RU 260-7-07/65. SIA.

744. Davis to Burke, 21 May 1965. “Celescope 11 Minutes.” Box 11. RU 522. SIA.

745. Tillinghast to W. A. Landymore, 16 June 1965. “Celescope 06 CTC S-1-65.” Box 11. 

RU 522. SIA.

746. Tillinghast to W. A. Landymore.

747. Tillinghast to W. A. Landymore. Inferences about Goett’s reactions are taken from a collective profile of his recorded behavior at meetings at Headquarters and direct testimony by Homer 

Newell, who regarded him as a well-loved, “untiring battler.” See Newell (1980), ch. 14, 251.

748. Davis to Burke, 21 May 1965, 3–4. “Celescope Minutes.” Box 11. RU 522. SIA. Goddard 

people assigned to the task included John Townsend, John Lindsay, and George Ludwig, among 

others.

749. Telegram, Ziemer to Burke, 8 October 1965. “Celescope 7/65.” Box 11. RU 522. SIA.

750. Naugle (for Newell) to Whipple, 8 December 1965. “07/65.” Box 7. RU 260. SIA.

751. Newell to Goett, 10 May 1965. “Newell 4490 Correspondence” folder, NHO. TOS was 

eventually transferred to the National Oceanographic and Atmospheric Administration when it 

formed in 1970.

752. Newell to Goett, 10 May 1965, 2. On the state of the TOS system at the time, see “TIROS 

Operational Satellite System Fact Sheet” (June 1965), http://docs.lib.noaa.gov/rescue/TIROS/

TL798M4T5771965.pdf (accessed 26 December 2011). See also Mack (1990).

753. “Chronology of Administrative and Other Events, 1957–1969,” app. E, in Levine (1982). 

See also Sam Keller OHI (1983), tape 1, side 1, sec. 3. Davis OHI (2005). Davis recalls running into 

Goett at a local restaurant and learning that his abrupt dismissal was no surprise.

754. On final preparations, details of the launch, and fate of the mission, see Rudney (1971), 

19–22, and on the aftermath, 23–30. “OAO Defects Traced,” Flight International, 2 February 1967, 
330 • Notes

181–182. Newell, “Approval of the Recovery Plan for the Orbiting Astronomical Observatory (OAO) 

Program” (17 November 1966), 2. Quoted from Rudney (1971), 33.

755. Rudney (1971), 34.

756. Rudney (1971), 34.

757. Rudney (1971), 36, from Technology Week, 3 April 1967, 19.

758. Karth was characterized as “both a strong supporter and, at times, a tough critic” of the 

space program. Cortright, ed. (1975), ch. 5.4.

759. They had already established a new Astronomy Missions Board (AMB) at the end of 1966 

to complement a recently established Lunar and Planetary Missions Board, created after a 1965 summer study at Woods Hole to improve communications with scientists and Congress. See Tatarewicz 

(1990), 101; Leo Goldberg OHI (1978), 137; Goldberg OHI (1983), 47.

760. Sures to SGO/OAO Program Manager, 31 May 1966, 6. Distribution confined to NASA 

offices. Folder OAO-2. 6224 NHO.

761. Goetze (1962), 131–136.

762. “Westinghouse Camera Tube Aboard OAO to Map Invisible Starlight,” Westinghouse 

Electric Corporation, Pittsburgh, Press Release TP-610-296N. Lundquist Collection; also in the 

Whipple Papers, “Celescope, 1962–1968” folder, 2 of 2. HUG 4876. HUA. An excellent popular 

review of the tube and its operation is Green (1968), 140–145. A series of papers announcing the SEC 

design was presented by Westinghouse researchers in Advances in Electronics and Electron Physics 22 

(1966), including one by Davis (1966).

763. Evans (1967), 1128. Green (1967), S14; Beardsley and Hansen (1968), S4–S5. Beardsley 

(S5) endorsed the detector, saying that it provided increased sensitivity: “However, perhaps the outstanding advantage of the scanning camera system is that the signals can be read out electrically so 

that remote viewing and signal enhancement are possible.”

764. Grumman Aircraft Engineering Corporation. Advanced Systems/Space Sciences Group. 

“The OAO in Association with a Manned Space Station. NY: Bethpage, 1965.” NASA contract 

NASW-1143. [Space Science Board], introduction, in Space Research—Directions for the Future, vol. 

1, Publ. No. 1403 (Washington, DC: National Academy of Sciences, 1966), 63.

765. OAO, Introduction, 63. The equipment included a CSM/LEM Lab to house three men for 

a 45-day maximum mission duration, after which the OAO would be “boosted” into a higher orbit 

for automatic operation using, presumably, electronic detectors.

766. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 77, 83. Whitney OHI (2005), 36.

767. Stuart H. Clarke to Davis, 25 November 1964. Davis to “Dear Sir,” n.d., approximately 

November 1964. W. C. Kelly to Davis, 1 November 1966. Davis Collection, author’s files. See 

“NASA to Select Scientist-Astronauts for Future Missions,” NASA Press Release 64-248 (19 

October 1964). Davis Collection. See also Brooks et al. (1979), ch. 7.5; Shayler and Burgess 

(2007).

768. Davis to “Dear Sir.” Davis listed references as Hynek, Lundquist, John J. Burke, and Leo 

Goldberg. He did not list Whipple. See Davis to Hynek, 7 November 1966. Davis Collection, and 

Davis OHI (2005), 118.

769. The were some 900 initial applicants. Davis, “Statement of Space Experiments I would like 

to Perform,” sent 14 February 1967. Written in response to W. C. Kelly, Office of Scientific Personnel, 

telegram, 8 February 1967. Davis Collection, author’s files.
Notes • 331

770. Among the letters of commiseration Davis received from other candidates, more than 

one vowed to try again, though some expressed annoyance with the test procedures, and “that GD 

cardiologist Lovelace.” Neville to Bob, 9 August 1967. Davis Collection. On Lovelace, see Weitekamp 

(2004). The testing and selection process in Houston has been described in some detail. See Shayler 

and Burgess (2007). See also Brooks et al. (1979), chaps. 7–5, and Compton (1989), ch. 5.

771. Davis OHI (2005), 166.

772. Newell (1980), 356–357.

773. Burke to Stroup, 29 December 1967; Burke to White, 8 October 1968. “Celescope.” Box 11. 

RU 522. SIA.

774. Whipple, Smithsonian Year 1969, 190. Each of the selected areas was 100 square degrees. 

The nominal effective field was some 2 degrees square in W. W. McCurdy, “A Brief Summary of the 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory’s Celescope Program,” November 1960, SAO internal memorandum. Davis Collection. However, Wilson and Boksenberg (1969), 453, described the field as 2.8 

degrees in diameter.

775. Whipple, Smithsonian Year 1969, 192.

776. Gerald M. Truszynski to Bradley, 19 May 1969. “7/68 Celescope.” Box 11. RU 522. SIA. 

Clear and deep cuts began after 1967, and the greatest decline was in the FY 1968–1969 period. 

“Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Financial History, July 1 1965 to Present” (5 April 

1977). See Lynds and Goldberg (1975), table XI, 22, “Total Federal Funding for Astronomical 

Research.”

777. Thomas O’Toole, “Satellite’s Report on Stars Amazes Astronomers,” Washington Post, 

19 April 1969, 16.

778. O’Toole, “Satellite’s Report.” O’Toole actually called the Pleiades “dim” to the eye, which 

indicates a certain unfamiliarity with the sky, or his overly eager effort to impress his readers.

779. Telegram, Davis to Satyendra, Science and Technology Assoc., Inc., 8 April 1970. 

“Celescope 08 No. 3.” Box 11. SIA.

780. Davis et al., “Ultraviolet Television Data from the Orbiting Astronomical Observatory, I. 

Instrumentation and Analysis Techniques for the Celescope Experiment,” in Code, ed. (1972), 1.

781. Robert Ayer to Distribution, “Project Celescope Organization,” 15 April 1970. “Celescope 

12.” Box 12. RU 522. SIA.

782. Davis OHI (2005), 92.

783. Davis (1973).

784. Avrett OHI (2005), 39–46. Kurucz et al. (1974). Robert T. Ayer to Distribution “Project 

Celescope Organization,” 15 April 1970. “Celescope 12.” Box 12. RU 522. SIA.

785. Whipple had planned that Whitney would head up the analysis of the Celescope data. 

But by the time his group got involved, Whitney had taken an extended sabbatical, leaving Eugene 

Avrett in charge. One of Avrett’s graduate students, Robert Kurucz, assisted in the computer work, 

generating a series of theoretical stellar atmospheres models to complement the observational catalog. Davis OHI (2005), 91. Ayer to Distribution, 15 April 1970. “Celescope 12.” Box 12. RU 522. SIA. 

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, Star Catalog (1966).

786. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 78.

787. “Project Celescope Status and Plan for Refining Calculation of Ultraviolet Magnitudes” 

17 July 1970. Lundquist Papers. SL. Copy in author’s files.
332 • Notes

788. Lundquist, “Celescope Presentation, Jan 13, 1971.” Lundquist Papers. SL. Copy in author’s 

files.

789. Avrett OHI (2005), 46.

790. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 86.

791. She and her mother did work together, determining the intrinsic colors of the stars in the 

catalog. Haramundanis and Payne-Gaposchkin (1973).

792. Lundquist OHI (2011), 169. Horak and Lundquist (1954), 42.

793. Lundquist OHI (2011), 344. On Argus, see Van Allen (2004).

794. Lundquist OHI (2011), 317–318.

795. David Latham to Attendees, 3 December 1970. “Minutes of December 3 meeting held 

to discuss methods for interpreting Celescope data.” Lundquist Papers. SL. Copy in author’s 

files.

796. “NASA Briefing on OAO program at NASA HQ,” 26 March 1971. Lundquist Papers. SL. 

Copy in author’s files.

797. Lundquist OHI (2011), 320.

798. Lundquist OHI (2011), 321–332, quote on 328. Davis to Distribution, 11 September 1970. 

“Agenda for meeting 14 September 1970.” Lundquist Papers. SL. Copy in author’s files.

799. Robert T. Ayer to Distribution, 18 September 1970. “Revision No. 2 to Project 

Celescope Organization and Standard Operating Procedures.” Lundquist Papers. SL. Copy in 

author’s files.

800. Avrett OHI (2005), 51–52.

801. Avrett OHI (2005), 53.

802. See http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/experimentDisplay.do?id=OAO-B-01 and Rudney 

(1971), 60.

803. “ESRO Report Presented to the Eighteenth COSPAR Meeting, Varna, Bulgaria, June 

1975,” cited in http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/spacecraftDisplay.do?id=1972-014A (accessed 

22 January 2012).

804. Davis et al., “Ultraviolet Television Data from the Orbiting Astronomical Observatory. I. 

Instrumentation and Analysis Techniques for the Celescope Experiment,” in Code, ed. (1972), 1–22.

805. Lundquist, “Highlights of the Celescope Experiment,” in Performance Evaluation of 

the Celescope Experiment (Contract NAS 5-1535) (Cambridge, MA: Smithsonian Institution, 

Astrophysical Observatory, July 1971).

806. Kupperian to Davis, 22 July 1968; Davis to Kupperian, 11 August 1968; Davis to SAO 

Scientific Staff, 16 September 1968; C. Dixon Ashworth to Davis, n.d., ca. July 1968. Copies courtesy 

Charles Lundquist. Lundquist Papers. SL.

807. Rudney (1971), 61–62.

808. Davis et al., in Code, ed. (1972).

809. S. B. Parsons, “Comparison of Celescope Magnitudes with Model Atmosphere Fluxes for 

A, F, and G Supergiants,” 461–462, in Code, ed. (1972).

810. Classic examples abound in history in which the existence of new classes of phenomena 

were debated in terms of the collective faith in the observations. See Harwit (1981) for a discussion 

of the astronomical background; Galison (1987), chap. 4, sec. 17; and Dick (2013).

811. NASA Briefing on OAO program at NASA HQ, 26 March 1971. Lundquist Papers. Copy 

in author’s files.
Notes • 333

812. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 87. Davis et al. (1973) openly acknowledged the difficulties, but 

concluded that their analysis and comparisons were “essentially correct” and that the adjustment they 

indicated were the best that could be made. See also Haramundanis and Payne-Gaposchkin (1973).

813. Peytremann and Davis (1974), conclusions and quote on 224–225. On the extinction 

bump, see Savage (1975), 103. The bump was real and was interstellar, not circumstellar, even though 

there were as yet no models for grains that could fully explain the consistent appearance of the peak 

over the sky. The Wisconsin conclusions were supported by observations taken during the Skylab 

missions in 1973 and 1974. See Parsons et al. (1976), on 436.

814. Deutschman et al. (1976).

815. Reed (2003).

816. Lundquist OHI (2011); McCrosky OHI (2005).

817. Marché and Walsh (2006), 185.

818. Naugle to Don C. Morton, 28 June 1971. OAO files. NHO. Don Taylor was far more 

passionate, telling Naugle and copying Rep. Joseph Karth, that NASA’s decision led to five “general 

considerations” in order of emotional impact, ending with a veiled threat: “A callous disregard for the 

feelings of the scientific community as would be indicated by turning off one of the most outstanding successes of the unmanned program may make the best scientists reluctant to return to space 

research when science and NASA recovers from its current depression.” Donald J. Taylor to John 

Naugle, 28 June 1971. OAO files. NHO.

819. Smith and Tatarewicz (1985).

820. Space Science Board (1966), 155.

821. Davis OHI (2005), 88.

822. Fred Whipple, “Selection of Astronomy Experiments for Space,” 383–384 in Astronomy 

from a Space Platform, Proceedings of the Symposium held 27-28 December, 1971 in Philadelphia, 

PA. Science and Technology Series, Vol. 28, A Supplement to Advances in the Astronautical Sciences. 

Edited by George W. Morgenthaler and Howard D. Greyber. An American Astronautical Society 

Publication, 1972

823. Newell (1980), 97.

824. Newell (1980), 356–357.

825. Gingerich to author, 29 September 2015. Gingerich OHI (2005), 61–64.

826. Gingerich OHI (2005), 69.

827. Gingerich OHI (2005), 78.

828. See, for instance, Mihalas (2003) and Underhill (1962), 11. Gingerich to author, 16 

September 2015.

829. According to citations in the published literature, in 1957 access to a 704 mainframe was 

mentioned only by those institutions connected somehow to large, high-energy physics facilities 

such as Livermore (Berkeley) or Los Alamos, or in one case to a large industry, for example, General 

Electric. ADS searches, ca. January 2015.

830. Avrett OHI (2005), 36.

831. Kurucz (1970).

832. Gingerich et al. (1971). As of July 2015, the paper had garnered more than 800 citations, 

averaging between 30 and 70 citations per year in the 1970s and 1980s.

833. Noyes OHI (2005), 49.

834. Gingerich OHI (2005), 78.
334 • Notes

Chapter 11 – Building the Infrastructure for Satellite Geodesy 

and Aeronomy: Work of the Research and Analysis Division 

835. Muir-Harmony (2009), 76; McCray (2008), 17.

836. Hayes (1967), ch. 4, and Organization Charts, author’s files.

837. Bradley to Marshall Greenspan, 30 November 1960. NASA Executive Asst. Folder “STP 

no. 134 Current Years Proposals.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA.

838. Carmichael to Webb, 4 April 1963. Folder “STP no. 134 Current Years Proposals.” Box 5. 

RU 522. SIA. On ANNA, see Warner (2000), Hacker (2000), and David (2015).

839. Ursula B. Marvin, “Continental Drift,” in Lundquist and Friedman, eds. (1966), 32.

840. Lundquist and Friedman, eds. (1966), 69.

841. Lundquist and Friedman, eds. (1966), iii–iv.

842. Lundquist, “Scientific Horizons from Tracking Space Objects,” in Lundquist and Friedman, 

eds. (1966), 1, citing Whipple and Hynek (1958).

843. Lundquist, “Scientific Horizons.”

844. See McCray (2008) throughout, especially 94–95, 214–222, 235.

845. See Hayes (1967) as well as two extended reports for the Smithsonian’s Annual Report to 

the Board of Regents in 1961 and 1963, which were followed by the Smithsonian monograph in 1967, 

and a commercial reprint in 1968. See McCray (2008) for Moonwatch and Muir-Harmony (2009, 

2012) for the Baker-Nunn network.

846. Dick (2003), 530.

847. Ivan I. Mueller, “Levallois Medal Citation for George Veis,” http://www.gfy.ku.dk/~iag/

HB2004/part3/32-levalloir-price.pdf (accessed 3 March 2014). The medal is one of several bestowed 

by the International Association of Geodesy.

848. Warner (2002), 375–378.

849. Yoshihide Kozai OHI (1997), 9. Kozai observed that in the late 1950s, of the few schools in 

celestial mechanics in the United States, Yale under Dirk Brouwer was well balanced between theory 

and practice, whereas UCLA was heavily weighted on the practical side. Hagihara, however, himself 

highly theoretical, had managed to produce a corps of well-trained but highly effective practitioners 

who could apply orbit theory in creative ways.

850. Kozai was proud of his speed using both hand-cranked and electric desk calculators: 

“I was very fast—nobody defeated me [laughs].” Kozai OHI (1997), 16.

851. Kozai (1959). He quickly found he was in competition with leaders in the field such as 

Yale’s Dirk Brouwer, who was also editor of the Astronomical Journal, where Kozai hoped to publish. 

But once they both had a chance to read and critique the other’s papers, Brouwer published them 

both in a special November 1959 issue. Kozai garnered some two dozen citations within a few years, 

comparable to Brouwer’s.

852. Whipple, “Report on the Astrophysical Observatory,” 86. Secretary’s Report to the Board 

of Regents (1958).

853. Cherniack and Gaposchkin (1963).

854. Cherniack and Gaposchkin (1963), 16.

855. Gaposchkin (1964), 1, 60.
Notes • 335

856. Duncombe and Duncombe (1967), 582. For a sense of the state of the fundamental reference system, see chapters by Clemence, Scott, and Vasilevskis in Strand, ed. (1963). See also Dick 

(2003), 530–535.

857. Langley used his position as a bully pulpit. See Langley (1891) and Bartky (2000).

858. Herbert A. Luft, commercial advertisement. Sky & Telescope (September 1966): 154. At 

the time, the classic Bonner Durchmusterung cost in the range of $125.

859. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 13–15, 45. FK4 is the Fourth Fundamental Catalogue. See 

A.  Kopff, Supplement-Katalog des FK3 (FK3 Supp), Sonderbruck Astron.-Geodät. Jahrbuch 1954

(1953, supplement published in 1963).

860. J. Meeus (1967), 268.

861. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 51; 61; 69 outlines the details. She also carried computer 

tapes from the catalog project to Washington to see them converted into properly sized film masters 

for publication. Then, with the film-based charts in hand, she headed up a staff of about “half a dozen 

girls” to add objects such as double stars and nebulae that were not on the tapes, and to carefully 

employ drafting templates to illustrate each chart.

862. Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (1969). Box set of 152 charts with a 13-page 

booklet.

863. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 54.

864. Whipple, “Astrophysical Observatory,” Annual Report to the Board of Regents (1963), 162.

865. “The Construction and Use of Star Catalogues Conference” (1967), 552.

866. Haramundanis (1967), 588–596. Haramundanis OHI (2005), 58. Eichhorn was in the 

audience, and Haramundanis’s recollection is that she felt obligated to defend the Catalog in the 

Q&A session.

867. Haramundanis (1967), 593.

868. Haramundanis (1967), 593–594.

869. Haramundanis (1967), 594–595.

870. Haramundanis (1967), 596. The group did agree that “practically all geodetic requirements are being filled by that catalogue” now, and so it should be regarded as the basis of future 

improvements. Haramundanis ended the discussion by giving thoughts for further improvement.

871. Haramundanis, OHI (2005), 65.

872. See Sky & Telescope 34 (August 1967), 89–90; Lundquist and Whipple (1973), “Historical 

Introduction,” to Gaposchkin (1973, 11

873. Whipple and Hynek (1957), 37–43.

874. Hayes (1967), 144–152, outlines the steps of the process.

875. Whipple and Hynek (1957); SI Annual Report for 1961, 85–86.

876. Whipple, in Annual Report of the Smithsonian Institution (1964), 158.

877. Kaula (1959); Jeffreys (1941), 55–66.

878. Izsák (1962), 2. The heuristic value of this family of orbits was later questioned. See 

Lubowe (1969), 6–10; and Brouwer (1963), on 230.

879. Gaposchkin and Lambeck (1970), 1–3; Mudgway (2001); Butrica (1996).

880. Arnold (1967), 64.
336 • Notes

881. Dale L. Johnson, Barry Roberts, and William W. Vaughan, “Reference and Standard 

Atmosphere Models.” http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/20020092087.pdf.

882. DeVorkin (1992), 292–294.

883. Jacchia and Slowey (1962).

884. Dalgarno OHI (2007), 24–25.

885. Dalgarno OHI (2007), 32, 35.

886. Lundquist to Foster Haley, Public Information Office, 4 May 1955. Courtesy Charles 

Lundquist. Lundquist Papers. SL.

887. The conference had been created to introduce geodesists to the promise of spaceborne 

efforts. Whitten and Drummond (1959).

888. Silverstein to Goett, 27 December 1960, re: “Satellite Tracking by the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory.” Clipped to C.W.T. to Whipple, n.d. “NASA Relations” folder (March 

1951–1961). RU 7431. SIA.

889. Newell, quoted in Warner (2000), 405, refs. 61, 62, quoting news report of Newell’s testimony.

890. Whipple, 30 September 1960, date uncertain. “Comments on the ad hoc panel called by 

General Donald Yates to study the problem of scientific space probes for NASA and the DOD.” 

“Scientific Advisory Board.” Box 23. RU 7431. SIA. See also Warner (2002), 389, 402–403.

891. Warner (2000), 405, refs. 61, 62. Another perspective on DOD’s concern for classification 

was related to keeping the orbits of Corona surveillance satellites hidden. See Sturdevant (2008), 

on 11; and Cloud (2001). On Project ANNA (acronym for “Army, Navy, NASA, Air Force”), see 

“Project ANNA: Geodetic Satellite System”: Hearings before the Subcommittee on Space Sciences of the 

Committee on Science and Astronautics, 87th Cong. (1962); and HHR-32, NASA Office of Defense 

Affairs: The First Five Years, ch. 18. http://history.nasa.gov/HHR-32/ch18.htm.

892. Whipple to Bradley, 8 November 1960. “Scientific Advisory Board.” Box 30. RU 7431. SIA.

893. Jon Grady to Cliff Marsh, 17 April 1961. Folder “Hawaii: Administration, 1961–64.” 

Box 16. RU 263. SIA. See Muir-Harmony (2009).

894. Whipple to Jerome Wiesner, 26 November 1961, asking for his support for flashing light 

geodetic satellite (ANNA). Folder “Whipple, Fred, 1959–64.” Box 24. RU 50. “Office of the Secretary 

1949–1964.” SIA.

895. Newell (1980), 220 and elsewhere, notes the support of PSAC in resisting classification.

896. “A History of the Committee on Science and Technology,” 85th–110th Congresses 

(1958–2008), 97. http://archives.democrats.science.house.gov/docs/Committee_History_50years.

pdf (accessed 20 March 2014).

897. Whipple (1972), 1336. Whipple, “Statement of Dr. Fred L. Whipple . . . ,” “Fourth Meeting 

of Panel on Science and Technology, House Committee on Science and Astronautics, March 2, 1962,” 

in Whipple (1972), 1332–1343, on 1336. Newell (1980) explicitly mentions how the existence of 

Baker-Nunn stations in places such as Japan and India required that they not be classified so as not 

to cause international discord.

898. Whipple (1972), 1337–1338.

899. Whipple (1972), 1332, 1337–1339; Henricksen is remembered in Fisher (2005) and is 

generally regarded as one of the first “to apply space age data to the mapping sciences.” https://aas.

org/obituaries/soren-w-henriksen-1916-2011.

900. Whipple (1972), 1339.
Notes • 337

901. Whipple (1972), 1342.

902. Whipple (1972), 1343.

903. Warner (2000), 406.

904. Newell (1980), 119.

905. Warner (2000), 407. ANNA 1B is identified as a Navy geodetic satellite. No mission results 

are listed. See http://nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/spacecraftDisplay.do?id=1962-060A (accessed 21 

March 2014).

906. Lundquist (1967), 10.

907. Anderson et al. (1965). Beacon Explorer-A, originally planned as an atmospheric 

Explorer, was augmented to include retroreflectors by Henry H. Plotkin at NASA’s Goddard Space 

Flight Center. See H. H. Plotkin, “The S-66 Laser Satellite Tracking Experiment,” NASA Goddard 

Space Flight Center report X-524-63-59 (13 February 1963), and Snyder (1967).

908. Newell (1981), 119. The board had representatives from NASA, DOD, and the Department 

of Commerce’s Coast and Geodetic Survey. “NASA to Launch Geodetic Satellite, First of Its Type,” 

NASA Release 65-333 (29 October 1965), 4.

909. NASA Release 65-333, 3–5.

910. See Computer Sciences Corporation (1970), Reece and Marsh (1974). See also http://

nssdc.gsfc.nasa.gov/nmc/datasetDisplay.do?id=ESGP-00012 and http://archive.org/stream/nasa_

techdoc_19740014777/19740014777_djvu.txt (accessed 21 March 2014).

911. John Grady to Cliff Marsh, Hawaii, 6 February 1961. Folder “Hawaii: Administration, 

1961–64.” Box 16. RU 263. SIA. On the USAF network, see Sturdevant (2008), 6–22; and Wilkes and 

Gleditsch (1978).

912. Paul Preuss, Major General, USAF to Whipple, 8 November 1963. Folder “STP 

Cooperation with USAF.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA. This and other citations in this section courtesy Teasel 

Muir-Harmony.

913. George Woron to T. W. Taylor via Tillinghast, 17 December 1963. Folder “STP Cooperation 

with USAF.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA. SPACETRACK was the code name for the USAF developmental system for optical reconnaissance, including Baker-Nunn stations, centered at Hanscomb Field 

in Massachusetts. Richard S. Eckert, “Focusing on the Skies: The Air Force Baker-Nunn Camera 

System, an Operational and Diplomatic History,” Office of History, Air Force Space Command 

(February 1991).

914. Whipple to Ripley. 17 April 1964. Folder “NASA-Sat. Tkg. Program 1963–1964.” Box 7. 

RU 7431. SIA.

915. Bradley to Hon Eugene Zuckert, Secretary of the Air Force, 18 August 1965. RG 340 1965 

SECAF (Cd S). Entry A1 1-F. Box no. 1090 2109-65 Baker Nunn—declassified NND 974384 4-02-

09 NARA—Records of the Office of the Secretary of the Air Force [OSAF]. Courtesy James David.

916. Lundquist to “The Record,” 30 April 1965. Folder “STP Cooperation with USAF.” Box 5. 

RU 522. SIA.

917. Allan L. Reed, Rear Adm. (USN) to Whipple, 30 July 1965. Entry UD-05D #60. Box 1. 

RG 373 (Defense Intelligence Agency). National Archives, Greenbelt, MD (NARA). Courtesy James 

David. Bradley to Zuckert, 18 August 1965, 2.

918. Bradley to Zuckert, 18 August 1965,

919. Whipple to Webb, 27 September 1965. “NASA 1965–1966.” Box 8. RU 7431. SIA. MuirHarmony (2009), 109, makes this point.
338 • Notes

920. Muir-Harmony (2009), 109–113, explores these contentions at the working level for the 

stations in Japan and India, concluding that any classification would have killed the relationship. 

Lundquist OHI (2011), 382–385, relates how the issue was settled.

921. Vernon Lawrence, Vice Adm. (USN) to Assistant Secretary of Defense. 2 February 1968. 

Entry UD-05D #60. “Chron file.” Box 4. RG 373 (Defense Intelligence Agency). NARA. Challinor 

to Ambassador Graham Parsons, 19 July 1968. Folder “NASA-Invitation to Propose Experiments.” 

Box  32. RU 253. SIA. “NASA Security Classification for Contracts,” 2 August 1967. Folder “STP 

Security.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA.

922. See Compton and Benson (1983), 83–102, cited in Compton (1989), “Setback and 

Recovery, 1967,” http://www.hq.nasa.gov/pao/History/SP-4214/ch7-6.html (accessed 22 March 

2014). See also Lynds (1975), table XI, 22.

923. Gerald Truszynski to Bradley, 19 May 1969. Folder “STP 140-STP.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA.

924. Gerald Truszynski to Whipple, 20 May 1965. Folder “STP 140-STP.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA.

925. Jack Coffey to Tillinghast, 25 July 1969. Folder “STP 140-STP.” Box 5. RU 522. SIA.

926. William F. McKeon to John Jameson, 15 September 1969. “S&E Budget, FY 1971,” work 

file—SAO “Office of Programming and Budget 1957–1973.” T90068. Box 12 FY 1971. SIA.

927. “12/ Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” January 1969. Work file—SAO “Office of 

Programming and Budget 1957–1973.” T90068. Box 12 FY 1971. SIA.

928. Jameson to T. Ames Wheeler, 9 June 1969. Work file—SAO “Office of Programming and 

Budget 1957–1973.” T90068. Box 12 FY 1971. SIA.

929. Bradley to Galler, 17 September 1969. Work file—SAO “Office of Programming and 

Budget 1957–1973.” T90068. Box 12 FY 1971. SIA. “Geoastronomy” remained exclusively an SAO 

categorization from 1971 through 2015. A scan of the ADS reveals only 48 instances of its use in full 

text during that period, all but one or two by the SAO. 

Chapter 12 – Ground-Based Aspirations in Southern Arizona 

930. Whipple, “Mount Hopkins and the MMT,” in Weekes, ed. (1979 ), 3, 5. L. H. Solomon, 

“Effect of Bright Sky on Baker-Nunn Operation,” 9–12, in Solomon (1967).

931. Radio antennae are typically called “dishes” when they assume a concave, parabolic shape.

932. Van Helden (1984), 134. McCray (2004a), 1–12, nicely depicts the lure of large telescopes.

933. McCray (2004a), 48. On the origins of these decadal surveys, their impact, and moreover the burgeoning matrix of intertwined advisory panels created between the Space Science Board 

and the National Aeronautics and Space Administration (NASA) in the 1960s, see Smith (1989), 

Tatarewicz (1990), and DeVorkin (2000b). The Whitford Panel limited its attention to ground-based 

observatories, reflecting strong biases within the astronomical community at the time.

934. Geoffrey Burbidge to Whipple, 7 February 1964. Folder “B.” Box 7. RU 7431. SIA.

935. Burbidge to Whipple, 7 February 1964.

936. Whipple to Burbidge, 27 March 1964. Folder “B.” Box 7. RU 7431. SIA.

937. Whipple to Burbidge, 27 March 1964.

938. Menzel autobiography (1974), 556–558, on 558.

939. Whitney OHI (2005), 20–21; Layzer OHI (2007), 51–52.
Notes • 339

940. Goldberg OHI (1978), 107. On Pusey’s sympathies for a meritocratic culture, see Keller 

and Keller (2001), 177.

941. Goldberg OHI (1983), 14–17.

942. Goldberg OHI (1983), 11 (by O. Gingerich).

943. Foster F. Comstock to Arthur Trottenberg, 4 January 1966. “Harvard College Observatory 

1965–1983.” Box 19. HUG 4876. HUA.

944. Menzel to Goldberg and Whipple, 9 October 1967. “Harvard College Observatory 1965–

1983.” Box 19. HUG 4876. HUA.

945. “Minutes of the Meeting.” 21 November 1967. Nine people were on the committee, including Goldberg, Menzel, Whipple, Dalgarno, Layzer, Liller, Lilley, and Whitney. See also “Minutes 

of the Meeting of the Committee of Senior Professors” (20 January 1968), 16. “Harvard College 

Observatory 1965–1983.” Box 19. HUG 4876. HUA.

946. On the Prairie Network, see Plotkin (1997).

947. Ripley to the Honorable Clinton P. Anderson, 21 January 1966. FLWO Event History. 

See http://www.sao.arizona.edu/FLWO/flwohis.html.Hereinafter FLWO Event History. Compiled by 

FLWO staff, esp. Don Hogan. See also Whipple in Weekes, ed. (1979), 3.

948. Whipple OHI (1976), 67.

949. Smith and McCrosky (1954).

950. Latham OHI (2005), 31.

951. Anderson to Ripley, 22 January 1966. FLWO Event History, 4. See also Oehser (1970), 

193–194. Annual Report of the Board of Regents of the Smithsonian Institution (1959), 51.

952. These included the design and procurement of buildings and out-structures to house scientific equipment, and engineering services for surveying and developing access roads. “Contracts 

File, 1966–1970.” Boxes 1–3 in series 1. RU 262, Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, Mt. 

Hopkins Department, Records. SIA.

953. Memoranda, Tougas to Coffee, 10 May 1966; 30 September 1966. FLWO Event History. 

“Tribute to Mark Malec by Tom Hoffman.” “Malec” folder. Series 7. Box 1. Lundquist Collection. U. 

of Alabama library.

954. Whipple (1966), “Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory,” 181–213, on 196–197.

955. Hirsh (1983), ch. 3.

956. According to Hirsh (1983), 49–50, these detectors were never operational because of the 

delicacy of the spark chambers and their susceptibility to vibration and high vacuum environments. 

Whipple, “Report on the Astrophysical Observatory,” 147–173, in Smithsonian Institution (1963).

957. Defelice et al. (1963), 673–674. Goldberg describes the circumstances of his appointment 

in Goldberg OHI (1983), 2–3, with O. Gingerich.

958. Greisen (1971) credits Morrison (1958), 858. See also P. Morrison (1961), “The Origin of 

Cosmic Rays,” in Flügge, ed. (1961). Pollack and Fazio (1965) cite the 1961 paper.

959. Pollack and Fazio (1965), 730–744.

960. Fazio et al. (1968a), L83–L89.

961. Watson (2011), 13–19.

962. Letters in “Fazio” folder. Box 2. Acc. 85-215. SIA.

963. See Helmken (1968). George Dick to S. Galler et al., through Malec, Tillinghast, and 

Hurlbut, 31 January 1969. Folder “Gamma Ray Balloon Flights 1969–1970.” Box 4. RU 262. SIA. 
340 • Notes

S. Criswell to J. A. Coffey, “Space Requirements for Gamma Ray Flight Experiments Activities,” 

11 April 1969. Folder “Gamma Ray Astronomy, 1969–1970.” Box 4. RU 262. SIA. For an example of 

continuing efforts, and an indication of how the work has evolved, see Hong et al. (2011).

964. Natick engineers had built a “giant heliostat” as a solar furnace on the shores of Lake 

Cochituate to “simulate the thermal effects of nuclear explosions,” generating temperatures up to 

7,000 degrees. The facility was available at night to groups who could pass security background 

checks. Earls (2005), 73. Night sky work started at Natick in parallel with plans for constructing a 

suitable astronomical reflector with Hill of MIT. G. Fazio, “History of Air Cerenkov Detector.” Acc. 

85-215. Box 2. SIA.

965. Fazio et al. (1968a). See also Fazio et al. (1968b), 892–893. The “Gamma Ray Reflector” 

made it seem to local native Americans that the facility was attracting dangerous radiation.

966. Whipple, in Weekes, ed. (1979), 5.

967. Jacchia (1967), 93; Marra (2000), 88; Horn-d’Arturo (1953), 71–74.

968. Davies and Cotton (1957), 1, 16. Throughout late 1966 and into 1967, the design group 

considered various options; the issue was not so much mechanical design as optical performance. 

See folder “Blanton & Co. Architects and Engineers.” Box 1. RU 262. SIA. See also “Mount Hopkins 

Observatory.” Box 2. Acc. 85-215. SIA.

969. Burke and Kirchhoff (1968), 284–286.

970. Fazio et al. (1968b), 892–893. A pictorial history of these efforts can be found in Trevor 

Weekes, “How We Got from There to Here?” delivered at the VERITAS First Light Ceremony in 

April 2007: see http://veritas.sao.arizona.edu/about-veritas-mainmenu-81/history-aamp-timelinemainmenu-89 (accessed 21 December 2012).

971. After much negotiation, the Smithsonian submitted an alternative route for the access road 

to the Montosa Canyon site that did not disturb nearby sweat lodges and talking circle atmospherics. In following years, proposals to greatly expand the facility met with strong resistance. Thomas 

Stauffer, “Compromise Allows Building Near Sweat Lodge,” Arizona Daily Star, 2003, http://www.azsj.

org/forums/showthread.php?t=6700 (accessed 21 December 2012); see also Mark Muro, “Telescope 

Plans Blocked by Indian Ritual Site,” http://news.sciencemag.org/sciencenow/1999/09/08-01.html 

(accessed 21 December 2012).

972. Greisen (1971), 61, 71.

973. Fazio (1967).

974. Along the way, there were setbacks, closures, and intervening efforts at photo detector 

improvement. Weekes formed what was called the Whipple Collaboration, including several dozen 

physicists at institutions in the United States, Great Britain, Ireland, Hong Kong, Argentina, and 

France, which provided facilities with improved sensitivity and an imaging camera. Weekes (2012). 

The Whipple Collaboration was first mentioned explicitly in an annual report from Iowa State 

University (BAAS 18 [1986]: 200–202), consisting of the Smithsonian, University College Dublin, 

Iowa, and the University of Hawaii.

975. Greisen (1971), 63–64, 69.

976. Weekes et al. (1989). As of December 2012, this paper had garnered some 365 citations 

according to the SAO/NASA Astrophysics Data System (ADS). http://adsabs.harvard.edu/

977. Whipple OHI (1976), 50. “Preparation of a Master Plan,” 27 April 1967. “Blanton & Co. 

Architects and Engineers.” Box 1. RU 262. SIA.
Notes • 341

978. Gregory to Bartnik, 1 August 1971. “Program Scientists for the MMT Program.” Box 2. 

RU 7431. SIA.

979. For a general description, see Burke and Kirchhoff (1968), 284–286.

980. John A. Coffey, “Carlton W. Tillinghast, Jr. 1933–1969,” SAO News 9, no. 9 

(September 1969): 1.

981. “The 60-Inch Telescope at Mt. Hopkins Dedicated as ‘Tillinghast Reflector,’” SAO News 10 

no. 6 (September–October 1970): 1.

982. Coffey (1969), 1. Tillinghast, “Joint Government-University Laboratories in the United 

States,” Smithsonian Year 1969, 207–217.

983. Smithsonian Year 1966, 197.

984. The design and construction of the 60-inch employed a distributed contracting scheme 

rather than a single-source vendor. At the time, instruments of this class could be procured from 

commercial firms. But the SAO chose to develop the pieces and act as general contractor to gain 

intimate experience in the process. See “Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, Mt. Hopkins 

Department, Records,” series 1, “Contracts” file. RU 262. SIA. See also, in retrospect, Gregory to 

Bartnik, “Program Scientists for the MMT Program,” 1 August 1971. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

985. Ripley, “Statement by the Secretary,” 1, in Smithsonian Year 1969, 21.

986. SAO News 10, no. 3 (March–April 1970): 1.

987. FLWO Event History, 35.

988. Chaffee to Weekes, January 1976. “Summary of 1.5 meter telescope research from Oct 

1970 to Jan 1976.” “MMT/SAO” files. Box 20. RU 253. SIA.

989. “Land Withdrawal Request,” 22 May 1968. “Mt Hopkins Reports.” Box 31. RU 468. SIA.

990. On the ERC, see Andrew J. Butrica, “The Electronics Research Center: NASA’s Little 

Known Venture into Aerospace Electronics,” https://history.nasa.gov/ercaiaa.html.

991. “Prefatory Remarks and Work Statement for Contract between NASA Electronics 

Research Center (ERC) and Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory (SAO),” 17 December 1968. 

“National Aeronautics and Space Administration: Electronics Research Center—Projects at Mt 

Hopkins 1968–1970.” Box 4. RU 262. See also reports in “Observer Services Division 1969–1970.” 

Box 5. RU 262. SIA.

992. La Count to NASA, 3 July 1969. Folder “Laser Intercomparison Test.” “Laser Co-Location” 

file. Box 4. RU 262. SIA.

993. Weekes to Whipple, 23 January 1970. “Report on scientific activity for C1969.” Folder 

“Monthly progress reports 1966–1970.” Box 4. RU 262. SIA.

994. Whipple, introduction, in Trevor C. Weekes, Mount Hopkins Science Review (Smithsonian 

Institution Astrophysical Observatory, October 1970), 2. “Mount Hopkins Reports.” Box 31. RU 468. SIA.

995. Meinel (1960), “Design of Reflecting Telescopes,” in Kuiper and Middlehurst (1960), 

25–42, on 25. McCray (2004a), 61–64, explores Meinel’s background and his creation of the Optical 

Sciences Center. Here we examine in greater detail how his ideas were developed in partnership with 

the Smithsonian.

996. There were variations on this rough formula. See Learner (1981), 199, and Mertz (1971), 386.

997. “General Notes,” Publications of the Astronomical Society of the Pacific 79 (1967): 517. Now 

known as the Bok Telescope, it operates at an f/45 Cassegrain focus.
342 • Notes

998. The facility became the College of Optical Sciences. See http://www.optics.arizona.edu/

about-osc (accessed 18 February 2013).

999. Dennis (1991).

1000. Robert F. Piper, History of Space and Missile Systems Organization 1 July 1967–30 June 

1969, vol. 1 (March 1970). SAMSO Chief of Staff History Office. Redacted copy at http://nsarchive.

gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB235/10.pdf. I thank James David for guidance searching out these 

records.

1001. Various discussions of MOL are available. See Richelson (1990), 82–86. See also Berger 

(1970).

1002. Peebles (1987), 251, provides an overview of the life of the program without any details 

of the optical systems involved.

1003. Berger (1970), 62–65; Richelson (1990), 85.

1004. They turned out to be 72 inches. See redacted copy at http://www.nro.gov/foia/declass/

QUILL/25.%20Semi-Annual%20Report%20to%20the%20PFIAB%201965-66.PDF.

1005. Heppenheimer (1998), 204–205. Quotes from John L. McLucas to Melvin Laird, “Taking 

Stock of the National Reconnaissance Program,” 18 December 1972. NRO Release 17 September 

2011. “I have seen no adverse effects on the cover programs—and do not expect any of significance,” 

20. Cited in Perry (1973), accessed at http://www.nro.gov/foia/docs/hosr/hosr-vol1.pdf.

1006. Meinel, 50–52, in MMT Sloan Foundation Videohistory, sess. 6 (11 May 1989). SIA.

1007. Meinel, 4.

1008. John L. McLucas to Melvin Laird, 18 February 1972. “Taking Stock,” 21.

1009. Smithsonian Year 1970, 49.

1010. Options included a fixed hemisphere (Arecibo type) structure; various types of movable 

primaries; an “Eyeball,” a fully steerable floating sphere containing a stretched, reflecting membrane 

deflected by a partial vacuum; and a scheme called “CORT,” a fixed paraboloid pointed horizontally with a rotating plane mirror feed. There were also several radio-telescope type suggestions. See 

S,G&H: “Notes for Discussion at first progress meeting on conceptual studies for a major optical 

reflector,” 20 March 1968. Folder “Simpson, Gumpertz & Hager Consulting Engineers 1968–1969.” 

Box 3. RU 262. SIA.

1011. “‘Infrared Astronomy’ proposal to SI Research Foundation,” 4 March 1969. Folder 

“Infrared Astronomy 1968–1969.” Box 4. RU 262. SIA.

1012. Hoffman to Carleton et al., 23 July 1968. “Final Meeting on Initial MOR Study,” “MOR 

68–70.” Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1013. R. N. Watts “For The Record”: MOI Planning Meeting, “Major Optical Instrument,” 8 July 

1969. “MMT/SAO” files. Box 20. RU 253. SIA.

1014. Mertz, in Dickson, ed. (1970), 507–513. Mertz had been an effective promoter of Fourier 

techniques. See Mertz (1965, 1969), and Bowen (1964), 816–825, on 825.

1015. L. Mertz (August 1968), “Design for a Giant Telescope,” “MOR 68–70.” Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1016. AMB stands for “Astronomy Missions Board”; ASC for “Astronomy Survey Committee.” 

Meinel, “Aperture Synthesis Using Independent Telescopes,” 22 May 1970. Box 20. RU 253. 

“Correspondence 1970–1971.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA. Frank Low to “Members of AMB and ASC 

Infrared panels and Interested Colleagues,” 4 June 1970. UA/GK.
Notes • 343

1017. McCray (2004a), 62–64. On Low, see Don McCarthy, “Obituary: Frank J. Low (1933–

2009).” BAAS 43, no. 17 (December 2011). http://adsabs.harvard.edu/abs/2011BAAS...43..017M. The 

history of the MMT is also detailed in Beckers et al. (1981), which includes lengthy testimony from 

Ray Weymann and others at Arizona. See http://www.mmto.org/node/442 (accessed 17 March 2016).

1018. Smith (1989), 65. The AMB, chaired by Leo Goldberg, had been convened in 1967 to 

advise NASA on priorities for support for both long-term and short-term goals For an overview and its 

relations with the myriad array of boards advising on priorities for astronomy, see Tatarewicz (1990), 

100–103. See also D. B. Wood, “Astronomy Missions Board Meetings—Case 710” (12 November 

1968). NHO. See http://ntrs.nasa.gov/archive/nasa/casi.ntrs.nasa.gov/19790073768_1979073768.

pdf. Goldberg sat on the AMB solar astronomy panel, Whipple was a member of the optical astronomy panel, and Low was a member of the radio astronomy panel. Goldberg and Robert Noyes were 

also on the Greenstein Committee. See National Research Council (1972).

1019. Meinel, 53–54, in MMT Videohistory, sess. 6 (10 May 1989). RU 9542. SIA. Portions of 

this exchange appear in McCray (2004a), 65.

1020. Whipple to Low, 29 July 1970. Box 20. RU 253. SIA. See also folder “Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. 

RU 468, which also contains undated notes indicating that Arizona was seeking some $2.5 million 

from the Air Force.

1021. Whipple, Carleton, and Hoffman, 7–8, 13, 15, in MMT Videohistory, sess. 2 (10 May 

1989). RU 9542. SIA. Whipple OHI (1976), 38–39.

1022. Meinel, Aden, 22 May 1970. “Aperture Synthesis Using Independent Telescopes.” Box 20. 

RU 253. SIA.

1023. Frank Low to “Members of AMB and ASC Infrared panels and Interested Colleagues.” 

4 July 1970. UA/GK. See also “Correspondence 1970–1971.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1024. Smithsonian Year 1970, 49.

1025. “A Large Astronomical Telescope at Low Cost.” SAO submission to OMB, November 

1970. RU 7431. SIA.

1026. “Some Questions and Answers to Supplement the Brochure, a Large Astronomical 

Telescope at Low Cost, concerning SAO’s 1972 Request for a Large Six-Element Telescope.” Folder 

“A Large Astronomical Telescope at Low Cost.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

Chapter 13 – Building the MMT

1027. Lundquist notes “Meeting with U of A on Large Telescope, 15 January 1971. “Multiple 

Mirror Telescope 1970–1973, folder 1 of 3.” Box 8. RU 7431.19710104: Whipple to Kuiper, 4 January 

1971. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

1028. USRA is a national consortium of more than four dozen universities created to manage 

large NASA-funded programs. See http://www.usra.edu/about/history/ (accessed 5 March 2013).

1029. Lundquist notes, 15 January 1971. The Mansfield Amendment would be lifted later 

in 1971, but its dampening effect continued. On the “Mansfield Amendment” to the Military 

Procurement Authorization Act of 1970 (PL 91-121, Sec. 203) see National Science Policy (1970), 84.

1030. Whipple to Seamans, 22 January 1971. Box 8. RU 253. SAO Asst. Director for Science 

(Lundquist copy). SIA.
344 • Notes

1031. Seamans to Whipple, 22 February 1971. Box 8. RU 253. SAO Asst. Director for Science 

(Lundquist copy). SIA.

1032. McLucas to Laird, “Taking Stock,” 21.

1033. Whipple to Kuiper/Low/Meinel/Weymann [cc Goldberg], 25 February 1971. “SixElement Telescope Project” folder “MMT-FLW.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1034. Whipple to Bradley, 16 March 1971. “Congress and the 6-Element Reflector.” Folder 

“Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1035. “Draft” transcript of testimony between Senator Bible and Whipple, 23 March 1971. 

Folder “MMT Funding 71–73.” Box 31. RU 468. SIA.

1036. Weymann to Morris K. Udall, 12 May 1971. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

1037. Whipple to Meinel, 1 July 1971. Folder “Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1038. Ripley (Bradley) to William D. McElroy, 23 March 1971. Folder “MMT Funding NSF.” 

Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1039. McElroy to Ripley, 12 April 1971. Folder “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1040. Ripley identical letters to Chet Holifield and John L. McClellan. 5 March 1971. “Dept. of 

Science and Technology 1971.” Box 46. RU 253. SIA.

1041. Weymann to Kuiper et al., 18 February 1971. “Report of a visit to Fleischer at NSF.” 

UA/GK.

1042. On NASA’s interests, see Watts to Bartnik and Lundquist, 2 June 1971, and “Lundquist 

for The Record,” 31 July 1971. “Multiple-Mirror Telescope” folder 2.” Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1043. Meinel to Fleischer, 7 February 1972. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1044. MMT Videohistory, sess. 6 (11 May 1989), 18–19. RU 9542. SIA.

1045. “Some Astronomical, Engineering, and Economic Aspects of a Multiple-Mirror 

Telescope—a joint project of the University of Arizona and the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory, June 1971.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

1046. Peter Boyce and Mary Saffell, “Robert Fleischer,” http://adsabs.harvard.edu/abs/

2003BAAS...35.1460B.

1047. Meeting of “Government Astronomy Administrators Round Table” (GAART). 

Robert Fleischer to Large Distribution List Attached, 7 April 1969. “NSF 1963–1972.” Box 47. 

RU 253. SIA.

1048. The MMT as a concept for the space telescope is also mentioned in Meinel, “Multiple 

Mirror Telescopes of the Future,” in Weekes, ed. (1979), 8.

1049. Smith (1989), 378.

1050. Gregory to Bartnik, 26 July 1971. Folder “Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA. See Smith 

(1989), 69–73, for hints as to the role of the 72 inch mirrors in NASA’s plans for space telescopes.

1051. Gregory to Bartnik, 1 August 1971. Folder “Program Scientists for the MMT Program.” 

Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. Gregory “for the Record, MMT Program,” 2 August 1971. Folder “MMT 

Funding 71–73.” Box 31. RU 468. Whipple to “All of UA and SAO Interested Scientific Staff.” Folder 

“MMT Program Organization.” Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

1052. Gregory and Hoffman, 16 August 1971, “for the record.” Folder “Conferences and 

Meetings 71–74.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1053. Gregory to Attendees, 15 October 1971. “MMT Conf. & Mtgs.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.
Notes • 345

1054. Gregory to Distribution, 24 September 1971. Folder “MMT Scientific and Operational 

Requirements”; Gregory to Bartnik, 28 September 1971. Folder “MMT Conf. and Mtgs.” Box 8. 

RU 253. SIA.

1055. Gregory to Attendees, 15 October 1971. Folder “MMT Conf. & Mtgs.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1056. Menzel to Goldberg and Whipple, 9 October 1967; “Minutes of the Meeting of the 

Committee of Senior Professors,” 21 November 1967. Box 19. HUG 4876. HUA.

1057. “Minutes of the Meeting of the Committee of Senior Professors,” 16; 20 January 1968. 

“Harvard College Observatory 1965–1983.” Box 19. HUG 4876. HUA.

1058. “Land Withdrawal Request,” 22 May 1971. Folder “Mt Hopkins Reports.” Box 31. 

RU 468. SIA.

1059. Whipple to Kuiper/Low/Meinel/Weymann, 25 February 1971. “FLW Correspondence 

71–74.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1060. Bartnik to Goldberg, 15 June 1971. “MMT/SAO files.” Box 20. RU 253. SIA.

1061. Goldberg to Whipple, 21 July 1971. “MMT-FLW.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1062. Bartnik “For the Record” to Whipple, 23 July 1971. “MMT-FLW.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1063. Goldberg OHI (1978), 108. See also Goldberg OHI (1983), with Owen Gingerich, 14–15; 

A. Dupree OHI (2007), 49–51.

1064. Goldberg OHI (1978), 106–107.

1065. Robert Fleischer to Weymann, 3 November 1971. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 

468. SIA.

1066. Weymann to Fleischer, 8 November 1971. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1067. Whipple to Fleischer, 13 December 1971. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1068. Fleischer to Whipple, dictated 23 December, 30 December 1971. “MMT Funding NSF.” 

Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1069. Whipple to Fleischer, draft, 30 December 1971, n.d. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. 

RU 468. SIA.

1070. Whipple to Fleischer, 10 February 1971. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1071. Weymann to Fleischer, 15 February 1972. “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1072. Fleischer to Weymann, dictated 18 February, 1 March 1972. “MMT Funding NSF.” 

Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1073. National Research Council (1972), 82–83. Members of the committee were skeptical 

at first, and, according to Meinel, “very hard to convince.” But after Meinel made personal appeals 

to Jesse Greenstein, the chair, and when Bruce Margon, Weymann recalled, provided particularly 

effective testimony during the final deliberations, this “swayed the Greenstein Committee.” MMT 

Videohistory, sess. 6 (11 May 1989), 7–8. SIA.

1074. Bartnik to Challinor, 16 June 1972. Folder “MMT Funding 71–73.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1075. Meinel to Hon. Harry Davis, 23 December 1971. Folder “MMT Funding NSF.” Box 32. 

RU 468. SIA. Background for Meinel’s work can be found in Robert F. Piper “History of Space and 

Missile Systems Organization 1 July 1967–30 June 1969 Vol. 1” (March 1970), SAMSO Chief of Staff 

History Office. Redacted copy at http://nsarchive.gwu.edu/NSAEBB/NSAEBB235/10.pdf. See also 

Meinel and T. S. Byington (1969); Meinel to Hon. Harry Davis, 23 December 1971. “MMT Funding 

NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.
346 • Notes

1076. Weymann to E. Creutz, 13 October; 26 November 1973. “MMT-Funding NSF.” Box 32. 

RU 468. SIA.

1077. John P. Schaefer to H. Guyford Stever, 29 November 1973. “Gen. Corr. 71–74.” Box 32. 

RU 468. SIA.

1078. Ripley to Rhodes, 2 December 1975. Folder “MMT/SAO files.” Box 20. RU 253. SIA.

1079. Kuiper to Whipple, 30 December 1970. Folder “Corr. 70–71” and “U of Az/MMT Prof to 

NSF Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1080. Weekes to Whipple, 12 May 1970. “MOR File 68–70.” Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1081. David W. Latham, 22 May 1971. “Proposed Site-Testing Program for the Comparison of 

Mt. Hopkins and Mt. Lemmon.” Folder “Corr. 70–71.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1082. Whipple “For the Record” conversation with Low, 4 August 1971. Folder “MMT-FLW.” 

RU 468. SIA.

1083. “Multiple Mirror Telescope Facility Agreement,” revised MOU, 20 September 1971. 

Box 2. RU 7431; Gregory to Distribution, 24 September 1971. “MMT Scientific and Operational 

Requirements.” Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1084. Kuiper to Weaver, 2 November 1971, “U S Forest Service Meeting of November 1 (Mt. 

Lemmon Policies).” Folder “Gen. Corr. 71–74.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA. With clipping, “Catalina Land 

Use Plan Draws Strong Criticism” [Tucson Star]. Kuiper to Doran, 2 November 1971. Folder “Gen. 

Corr. 71–74.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1085. David Latham, 7 January 1972. “Results of the Site-Testing Program for the Comparison 

of Mt. Hopkins and Mt. Lemmon.” “Multiple-Mirror Telescope 1970–1973” folder 3. Box 8. RU 253; 

Gregory to “MMT Distribution,” 12 January 1972. Folder “MMT Steering Committee.” Box 32. RU 

468. SIA.

1086. The selection was also partly based on economy. Shannon recalled that “Corning had 

an f2.7 tool available, which saved about $15,000 in the processing.” MMT Videohistory, sess. 5 (10 

May 1989), 4. SIA.

1087. “Summary of MMT Steering Committee Meeting, 19 January 1972,” 19 January; 

1 February 1972. Bartnik “for the record,” 25 January 1972. “MMT Steering Committee.” Box 32. RU 

468. Box 32. SIA. See also Weymann statement in Beckers (1981).

1088. “MMT Steering Committee meeting.” 9 June 1972. Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1089. Kassander to Whipple, 7 February 1973. Folder “MMT-FLW.” Box 32. RU 468; Kuiper to 

Whipple, 13 December 1972. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA.

1090. Jesse Greenstein, 20 November 1975. “Report of the Panel to Review the Multiple Mirror 

Project,” B4. Folder “MMT/UA Proposals to NSF.” Box 32. RU 468. SIA.

1091. Greenstein, 20 November 1975 draft; 29 January 1976 final, “Report.” Jameson to 

Ripley, Challinor, Field, and Gaynor, 20 February 1976; Challinor to Greenstein, 23 February 

1976. “MMT/SAO files.” RU 253. Strittmatter and William Hoffmann to Peter Boyce, NSF, 

7 April 1976. Formal withdrawal of Arizona’s proposal. Folder “U of A MMT prop to NSF.” Box 

33. RU 468. SIA. On the influence of the Greenstein report, see John F. Jameson to Challinor, 

Wheeler, and Ullberg, “MMT program funding status.” 10 September 1976. “MMT/SAO files.” 

RU 253. SIA.

1092. Pamela Mayhew, “New Telescope to Be Boon or Boondoggle,” Tucson Daily Citizen, 

29 April 1976; Draft of Telegram, n.d., Challinor to McKalip, Editor, “Arizona Citizen.” Assistant 

Secy. for Science 1963–1978. RU 108. Folder 3. Box 31. SIA.
Notes • 347

1093. Walter Sullivan, “New Telescope Is Considered a Breakthrough: Third Most Powerful 

Telescope,” New York Times, 12 June 1978, B10. Box 2. RU 7431. SIA. On final costs, see Meinel, 

“Multiple Mirror Telescopes of the Future,” in Weekes, ed. (1979), fig. 1, 10.

1094. Beckers (1982), fig. 1. FLWO Event History, 161–163.

Chapter 14 – National Facilities for Astronomy 

and the Question of Limits

1095. Sullivan (2009), 46–47; 398–403. Whipple and Greenstein (1937).

1096. Sullivan (2009), 412–413; Munns (2002), 126–151. Bart Bok OHI (1978), 39, 51. AIP.

1097. Bok OHI (1978), 67.

1098. Bok and Ewen (1954), 318. On Menzel’s organizational efforts, see Munns (2003), 101.

1099. Bok et al. (1957), 8; Heeschen (1956), 588–590; Bok (1956), 141–147.

1100. “Lovell Reports on Latest Jodrell Bank Work,” SAO News 2, no. 4 (April 1964): 1. On the 

sense among mainstream astronomers in the 1950s that radio astronomers were not “real” astronomers, see Sullivan (2009), 424–425.

1101. Munns (2003), following England (1982), has detailed the strong resistance in the 1950s 

to centralized national facilities.

1102. England (1982), 280–285.

1103. See, for instance, Roback (1969), 36–43. On the debate, see McCray (2004a, b).

1104. Lilley (1961).

1105. Barrett and Lilley (1963), 195.

1106. Goldberg OHI (1978), 74.

1107. Background on Lincoln and planetary radar can be found in Butrica (1996), ch. 2. 

Butrica, ch. 3, examines NEROC, centering on reconciling the technical needs of planetary radar 

astronomy and mainstream radio astronomy, seeing this as an important ingredient in the eventual 

demise of the 440-foot dish. Here we offer a complementary interpretation that looks at competition 

to create national facilities.

1108. “Haystack Radar-Radio” (1964).

1109. Meeks and Lilley (1963); Barath et al. (1964).

1110. Lilley to File, 24 March 1963 (n.d.), “Joint Radio and Radar Facility; Log of relevant 

Meetings, Actions and Correspondence.” “Lilley Log.” Acc. 83-121. SIA. Hereinafter AELL/SIA.

1111. Findlay (1963), 73.

1112. A “key” meeting was noted in Butrica (1996), 67, ref. 36, “Lilley to File.”

1113. National Research Council (1964).

1114. National Research Council (1964), 24. The report was highlighted in Philip Abelson. 

“Ground Based Astronomy” Science 146 (4 December 1964), 1255. See also Lubkin (1975), courtesy 

Patrick McCray and Gloria Lubkin.

1115. National Research Council (1964), 57.

1116. Lilley log entry for 13 November 1963.

1117. Lilley log entries, December 1963.

1118. Hawkins et al. (1956), 179.
348 • Notes

1119. Whipple, “Meteor Work at Harvard College Observatory and Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory in 1957, 1958, and 1959,” in Whipple (1972), 1:422–424; Whipple and Hawkins (1959); 

Hawkins (1963), 53–62; Gilbert (1977, repr. 2013).

1120. Lilley log entries from 2 December 1963 through 20 February 1964.

1121. On early evaluations, see Meeks et al. (1968), 746–751; Meeks and Ruze (1971), 723–728.

1122. Ripley to Haworth, 26 February 1965. “NSF 1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

1123. Bradley to Ripley w/copy to Galler, 1 December 1965. “Trip to the Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory with George Evans.” Box 7. RU 137. SIA. Sugar Grove was a Navy project 

to build a surveillance system capable of monitoring radio communications in Soviet-held territories, using the Moon as a radio reflector. The Navy attempted to give it an astronomical cover. On 

Sugar Grove, see Greenberg (1962), 327. See also van Keuren (2001) and DeVorkin (2000b).

1124. Bradley to Ripley, 1 December 1965.

1125. Lilley log entry for 26 August 1965.

1126. On CAMROC and NEROC, see Butrica (1996), 63, 73–85. NEROC comprised nine 

northeastern institutions. See also Lilley log entries for 27 May 1966; 6 July 1966. Joel Orlen to 

Wiesner, Purcell, Ruina, and Whipple, 21 June 1967; Jerome B. Wiesner to Howard W. Johnson, 

21 June 1967 and 22 June 1967: “Certification of Incorporation of Northeast Radio Observatory 

Corporation.” Folder “NEROC 1967–69 and undated.” Box 6. RU 256. SIA.

1127. Brooks was dean of the Division of Engineering and Applied Sciences at Harvard.

1128. Lilley log entry for 14 August 1967. On Brooks’s role and on the Dicke Panel, see Lubkin 

(1975), 5–6; and see McCray (2004a, b) for similar discussions regarding priorities for optical 

astronomy.

1129. McElheny (1967), 907.

1130. “Ad Hoc Panel” to Haworth, 21 August 1967, 14. “NEROC 1967–69 and undated.” Box 6. 

RU 256. SIA. McElheny (1967), 909–910. Butrica (1996), 75, notes that in terms of competitiveness 

for planetary radar, “the Dicke Panel report devastated NEROC plans, not to mention planetary radar 

astronomy at Lincoln Laboratory.” Wiesner’s reply is from: Orlen to CAMROC members, 11 October 

1967, attaching Wiesner to Haworth. Folder 9 “CAMROC, 1964–69 and undated.” Box 1. RU 256. SIA.

1131. Hurlburt call to Lilley, 23 May 1968. Lilley log entry that date.

1132. Ripley to Whipple, 22 November 1967. “Astrophysical Observatory Smithsonian (1.AOS) 

1963–1973.” Box 1. RU 108. SIA.

1133. Smithsonian Institution appropriations hearings, 95th Cong., 2d sess., pt. 1: Senate (1979), 

1076. http://library.si.edu/digital-library/book/smithsonianin95211979smit#sthash.vz4imabv.dpuf 

(accessed 20 October 2014).

1134. Ripley to Haworth, 6 March 1968. “NSF-SI Relations.” Box 250. RU 99. SIA. On Albert 

Thomas and his penchant for “equitable distribution” of NSF funds, see “Albert Thomas” (1966), 

1064–1065.

1135. Ripley to Haworth. “Godmother” and “universal institution” from Dupree (1986), 330.

1136. “Memo,” 8 February 1968, and “A Statement on Sponsored Research and the National 

Science Foundation,” 1 March 1968. Folder “NSF,” box 341; and folder “NSF-SI Relations,” 6. Box 250. 

RU 99. SIA.

1137. Lilley log entries for 8 August and 11 August 1968. Bradley to Ripley, “Proposal for Radio 

Astronomy at SAO,” 22 August 1968; Lilley to Wiesner, 22 August 1968. “NEROC 1967–69 and 

undated.” Box 6. RU 256. SIA. See also Lubkin (1975), 12.
Notes • 349

1138. Lilley to Wiesner, “NEROC Status,” 22 August 1968. Folder “NEROC 1967–1969.” Box 6. 

RU 256. Bradley, AEL to FLW, 27 August 1968. Bradley to Ripley, 27 August 1968, reporting on a 

meeting at MIT with Wiesner, Purcell, Shapiro, Whipple, Lilley, Lundquist, Tillinghast, and Bradley, 

clipped to Bradley to Fleischer, 17 January 1969. “NSF.” Box 341. RU 99. SIA.

1139. Lilley log entries for 13, 15, and 21 August 1968.

1140. Bradley to Ripley, 27 August 1968. Folder “NSF” regarding MIT meeting report. Box 

341. RU 99. SIA.

1141. Loweth’s role at the Office of Management and Budget (OMB) and related activities 

regarding the organization of the science budget during the Nixon administration can be inferred 

from Greenberg (2003), ch. 5.

1142. Even though the term “Big Dish” had certain negative connotations, in the wake of the 

Sugar Grove fiasco, the term was used by SI staff informally for the radio-radar telescope. See Bradley 

to Ripley, 12 September 1969 [RU 99, box 341, folder “NSF”] and “Congress Gets ‘Big Dish’ Bill,” SAO 

News 9, no. 4 (March 1969): 1.

1143. Bradley to Ripley, 11 September 1968, clipped to Bradley to Fleischer, 17 January 1969. 

Folder “NSF.” Box 341. RU 99. SIA.

1144. Bradley to Ripley, 11 September 1968.

1145. Inferences from Roback (1969).

1146. Lilley to Bradley. Lilley log entry for 20 September 1968.

1147. See “Smithsonian Science Information Exchange, Records, 1946–1983.” Box 1. RU 482. SIA.

1148. Bradley to Ripley, 27 August 1968, regarding “meeting with Weisner on radio telescope.” 

See also entry for 1 December 1968, and items in the file dating back to the previous June. Box 1. 

RU 108. SI Asst. Secy. for Science 1963–1973. SIA.

1149. Victor Cohn, “$3-Million Request to Increase Range of Big Telescope Denied,” 

Washington Post, 19 March 1968. Copy in “NEROC 1967–1969.” Box 6. RU 256. SIA.

1150. Lilley log entries in August, especially 27 August 1968 and 4 October 1968.

1151. Peter Gwynne, “U.S. Falls behind Europe in Radio Astronomy,” Boston Herald Traveler, 

6 October 1968, n.p. Copy clipped to Lilley to NEROC Distribution, 7 October 1968. Folder “NEROC 

1967–69.” Box 6. RU 256. SIA.

1152. Findlay, “Summary of a meeting,” 1 December 1968. Folder “Astrophysical Observatory 

Smithsonian (1.AOS).” Box 1. RU 108. SI Asst. Secy. for Science 1963–1973. SIA.

1153. Lubkin (1975), 5; J. W. Findlay, April 1967. “A Synthetic Antenna Which May Meet the 

LFST Requirements,” manuscript FPST/9. Folder 9, “CAMROC 1964–1969.” Box 1. RU 256. SIA.

1154. Lilley log entry for 11 December 1968.

1155. Ripley to Regents, 25 November 1968. See also “Statement on Radio and Radar 

Astronomy,” January 1969; and “A Bill to Authorize the Smithsonian Institution to acquire lands and 

to design a radio-radar telescope for the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory.” 15 January 1969 

draft letter to Regents. “Astrophysical Observatory, Smithsonian.” Box 1. RU 108. SIA.

1156. Ripley to Regents, 25 November 1968.

1157. Senators Anderson, Fulbright, and Scott, authorization bill S. 705 introduced 28 January 

1969. Clipped to Ripley to Haworth, 17 March 1969. Folder “NSF.” Box 341. RU 99. SIA.

1158. As Lilley recorded, “Lilley receives call from Orlen at Lincoln Laboratory. He is 

extremely concerned about Whipple’s assertion that STAG reports to Smithsonian.” Lilley log entry 

for 6 January 1969.
350 • Notes

1159. Lilley log entries for 3, 6, 14, 27, 28 February 1969.

1160. Lilley log entry for 27 February 1969. On Shapiro’s work at Millstone and Haystack, see 

Butrica (1996) throughout, as well as Benjamin Wilson and David Kaiser, “Calculating Times: Radar, 

Ballistic Missiles, and Einstein’s Relativity,” in Oreskes and Krige, eds. (2014), 273–316.

1161. Edmondson (1997), 63.

1162. Edmondson (1997), 59–61.

1163. Indications of Air Force intentions are in Lilley log entry for 17 October 1968, recording call to Lilley from Clauser. On NEROC’s fate, see Wilson and Kaiser in Oreskes and Krige, eds. 

(2014), 301–303.

1164. Lilley log entry for 10 March 1969.

1165. Ripley to Haworth, 17 March 1969. Follow-up to letter to BoB of January 20. Folder 

“NSF.” Box 341. RU 99. SIA. Lubkin (1975), 8–10.

1166. Weisner to Lilley, 7 March 1969; Bradley to Whipple, 10 March 1969, regarding 

“Committee of Cooperating Users”; and Lilley to Whipple, 12 March 1969. Folder “Management” in 

“Radio Radar Astronomical Telescope ’65–’71.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1167. Bradley to Whipple, 10 March 1969. Folder “Management” in “Radio Radar Astronomical 

Telescope ’65–’71.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1168. Galler to Ripley, 27 March 1969, “Personal and Confidential.” “APO” folder 3. 

“Correspondence.” Box 1. RU 108. SIA.

1169. Lubkin (1975), 10.

1170. Lilley log entry 23 July 1969, recording phone call from Whipple. H.R. 13024, counterpart to S. 705, introduced into the House by Rep. Thompson of New Jersey, 22 July 1969.

1171. Bradley, 3 September 1960, n.d. “Briefing Notes for Hearing before the Subcommittee.” 

Folder “Conference.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA. The date of this document is not clear, but it appears that 

it was prepared well before September at a time when McElroy was just beginning his tenure.

1172. McElroy wholeheartedly endorsed the full and final transfer of authority and responsibility for the Science Information Exchange to the Smithsonian.

1173. James Frey to Pell, 2 September 1969. “APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA. There 

were actually several delays. The hearings began in mid-July and continued in the Senate through 29 

July, with the House hearings on 30 July. See Ripley to Regents, 17 June 1970. “Correspondence to 

Regents re Thompson Cong. Hearings.” Box 64. RU 137. SIA.

1174. Lubkin (1975), 8–10.

1175. Greenstein to “Members of the American Astronomical Society.” 6 January 1970. Folder 

“NSF.” Box 341. RU 99. SIA.

1176. Lubkin (1975), 15–18.

1177. Lubkin (1975), 15–18, on 15.

1178. The National Science Board, “A History in Highlights 1950–2000.” http://www.nsf

.gov/nsb/documents/2000/nsb00215/nsb50/1970/mansfield.html. David H. Guston and Kenneth 

Keniston, “Introduction: The Social Contract for Science,” in Guston and Keniston, eds. (1994), 7, 

33, note 2.

1179. Wilson and Kaiser in Oreskes and Krige, eds. (2014), 302; Butrica (1996), 79–82. 

MIT was willing to retain Lincoln but drop its association with Draper Labs. V. McElheny, “M.I.T. 

Administration Makes Public Its Intentions on Disposition of Draper and Lincoln Laboratories,” 

Science 168 (29 May 1970): 1074–1075.
Notes • 351

1180. Joan Hoff, “The Presidency, Congress, and the Deceleration of the U.S. Space Program in 

the 1970s,” in Launius and McCurdy, eds. (1997), 101.

1181. Richard D. Lyons, “Nixon Reorganizing Vast Federal Science Complex,” New York Times, 

1 November 1970.

1182. Lyons, “Nixon.”

1183. Maxine Cheshire, “Smithsonian’s Fund Use Criticized,” Boston Globe, 26 January 1970, 

6; Cheshire, “Smithsonian Probe Asked,” Washington Post, 16 April 1970, D1; Jack Anderson, “Mall 

Memorial to Hirshhorn Probed,” Washington Post, 11 April 1970, C11. Jieun Shin and Pam Henson 

kindly provided insights into Frank Thompson.

1184. “Report by the Committee on House Administration,” 91st Cong., 2d sess. House Report 

No. 91-1801 (30 December 1970), 1. Union Calendar No. 865. Box 64. RU 137. SIA.

1185. H.R. 13024, in 91st Cong., 2d sess. House Report No. 91-1801. “The Smithsonian 

Institution,” 30 December 1970. 48-006. http://archive.org/stream/smithsonianit9121970smit/

smithsonianit9121970smit_djvu.txt (accessed 20 October 2014).

1186. Thompson, “General Hearings Before the Subcommittee on Library and Memorials of 

the Committee on House Administration of the House of Representatives, 981st Congress, Second 

Session, July 1970.” Quoted in Bradley OHI, no. 12 (10 March 1976), 225–226

1187. Statements by Ripley and Whipple, 29 July 1970 to “Subcommittee on Library and 

Memorials on H.R. 13024. Conference.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1188. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 554.

1189. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 554–555.

1190. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 563–565.

1191. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 566.

1192. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 575.

1193. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 595.

1194. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 595–596.

1195. “Statements,” 29 July 1970, 596. Thompson also recognized Connecticut Senator 

Emilio Daddario’s success in securing a small but substantial funding increase for basic 

research.

1196. Ripley, “Announcement,” 4 August 1970. “Thompson Hearings House Res 910.” Box 64. 

RU 137. SIA. There are many factors, both internal and external, not discussed here that prompted 

the Thompson Hearings and led to profound changes in Ripley’s administration in the 1970s. I 

am indebted to Pamela Henson for many helpful discussions about this watershed in Smithsonian 

history, which deserves deeper attention than can be given here. Thompson was appointed a regent 

in 1979.

1197. Lundquist notes—July 1970. Folder “Multiple Mirror Telescope 1970–1973,” 1 of 3.” 

Box 8. RU 253. SIA.

1198. Bradley to Challinor, 7 April 1970; Bradley to Ripley, 9 January 1970. Folder “APO.” 

Box 2. RU 108. SIA. On BoB’s suggestion, see Jameson to Bradley and Galler, 24 December 1969. 

“Admin Confidential—SAO and the Federal Budget.” “APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1199. Jameson to Ripley et al., 24 August; 1 September 1970. Folder “OMB General 

Correspondence.” Box 11. Acc. 82-018. SIA. The “SAO Issue Paper” was an edited copy, Loweth to 

Siscoe. Routing slip, 26 August 1970. Courtesy Dan Fabricant, SAO.
352 • Notes

1200. “SAO Issue Paper” attached to Anderson to Jameson, 23 February 1971, and Jameson to 

Raymond N. Watts, 1 March 1971.

1201. “SAO Issue Paper,” 2.

1202. “SAO Issue Paper,” 6.

1203. “SAO Issue Paper,” 9.

1204. “SAO Issue Paper,” 10.

1205. “SAO Issue Paper,” 11.

1206. John Jameson to Raymond N. Watts, 1 March 1971. “OMB Reports on SAO” clipped to 

Dean Anderson to John Jameson “OMB Route Slip,” 23 February 1971. “Office of Programming and 

Budget.” SAO Folder. Box 13. SIA. T90068.

1207. Dean Anderson statement, clipped to Jameson and Watts, 1 March 1971. “APO” folder 1. 

Box 8. RU 108. SIA. There were repeated suggestions in the 1970s for closing the SAO and transferring it to NSF or to NASA. See, for instance, “Argument against transferring Mt. Hopkins to Kitt 

Peak,” 16 March 1973. “APO” folder 4. Box 17. RU 108. SIA.

1208. Ripley to Frank Thompson, 5 January 1971. “Thompson Hearings.” Box 64. RU 137. 

19710107: John H. Dobkin to The Record (cc Bradley, Blitzer and Powers), 7 January 1971. “Corr. re 

Thompson Hearings.” Box 64. RU 137. SIA.

1209. Challinor’s focus was, moreover, on relations between the National Museum of Natural 

History’s research and NSF funding. 19710204: Challinor to Ripley, 4 February 1971. “SI and the 

NSF.” Box 11. RU 108. SIA.

1210. Senate Bill 1421 was identical to the original S. 705 the previous year and HR 13024. 

See Ripley to Lucien Nedzi, 2 April 1971. NSF “Nedzi” folder. Box 47. RU 137; Bradley to. Whipple, 

2 April 1971. Folder “Congress and Bills” in “Radio Radar Astronomical Telescope ’65–’71.” Box 21. 

RU 7431. SIA.

1211. Call from B. F. Burke, Lilley log entry for 20 April 19761. See also Lubkin (1975), 21.

1212. During this time, there was also some talk of Navy support, but the Smithsonian 

rejected it, feeling that it was contrary to its mandate for basic research rather than “mission-oriented” research. Telephone call to Lundquist from Huxley, Lilley log entry for 26 April 1971. Woody 

Price to Ripley (through Powers and Bradley), 26 April 1971 on proposed DOD Amendment 

to radar telescope legislation. Folder “Management” in “Radio Radar Astronomical Telescope 

’65–’71.” Box 21. RU 7431. See also Price to Ripley, 28 April 1971. “DoD Amendment to Radar 

Telescope Bill.” “APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1213. Bradley to Ripley, 11 May 1971. “Confidential.” NSF “Nedzi” folder. Box 47. RU 137. SIA.

1214. Harvey Brooks to Whipple, 1 June 1971. Folder “Congress and Bills” in “Radio Radar 

Astronomical Telescope ’65–’71.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1215. Ripley to Thompson, 23 June 1971; Ripley to Anderson, 23 June 1971. “Thompson 

Committee Hearings.” “APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1216. Lilley log entry for 21 May 1971. On continued NEROC planning, see Butrica (1996), 

82–83.

1217. Whipple to all NEROC Participants, 21 May 1971. Folder “Congress and Bills” in “Radio 

Radar Astronomical Telescope ’65–’71.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1218. Lubkin (1975), 23; Richard Lyons, “U.S. Proposes Mammoth Radio Telescope at New 

Mexico Site,” New York Times, 16 March 1972, 24.
Notes • 353

1219. Butrica remarks on how shifts in desired wavelength regimes changed priorities in radio 

astronomy that were distinct from the needs of planetary radar. Butrica (1996), 82–85.

1220. Whipple OHI (1976), 16.

1221. Bradley OHI, no. 12 (1976), 235–236, 242.

Chapter 15 – Growing Fault Lines in Cambridge

1222. Marsden OHI session II (2005); Field OHI (2007). https://www.aip.org/history-programs/

niels-bohr-library/oral-histories.

1223. Whipple, “A Word from the Director,” SAO News 10 (March–April 1970): 1.

1224. Each situation had its peculiarities. Stanford was similar, but primarily it was an issue of 

scaling up, not heterogeneity. Galison et al. (1992), 46–77.

1225. Laura Whipple OHI (2007), 30. On strained relations, see also Babette Whipple OHI 

(2007), 40.

1226. McCray (2000), 14; (2004a).

1227. DeVorkin (2000b).

1228. Greenstein to Goldberg, 7 June 1960. Folder 9. Box 12. Greenstein Papers. Caltech.

1229. Goldberg to Greenstein, 14 June 1960. Folder 9. Box 12; also folder 8. Box 43. Greenstein 

Papers. Caltech.

1230. Goldberg to Whipple, 6 October 1960. Folder “Goldberg, Leo.” Box 2. RU 7431. Ser. 1. SIA.

1231. Whipple to Greenstein, 11 April 1961. Folder 8. Box 43. Greenstein Papers. Caltech.

1232. Remington Kellog to John Macy, 1 March 1962. “APO Personnel 55–64.” Box 21. RU 50. SIA.

1233. See articles on the decision to build an observatory on Mauna Kea instead of Haleakala, 

in “STADAD—Hawaii, Visits and Visitors, 1965–66.” Box 47. RU 263. SIA.

1234. John Hsia to Lundquist, 17 August 1965, on the University of Michigan activity on Maui. 

“STADAD—Hawaii—Public Info, 1965.” Box 47. RU 263. SIA.

1235. Goldberg OHI (1978), 119–120. Goldberg et al. (1965), 676. Goldberg’s shock tube laboratory and staff building are noted in Gingerich OHI (2005), 65.

1236. Goldberg OHI (1978), 123–124. On OSO, see Bester (1966), 17, and throughout the 

volume.

1237. Aller (1997), 122. http://www.nasonline.org/publications/biographical-memoirs/

memoir-pdfs/goldberg-leo.pdf (accessed 31 August 2013).

1238. Leo Goldberg, “Harvard College Observatory,” Bulletin of the American Astronomical 

Society 1 (1969): 20–25.

1239. Goldberg to Dunlop, 5 November 1970. Box 2. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA. 

“Zero tolerance” from Aller, “Leo Goldberg,” 122. See also comments by Avrett OHI (2005), 84; 

Gingerich OHI (2005), 79; and Dupree OHI (2007), 40. By the late 1960s, Smithsonian staff were 

responsible for over half the Harvard teaching load, with only “token salaries from Harvard.” 

Smithsonian was definitely second class. Carl Sagan had a split appointment, but was denied promotion and tenure at Harvard. Whipple was ready to offer him a full-time Smithsonian appointment, 

but Sagan wanted an academic professorship. Lundquist OHI (2011), 192. Sagan’s tenure problems 
354 • Notes

may have resulted from Harvard faculty concerns but definitely from highly critical external reviews. 

See Davidson (1999), 202–204.

1240. Andrea Dupree OHI, 49.

1241. Goldberg OHI (1978), 105.

1242. K. Drummond to Whipple, 15 March 1960. “Laying of Cornerstone April 15.” Box 2. 

RU 7431. SIA.

1243. Whitney OHI (2005), 56.

1244. Avrett OHI (2005), 84.

1245. When SAO staff were interviewed as part of this history, they were shown spreadsheets 

based on the Annual Report of the Director that identified at least three levels of administrative structure, including group leaders and subgroups. Respondents were consistently skeptical that such 

groupings were real from an administrative standpoint. They were real enough for the specific problem at hand, but groups constantly reformed and floated.

1246. Whitney OHI (2005), 53–54. Gingerich OHI (2005), 79–80.

1247. Lundquist OHI (2011), 190.

1248. Latham OHI (2005), 111.

1249. Avrett OHI (2005), 90.

1250. Goldberg OHI (1983).

1251. Whipple to John D. Buchanan, 11 March 1970. Found in Whipple’s desk after his death 

by Donna Coletti. Copy in author’s files.

1252. Greenstein liner notes to: Goldberg “Report to the Visiting Committee,” 10 April 1970. 

Greenstein Papers 63.3. Caltech. See also “HCO-SAO related” folder. Box 2. Goldberg Papers. HUG 

FP 83.6. HUA. For x-ray astronomy, see Hirsh (1983).

1253. Goldberg to “Visiting Committee,” 10 April 1970. Goldberg Papers. Box 2. HUG FP 83.6. 

Box 2. HUA.

1254. Goldberg OHI (1983), 22–35.

1255. Ripley to Whipple, 5 May 1970. “Common Problems Shared by Harvard and SAO.” 

Box 64. RU 137. SIA.

1256. Whipple to Ripley, 25 May 1970. “Astrophysical Observatory Smithsonian.” Box 2. 

Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA; also box 1. RU 108. SI Asst. Secy. for Science 1963–1973. 

SIA.

1257. Goldberg to Whipple, 28 May 1970. Box 2. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1258. Goldberg to Whipple, 28 May 1970. See also “Report on Smithsonian’s Science Activities 

for the House Subcommittee on Library and Memorials.” Folder “Conference.” Box 21. RU 7431. SIA.

1259. Goldberg OHI (1983), 35.

1260. Anderson, 39 June 1970. “SAO Field Trip Report.” Folder 1 “APO.” Box 8. RU 108. 

SIA. Report attached to Jameson to Watts, 1 March 1971; Anderson to Jameson, 23 February 1971. 

Whipple announced that he would be away from the SAO for three weeks in June, in Whipple to 

Ripley, 25 May 1970. “APO.” Box 1. RU 108. SIA.

1261. Whipple to Dean Bundy, 6 June 1970, in Goldberg to Dunlop, 5 November 1970. Box 2. 

Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.
Notes • 355

1262. Anderson, “SAO Field Trip Report,” 2.

1263. “SAO Field Trip Report.”

1264. “SAO Field Trip Report,” 3.

1265. “SAO Field Trip Report,” 4.

1266. Goldberg to Dunlop, 5 November 1970. Box 2. Goldberg Papers. Folder “HCO-SAO.” 

HUG FP 83.6. HUA. No comparable report has been found in Whipple’s papers.

1267. Goldberg to Dunlop, 5 November 1970.

1268. Goldberg to Pusey, 28 October 1970. Box 2. Folder “HCO-SAO.” Goldberg Papers. HUG 

FP 83.6. HUA. On Goldberg’s influence, see McCray (2004a), ch. 1.

1269. As implied in Goldberg OHI (1978), sess. II.

1270. R. G. Reed to Goldberg, 29 October 1970; Goldberg to Dunlop, 5 November 1970. Folder 

“HCO-SAO.” Box 2. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1271. Goldberg to Dunlop, 11 November 1970. Folder “HCO-SAO.” Box 2. Goldberg Papers. 

HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1272. Goldberg to Dunlop, 11 November 1970. He made similar criticisms about the telescope 

builders at Kitt Peak before his tenure. McCray (2004a), 48.

1273. Emphasis in original. Ripley to Greenstein Committee, 3 December 1970; Ripley to 

Pusey, 4 December 1970; Galler to Ripley, 9 December 1970. Box 64. RU 137. SIA.

1274. David Layzer to John T. Dunlop, 30 December 1970. Folder “HCO-SAO.” Box 2. 

Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1275. Layzer to Dunlop, 30 December 1970. Years later, rereading his letter, he felt that the 

problems could be summed up by the evident “demoralization of students, [and] the frustration of 

having an institution with this huge budget and no scientific stature except the one person that Leo 

and I had brought.” He was referring to Dalgarno. Layzer OHI (2007), 64.

1276. Greenstein to Alan Pifer, 30 April 1971. Greenstein Papers, 64.2. Caltech.

1277. Draft letter, Pusey and Ripley to “Dear Mr.” 3 December 1970. “APO.” Box 1. 

RU 108. SIA.

1278. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, with draft report of the “Ad Hoc Committee on 

the Relations Between . . . ,” 22 January 1971. Final report dated 1 March 1971. “APO.” Box 1. 

RU 108. SIA.

1279. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, 22 January 1971.

1280. Layzer OHI (2007), AIP.

1281. Greenstein “draft report.”

1282. Greenstein’s notes. “HCO, Dept-SAO Relations.” 22 January 1971. 13 pages, handwritten. 

Greenstein Papers 63.7. Caltech.

1283. Dalgarno OHI (2007), 42–45.

1284. Greenstein’s notes.

1285. Greenstein’s notes.

1286. Greenstein’s notes.

1287. Greenstein’s notes.
356 • Notes

1288. Greenstein’s notes.

1289. Greenstein’s notes.

1290. Greenstein’s notes.

1291. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, n.d. “Draft Report of 1 January 1971 meeting of “Ad Hoc 

Committee.” “APO.” Folder 1. Box 1. RU 108. SIA.

1292. Greenstein’s notes.

1293. See, for instance, Merritt (2002) and Bix (1993).

1294. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, 22 January 1971.

1295. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, 22 January 1971. In fact, Bradley was thinking of retiring at the time, owing to the stresses caused preparing for, and in the aftermath of, the Thompson 

hearings. He soon did so, returning as special consultant to Ripley for several years. Pam Henson, 

private communication.

1296. Spitzer to Greenstein, 10 February 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.7. Caltech.

1297. Kuiper to Greenstein, 19 February 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.7. Caltech. On Kuiper’s 

ALSOS work, see DeVorkin (1992).

1298. Greenstein to members of the ad hoc committee, 23 February 1971; Spitzer to Greenstein, 

24 February 1971, and, after phoning him, sent telegrams to Ripley and Pusey; Greenstein to Dunlop, 

26 February 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.7. Caltech.

1299. Goldberg to Greenstein, 26 February 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.4. Caltech.

1300. Greenstein to Dean Dunlop, 1 March 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.4. Caltech.

1301. Whipple to Kuiper, February 1971. “Summary of Programs and Achievements of the 

SAO.” Appendix 2 to 1 March 1971. Greenstein, “Ad Hoc Committee on Harvard-Smithsonian 

Observatory Relations,” “Personal and Confidential—Not for Publication—Recommendations to 

Harvard.” Greenstein Papers 62.2. Caltech.

1302. Whipple to Kuiper, February 1971.

1303. Greenstein, “Ad Hoc Committee,” 2. Greenstein 62.2. Caltech.

1304. Whipple to Greenstein, 7 May 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.6. Caltech.

1305. Whipple to Greenstein, 7 May 1971.

1306. Whipple even alleged that Goldberg never visited Lilley’s laboratory, just “a mile up the 

street.” Whipple to Greenstein, 5 May 1971.

1307. Whipple to Greenstein, 7 May 1971.

1308. Whipple to Greenstein, 7 May 1971.

1309. Greenstein to Whipple, 10 June 1971. Provided by Donna Coletti. Author’s files.

1310. Greenstein to Whipple, 10 June 1971.

1311. Menzel to Dunlop, 1 March 1971. Greenstein Papers 63.4. Caltech.

1312. Menzel to Dunlop.

1313. Greenstein to Goldberg, 2 March 1971. Greenstein Papers 12.9. Caltech.
Notes • 357

Chapter 16 – Whipple Steps Down

1314. Greenstein to Ripley and Pusey, 22 January 1971.

1315. Layzer to Dunlop, 30 December 1970; Reeves to Goldberg, 15 February 1970; and 

Goldberg (at Kitt Peak) to Dunlop, 30 November 1971. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. Box 7. HUA.

1316. Challinor for file “Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Briefing,” 14 April 1971. 

“APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1317. Goldberg, “Report to the Visiting Committee,” 9 April 1971, in Ripley file. “APO” folder 

1 of 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1318. Goldberg, 9 April 1971. “Report to the Visiting Committee.”

1319. Greenstein notes, 23 July 1971, after conversation with Ed Purcell. Greenstein 64.2. 

Caltech.

1320. Field (1956).

1321. Field OHI, sess. I (1980), by Richard Hirsh.

1322. Field OHI (2007), 1–5.

1323. Field OHI (2007), 9.

1324. Greenstein to Ripley, 29 November 1971; 14 January 1972. “APO” folder 1 of 2. Box 8. 

RU 108. SIA.

1325. Goldberg, 30 November 1971. Folder “Harvard College Observatory.” Box 7. HUG FP 

83.6. HUA. The MOA was dated October 1971 and was signed by Ripley and Derek Bok.

1326. Dalgarno, April 1972. “Report to the Visiting Committee.” Greenstein Papers 104.6. 

Caltech.

1327. “George Field Named New HCO Head,” SAO News 12, no. 1 (Winter 1971–1972): 1.

1328. Ripley to Whipple, 5 May 1972. “APO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1329. Ripley added: “You have pioneered this entire relationship so successfully that it appear[s] 

to me (as I believe it appears equally to all the authorities at Harvard) that your help in the evolution 

of this new, more integrated arrangement is absolutely crucial.” Ripley to Whipple, 5 May 1972. 

“APO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1330. Ripley to Whipple, 5 May 1972.

1331. Babette Whipple OHI (2007), n.p. https://www.aip.org/history-programs/niels-bohr-library/

oral-histories/37898.

1332. Ripley to Participants, NRAO Users Committee. “Memorandum,” “APO” folder 2. Box 8. 

RU 108. SIA.

1333. Bradley to Ripley, 4 May 1972. “SAO Director.” Box 58. RU 137. SIA.

1334. Dunlop to Goldberg, 8 May 1972. “Harvard College Observatory.” Box 7. Goldberg 

Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1335. Whipple to Ripley, 8 May; 11 May 1972, clipped to Ripley to Dunlop, n.d. “APO” folder 2. 

Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1336. Whipple to Ripley.

1337. Whipple to Ripley.

1338. Challinor to Ripley, 21 March 1972. “Stever visit to SAO.” Folder “NSF 1963–1972.” 

Box 14. SIA.
358 • Notes

1339. Challinor to Ripley, 21 March 1972. Bradley to Ripley, 23 March 1972. Folder “NSF 

1963–1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

1340. Bradley to Ripley, 10 May 1972. Folder “NSF 1963–1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

1341. Ripley to Stever, 10 May 1972. Folder “NSF 1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA.

1342. Ripley to Whipple, 22 May 1972. Folder “APO 2.” Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1343. Ripley to Dunlop, 11 May 1972. Folder “APO 2.” Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1344. Challinor to Bradley, 15 May 1972. Folder “SAO Director.” Box 58. RU 137. SIA.

1345. Bassi (2015), 96, 160–162.

1346. Branscomb (1963), 660–662. Dalgarno OHI (2007), 59.

1347. Field to Challinor. 5 August 1972. “SAO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA. On JILA, see Bassi 

(2015).

1348. Branscomb to Field, 15 August 1972, clipped to Field to Challinor, 5 August 1972. “SAO” 

folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1349. Bradley to Ripley, 15 August 1972. “APO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1350. Osterbrock (1992); Sandage (2004), 555.

1351. According to Allan Sandage, the observational cosmologist who spent his career there. 

Sandage (2004), 556. The joint observatories were dissolved in 1980. Schmidt (1980), 589–593.

1352. Bradley to Ripley, 15 August 1972; Challinor to Ripley, 15 August 1972. “APO” folder 2. 

Box 8. RU 108. SIA. Copy in Bradley OHI, no. 8 app.

1353. Bradley, through Brooks to Ripley, 13 September 1972. “Further conversation with 

George Field: Staff Analysis needed on SAO and Harvard Observatory.” “APO” folder 2. Box 8. 

RU 108. SIA.

1354. Challinor to Ripley, 30 October 1972. “APO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1355. George Field, 6 November 1972. “A Proposal for a Harvard-Smithsonian Astrophysics 

Center, for Discussion Purposes Only.” Box 7. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1356. Lundquist to Field, 29 September 1972. Box 1. RU 437.1. Lundquist Papers. SIA.

1357. Lundquist to Field. 29 September 1972.

1358. Lundquist to Field, 29 September 1972.

1359. Lundquist to Field, 29 September 1972. On the nature and boundaries of space science 

regarding disciplinarity, see Newell (1980), Hirsh (1983), DeVorkin (1992), Mack and DeVorkin 

(1982).

1360. Bradley to Ripley, 25 September 1972. “SAO NASA Geodesy.” Box 83. RU 137. SIA. 

At the same time, Lundquist alerted Ripley, Brooks, and Bradley to how NASA’s new “Earth and 

Ocean Physics Application Program” might result in the SAO becoming one of four major centers, 

which would double the present satellite-tracking grant. Dorothy Rosenberg to “For the Record,” 26 

September 1972. Copies to Ripley, Brooks, Bradley, and Challinor. “SAO NASA Geodesy.” Box 83. RU 

137. SIA.

1361. Bradley to Ripley, 25 September 1972.

1362. Bradley to Ripley, 11 September; 25 September 1972. Soon after he announced he was 

stepping down, Whipple terminated Robert V. Bartnik, replacing him with John Gregory. At the 

time, there was considerable upheaval in SAO management. Mark Malec was also terminated but 

was soon reinstated on a probationary basis. “APO” folder 2. Box 8. RU 108. SIA.

1363. Bradley to Ripley, 25 September 1972.
Notes • 359

1364. Lundquist to Distribution, “Anticipated roles of Al Cameron,” 7 February 1973. Lundquist 

folder. Box 1. RU 437.1 SIA.

1365. Field to Challinor, 4 December 1972. “SAO1972.” Box 14. RU 108. SIA. Hirsh (1983), 

106–107; Field OHI (2007), 12–13.

1366. Field OHI (2007), 12–13. Greenstein to Dalgarno, 22 January 1973. Endorses Giacconi’s 

joint appointment. Greenstein Papers, 8.5. Caltech.

1367. Lundquist to Distribution, 7 February 1973. “Anticipated roles of Riccardo Giacconi.” 

“Lundquist” folder. Box 1. RU 437.1 SIA.

1368. Lundquist to Field, 22 February 1973. “Lundquist” folder. Box 1. RU 437.1. SIA.

1369. Alex Dalgarno, April 1973. “Report to the Visiting Committee.” “HCO” folder 2. Box 19. 

HUG 4876. HUA.

1370. Dalgarno to Greenstein, 4 April 1973. 19730416: Greenstein to Dalgarno, 16 April 1973. 

Greenstein Papers. 8.5. Caltech.

1371. “Harvard Corporation approves establishment of CfA,” 7 May 1973. Folder “SAO.” RU 

613. Office of the Secy. [1972–1984]. SIA. On the double overhead problem, see Gregory to Ripley, 

26 April 1973, and subsequent records lasting through the 1970s dealing with the establishment of a 

hybrid corporate entity to manage all federal contracting. “SAO.” Box 17.3. RU 108. SIA.

1372. Carl Larsen to David Challinor, 23 May 1973. Folder 7.1 “SAO.” Box 1. RU 108.1. SIA.

1373. “Smithsonian and Harvard to Establish Center for Astrophysics July 1,” 1 June 1973. 

Box 7. Goldberg Papers. HUG FP 83.6. HUA.

1374. Field to Challinor, 16 February 1973. Folder 17.1. RU 108. SIA.

1375. “HCO, Dept-SAO Relations,” 22 January 1971. Greenstein’s notes. Greenstein Papers 

63.7. Caltech.

1376. Lundquist OHI (2011), 227.

1377. Lundquist to Challinor, 18 July 1973. Box 17.3. RU 108. SIA. Lundquist also suggested 

that Challinor visit Huntsville to see their space museum to help him visualize what might be possible for the Smithsonian’s planned Air and Space Museum.

Chapter 17 – Whipple’s Legacy

1378. Cornell OHI (2010), 188–189, reading excerpts from working notes prepared for Irwin 

Shapiro’s remarks honoring Whipple. Veracity was less a concern than was spiritual flavor.

1379. Foreword to The Collected Contributions of Fred L. Whipple, vol. 3, pt. 1 (Cambridge, 

MA: Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory, 1972a), xi.

1380. Greenberg (1965). Also quoted in Alexis Doster, “Smithsonian’s Progress,” in letters to 

the editor, Washington Post, 11 May 1966, A24, wherein he commented on the original article by Carl 

Bode, “The New School of Old Smithsonian,” from 28 April.

1381. Whipple to Carmichael. 7 April 1965. “C.” Box 8. RU 7431. SIA. Whipple wished to keep 

his criticisms private in his letter to Carmichael, whereas Ripley wrote publically to the Post. Ripley, 

letter to the editor, Washington Post, 11 May 1966, A24.

1382. Carmichael to Whipple, 12 April 1965. “C.” Box 8. RU 7431. SIA.

1383. “Forging Ties between Harvard and the Smithsonian—Cooperating for Mutual Benefit,” 

Harvard Crimson, 19 April 1989.
360 • Notes

1384. “Forging Ties.”

1385. “Forging Ties.”

1386. See tables in Malec/Field (1977), exhibit 3, graphics on pp. 8 and 9, in “Report by the 

Director to the Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Visiting Committee, April 1975–April 1977,” 

exhibit 3 in folder “Congressional Investigation of SAO.” Box 22. RU 468. SIA.

1387. Babette Whipple OHI (2007), 40–42.

1388. Whipple OHI (1976), 85.

1389. Whipple OHI (1977). http://www.aip.org/history/ohilist/5403.html (accessed 25 

December 2013).

1390. Whipple OHI (1977).

1391. Whipple OHI (1977).

1392. Ortolano (2009), 10–11.

1393. Whipple OHI 1977. AIP, http://www.aip.org/history/ohilist/5403.html (accessed 25 

December 2013).

1394. Whipple to McCrosky, 13 January 1958. Folder “McCrosky, Richard.” Box 3. RU 7431. 

SIA. McCrosky OHI (2005).

1395. Hacker (2000), 313.

1396. Fred L. Whipple, “Knowledge and Understanding of the Physical Universe as 

Determinants of Man’s Progress,” in Knowledge Among Men, ed. P. Oehser (New York: Simon & 

Schuster, 1966), 173.

1397. Needell (2000), 366.
361

BIBLIOGRAPHY

Archival Source Abbreviations

AELL A. Edward Lilley, “Joint Radio and Radar Research Facility—Log of Relevant 

Meetings, Actions and Correspondence.” Accession 83-121. SIA. AELL/SIA.

AIP American Institute of Physics, Center for History of Physics Archives: Papers 

of the American Astronomical Society; numerous oral histories.

BANC Bancroft Library, U. of California, Berkeley: R. T. Birge Papers (BANC/RTB); 

A. O. Leuschner Papers (BANC/AOL); Department of Astronomy Records 

CU-25 (BANC/DOA); President’s Files CU-5 (BANC/UCP).

CIT California Institute of Technology Archives: George Ellery Hale Papers, 

microfilm edition (AIP/GEH, also cited as AIP/CIT/GEH); Greenstein 

Papers; Gell-Mann Papers.

HL Huntington Library, Manuscripts Division: Walter Sydney Adams Papers 

(HL/WSA); George Ellery Hale Papers (HL/GEH); Ira S. Bowen Papers.

HUA Harvard U. Archives: Harlow Shapley Director’s Correspondence, UA V.630.

xx (HUA/HSDC); Personal correspondence HUG 42 4773.xx (HUG/HSPC); 

Whipple Papers (HUG 4876); Goldberg Papers (HUG FP 83.6).

LAUC Mary Lea Shane Archives of the Lick Observatory, McHenry Library, Santa 

Cruz: W. W. Campbell Papers (LAUC/WWC), R. G. Aitken Papers (LAUC/

RGA), W. H. Wright Papers (LAUC/WHW); C. D. Shane Papers (LAUC/

CDS); Gerald E. Kron Papers (LAUC/GEC).

LC Library of Congress Manuscripts Division: Simon Newcomb Papers (LC/SN). 

Library of Congress: Vannevar Bush Papers, Library of Congress: correspondence with Conant, Carmichael, Hunsaker, Menzel, Oppenheimer, Roberts, 

Shapley, the Smithsonian Institution, and Struve.

NAS National Academy of Sciences, Space Science Board (SSB) papers, also IGY 

papers (SSB/NAS, IGY/NAS).

NASA National Aerospace S Agency History Office: NHO; OAO Records

NASM National Air and Space Museum, Archives

NSF National Science Foundation
362 • Bibliography

OHI Oral history interview

PUL Princeton University Library. Henry Norris Russell Papers (PUL/HNR)

RU Record Unit (see SIA)

SIA Smithsonian Institution Archives, abstracted records from the following RUs:

 50 SI Secretary

 108 Asst. Secy. for Science

 168 SAO Contracts

 188 SAO Contracts

 253 SAO Asst. Director

 260 Celescope

 263 Satellite Tracking

 437 George Field

 522 Celescope Contracts

7091 Science Service

7431 Fred Whipple

SL M. Louis Salmon Library, University of Alabama, Huntsville. Lundquist Papers.

SLRC Schlesinger Library, Radcliffe College. Dorrit Hoffleit Papers (SLRC/DH).

UA University of Arizona Archives, Gerard P. Kuiper Papers.

Interviews

Unless otherwise specified, each OHI was conducted by the author. Most AIP 

sources are keyword addressable if not paginated, and are available at https://www.aip.org/

history-programs/oral-histories/search?search_api_views_fulltext=&=Apply.

Avrett OHI (2005). Eugene Avrett, 14 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Baker OHI (1980). James Baker, 9 June 1980. NSF/AIP.

Baum OHI (1983); (1997). William A. Baum, 12 January 1983 NASM; 14 January 1997. 

AAS/AIP.

Bok OHI (1978). Bart J. Bok, 15 May 1978–14 June 1978. NSF/AIP.

Bowen OHI (1969). Ira S, Bowen, interviewed by Charles Weiner. 26 August 1969. AIP.

Bradley OHI (1975, 1976). James C. Bradley interviewed by Pamela Henson and Miriam 

Freilicher, 1974–1978. RU009515 SIA.

Code OHI (1982). Arthur D. Code, 30 September 1982–1 October 1982. NASM.

Cornell OHI (2010). James C. Cornell, 9 June 2010. NASA/NASM/AIP.
Bibliography • 363

Dalgarno, OHI (2007). Alexander Dalgarno, 6 December 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Davis OHI (2005). Robert J. and Ruth Davis, 15 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Dupree OHI (2007). Andrea Dupree, 29 October 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Field OHI (1980), George Field interviewed by Richard Hirsh, 14–15 July 1980. NASA/AIP.

Field OHI (2007). George Field, 5 December 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Gingerich OHI (2005). 18 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Goldberg OHI (1978). Leo Goldberg interviewed by Spencer Weart, 16–17 May 1978. 

NSF/AIP.

Goldberg OHI (1983). Leo Goldberg interviewed by Owen Gingerich, 9 August–10 October 

1983). AIP.

Goldberg OHI (1983). Leo Goldberg, 22 February 1983. NASM.

Haramundanis OHI (2005). Katherine Haramundanis, 20 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Hoffleit (1979). E. Dorrit Hoffleit, 4 August 1979. AIP.

Keller OHI (1983) Sam Keller 15 December 1983. AIP.

Kozai OHI (1997). Yoshihide Kozai, 2 September 1997. NASM/AIP.

Latham OHI (2005). David Latham, 8 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Layzer OHI (2007). David Layzer, 5 December 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Lundquist OHI (2011). Charles Lundquist, 16–18 November 2011. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Marsden OHI (2005). Brian Marsden, 17 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

McCrosky OHI (2005). Richard McCrosky, 9 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

McGrath OHI (2005). Leo McGrath, 10 October 2005. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Multiple-Mirror Telescope VI, Videohistory Collection, Smithsonian Institution (1989). 

Group interviews with Nathaniel Carleton, Frederic H. Chaffee, Craig Foltz, Thomas 

E. Hoffman, Aden Meinel, Michael Reed, Robert R. Shannon, Ray J. Weymann, Joseph 

T. Williams, and Fred Lawrence Whipple. RU 9542. SIA.

Noyes OHI (2005). Robert W. Noyes, 5 December 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Schwarzschild OHI (1977). Martin Schwarzschild interviewed by Spencer Weart and David 

DeVorkin, 16 December 1977. NSF/AIP.

Singer OHI (1991). S. Fred Singer interviewed by Allan A. Needell and David DeVorkin, 

23 April 1991. NASM/AIP.

Whipple, B. OHI (2007). Babette Whipple, 29 October 2007. NASA/NASM/AIP.

Whipple, F. L. OHI (1976). Fred L. Whipple interview by Pamela M. Henson, 24–25 June 

1976. SIA.

Whipple, F. L. OHI (1977). Fred L. Whipple, 29 April 1977. NSF/AIP.

Whipple, L. OHI (2007). Laura Whipple, 26 April 2007. NASM/AIP.

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INDEX

Abbot, Charles Greeley, 36, 37, 55–57, 59, 60, 

62; APO operations after, 34–35; arrival 

at Smithsonian, 32–33; concerns about 

Smithsonian research and, 61; criticism of, 

33–34; professional background of, 30–32; 

solar radiation monitoring and, 58

Aberdeen Proving Ground, 11, 42–43

Adams, John, 133

Adams, Velma A., 47

Advanced Orbiting Solar Observatory, 253

Aero Medical Field Laboratory, 106

Aeronautical Chart Service, 78

Agassiz Station, 7, 46, 77, 134, 202; radio 

astronomy and, 227

Air Force Systems Command (AFSC), 206

Air Research and Development Command, 93

Aldrich, Loyal B., 34–37, 41, 57

Allegheny Observatory, 30

Allende meteorites, 144–146

Amateur Telescope Makers of Boston, 14

American Association for the Advancement of 

Science (AAAS), 21

American Association of University 

Professors, 4

American Association of Variable Star 

Observers (AAVSO), 24

American Astronomical Society (AAS), 43, 66, 

79, 169

American Optical, 202

American Philosophical Society, 9

Anders, Edward, 146

Anderson, Clinton, 197

Anderson, Dean, 246–248, 257–258

Andrews Air Force Base, 79

“Aperture Synthesis Using Independent 

Telescopes,” 210

Apollo program, 147, 148–150

Applied Optics (journal), 210

Arizona Expedition, 8

Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA), 90, 

107, 109–110, 113, 114, 121, 186

Army Map Service, 78

astronaut recruitment, 162–163

Astronautics (journal), 19

Astronomische Gesellschaft (journal), 180

Astronomy for the Seventies (brochure), 257

Astrophysical Observatory (APO) of the 

Smithsonian Institution, xii, 29, 57, 58, 

139; after Abbot, 34–35; Charles Greeley 

Abbot and, 30–34; closure in Washington, 

41; decision to move to Harvard, 38–39; 

founding of, 30; funding for, 35; Leonard 

Carmichael and, 37–41; research legacy 

of, 55, 60, 63–64. See also Smithsonian 

Astrophysical Observatory (SAO)

Atomic Energy Commission (AEC), 121

Avrett, Eugene, 124, 165–167, 174, 254, 261

Bacher, Robert, 22

Baird, Spencer, 30

Baker, James G., 9, 17, 26, 65, 81, 91, 118; 

designs by, 83–85; educational background 

of, 13–14; in SAO’s early years, 21–22. See 

also Baker-Nunn system

Baker-Nunn system, 60, 81, 83, 85–86, 134, 

176; achieving operational status, 91–94; 

Baker’s designs and, 83–85; Greenstein 

Committee and, 265; meteor research and, 

Page numbers in italic refer to figures.
390 • Index

140; military launches and, 190; Mount 

Hopkins, 202–205; Sputnik and, 87–90; 

station sites for, 86–87. See also Baker, James 

G.; Nunn, Joseph

Barrett, Alan, 232

Bartnik, Robert, 218, 221, 224, 248

Baum, William A., 77, 107, 118

Bausch and Lomb, 153, 158

Beacon Explorer, 64, 189, 190

Beattie, Helen, 171, 172

Berkner, Lloyd, 87, 108–110, 112, 114, 288

Beyond the Atmosphere (Newell), 172

Bible, Alan, 214–215

Bobrovnikov, Nicholas T., 178

Bok, Bart, 6, 17, 21–22, 24, 45–46, 47, 49, 

108, 215, 260; Jesse Greenstein and, 9; 

radio astronomy and, 227, 228; Whipple’s 

breakdown and, 10

Bok, Derek, 280

Boller and Chivens Company, 85–88, 89

Bowen, Ira S., 22, 38, 48, 275; SAO committee 

on hiring and, 45

Bower, George, 3

Boyce, Joseph, 13

Boyden Station, 21, 24, 26, 49, 193

Brademas, John, 244–245

Bradley, James, 250, 260, 287; as administrator, 

97–100; building the CfA and, 277–278; 

Congressional hearings and, 215, 243, 248; 

GAO audits of SAO and, 232; George Field 

appointment and, 273–274; Greenstein 

Committee and, 264; JILA model proposed 

and, 274–276; meteor research and, 139; 

SAO relations and, 191–192; on SAO’s 

role in radio astronomy, 235–236, 241; 

“Smithsonian Research Bill” and, 127–131

Branscomb, Louis, 255, 275

Brooks, Harvey, 233, 236, 241–242, 248

Buck, Paul, 22–24, 26

Bundy, McGeorge, 26, 38–40, 46, 101, 257, 286; 

permanency of SAO and, 122–125; staffing 

of the APO and, 43, 44–45

Burbidge, Geoffrey, 194, 236, 241–242

Burke, Bernard, 241–242, 248

Bush, Vannevar, 21, 36

Butler, Preston, 57

Califano, Joseph, 129

Caltech (California Institute of Technology), 

22, 261, 269, 275–276

Cambridge Radio Observatory Committee 

(CAMROC), 232–233

Cambridge Research Center, 58

Cameron, Alastair G. W., 278, 280

Campbell, Leon, 6, 65, 100, 183

Cannon, Annie Jump, 6

Carleton, Nathaniel, 204, 210

Carmichael, Leonard, xii, 49, 97, 98, 103,

118, 121, 287; APO after Abbot and, 35, 

36–37; approval of “immediate crash” 

program, 84; Baker-Nunn system and, 87, 

89; criticisms of, 283; meteor research and, 

69–70; NASA versus Smithsonian and, 

112–113; on National Science Foundation’s 

responsibilities, 126; permanency of SAO 

and, 122–125; proposal for optical satellite 

tracking by SAO, 73–75; research legacy of 

the APO and, 55, 63–64; review of special 

reports by, 94; SAO staking out territory 

and, 51, 53; Smithsonian research concerns 

of, 58–62; solar radiation monitoring 

and, 58; SAO committee on hiring and, 

45; support for optical satellite tracking 

program, 81; view on keeping meteorite 

samples, 143; Whipple’s leadership and, 

56, 79

Carnegie Institution, 33, 275–276

Carruthers, George, 163

Carte du Ciel, 180

CBS Research, 153

celestial mechanics, 4, 43, 139, 141, 177–179, 

251

Center for Astrophysics (CfA), 224, 289–290; 

building of, 276–281; Harvard Crimson on, 

283–284; press assessments of, 283–284

Central Intelligence Agency (CIA), 191

Cerenkov, Pavel, 198, 199

Chaffee, Frederic, 169, 205

Challinor, David, 248, 269, 281; building the 

CfA and, 281; George Field and, 271, 273; 

JILA model and, 274–276

Cherniak, J. R., 179

chondrules, 144–146
Index • 391

Christian Endeavor Society, 1

Citron, Robert, 145

Clark, Grenville, 7

Clarke, Arthur C., 18

Clarke, Roy, 145

Clemence, Gerald, 77–78

Coast and Geodetic Survey, 78

Code, Arthur D., 109, 152, 169

Coffey, J. A., 129, 131, 197

Cold War, xi–xii, xiii–xiv, 18, 20, 121, 288

Committee on Space Research (COSPAR), 188

Compton, Arthur Holly, 4

Conant, James Bryant, 7, 21–24, 26–27, 44

Connelly, Mary, 228

“Constancy of the Solar ‘Constant,’ The,” 61

Cornell, James, 65, 131, 143, 280, 283

Cornell, William, 8

Crimson. See Harvard Crimson (newspaper)

Cunningham, Leland, 66, 78, 79, 177–178

Dalgarno, Alexander, 185–186, 261, 264–265, 

269, 271; building the CfA, 276, 280; 

theoretical work of, 185–186

Danziger, I. John, 261

David, Edward E., 242

Davis, Harry I., 208

Davis, Robert, 75–76, 97, 105–110, 112, 

116–118, 124, 160, 162–163, 165, 167–

169, 171, 181, 184, 208, 210; astronaut 

recruitment and, 162–163; on NASA and the 

SAO, 117–118; Project Celescope and, 124, 

153–158; small space platform and, 105, 106; 

ultraviolet map and, 107–108

Davis, Ruth, 171

Dearborn Observatory, 153

Defense Intelligence Agency (DIA), 190–191

Department of Defense (DOD), 118, 132, 

141, 162, 176, 177, 227; Multiple Mirror 

Telescope (MMT) and, 211, 213–214; 

relationship with SAO, 187–191

Deutschman, W. A., 163, 167–168

Dicke, Robert, 233

Dicke Panel, 233, 236, 239–241

Dieter, Nannielou, 57–58, 61, 63–64

Digital Computer Program, 124, 179

Discoverer (satellite), 98

DOI (differential orbit improvement program), 

178–180. See also SCROGE

Douglas Aircraft, 12

Drake, Frank, 227, 228, 236

Draper, Charles Stark, 109, 207

DuBridge, Lee, 240, 242

Dunlop, John, 218, 253, 258–260, 264, 270–

272, 274, 276

Dupree, Andrea, 254, 280

Durant, Fred, 19

Earth, Moon and Planets (Whipple), 12

“Earth as a Planet, The” (white paper), 134, 137

Eddington, Arthur Stanley, 4

Eichhorn, Heinrich, 180–182

Eisenhart, Earl E., 59–60, 85

Eisenhower, Dwight D., 27, 66, 90, 96

Electro-Mechanical Research (EMR), 

157–158, 160

ENIAC electronic computer, 43

European Space Agency (ESA), 168, 172

European Space Research Organization, 158

Ewen, Harold I., 46, 227, 228

Explorer program, 109–110, 199; Explorer I, 

93, 95, 105, 110; Explorer III, 93

Fairchild Camera and Instrument Corporation, 

153

Fazio, Giovanni, 9, 198–200, 219, 241–242, 

279

Field, George, 38, 224, 251, 264, 270–271, 

274–281, 281, 283; building the CfA, 

276–281, 289–290; Greenstein Committee 

and, 241–242; JILA model and, 275–276

Findlay, John, 237, 241, 243–244

Fireman, Edward, 70–71, 106, 139–141, 

144–145, 147–148, 198; meteor research 

and, 139–140, 147, 148–149

Fisher, P. C., 154

Fleischer, Robert, 215–216, 222

Foukal, P. V., 63

Foundations of Celestial Mechanics (Hagihara), 

178

Frankford Arsenal, 12

Frankfurter, Felix, 7

Fred Lawrence Whipple Observatory, 225
392 • Index

Froiland, Alfred G., 62

Fulton, James Grove, 189

Galison, Peter, 102

Galler, Sidney, 129–131, 240, 244

Gaposchkin, E. Michael, 124–125, 163, 

166–167, 179–180, 192

Gaposchkin, Peter, 124

Gaposchkin, Sergei, 8–9, 166

Gebel, Radames K. H., 106

General Electric, 107, 153, 155, 190, 207–208

General Electrodynamics Corporation, 156

“Geodetic Applications of Observations of 

the Moon, Artificial Satellites and Rockets” 

(Veis, dissertation), 178

Geophysical Panel on the Upper 

Atmosphere, 20

Giacconi, Riccardo, 278–280

Gingerich, Owen, 9, 133, 173–174, 254

Glennan, T. Keith, 103, 114

“Goals and Programs 1967–1976” (white 

paper), 133

Goddard Space Flight Center, 149, 151, 157–

159, 160–161, 162, 163, 167, 173, 189, 195, 

253; Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

(OAO) and, 114–115, 116, 154–155; Project 

Celescope and, 159–160

Goett, Harry, 158–160

Gold, Thomas, 46, 106, 109, 140, 260

Goldberg, Leo, 36, 38, 104, 109, 114, 116, 

135, 174, 185, 194–196, 198, 217–218, 220, 

224, 229–231, 241, 250–267, 268–272, 275, 

278–279, 284; building the CfA and, 278; 

long-range planning at SAO and, 256–257; 

Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT) and, 

217–220, 224–225; parity between Harvard 

and the Smithsonian and, 253–255; radio 

astronomy and, 229, 230; resignation of, 

252–253, 258–260, 269; Smithsonian’s 

“Standard Atmosphere” and, 185; western 

station proposals and, 195–196; Whipple’s 

conflicts with, 251–267

Goldwater, Barry, 215, 220

Graf, John E., 35, 39, 57–59, 61, 73, 99, 254; 

concerns about Smithsonian research 

and, 59–60; proposal for optical satellite 

tracking by SAO and, 74, 80; solar radiation 

monitoring and, 57; Whipple’s vision for the 

new SAO and, 56

Greenberg, D. S., 283

Greenstein, Jesse, 9–10, 17, 227, 233, 236, 237, 

240–241, 248, 252, 256, 259–267, 269–270, 

275, 280; call for long-range planning at 

SAO and, 255–256; Goldberg and, 252; JILA 

model and, 275; MMT review board and, 

224–225

Greenstein Committee, 241–242, 260–267, 269

Gregory, John, 217, 278

ground-based projects: big telescopes for, 

193–194; Major Optical Reflector (MOR), 

208–212; Aden Meinel and, 206–208; 

Menzel and options for, 194–196; Mount 

Hopkins team, 202–205; opening up the 

high-energy universe, 198–202; searching 

for a site for, 196–198

Grumman Corporation, 162

Guthe, Karl, 34

Handbuch Der Physik (Flügge), 138

Haramundanis, Katherine, 122, 124–125, 166, 

168, 169, 175, 180–182

Harrison, George, 13

Harvard College Observatory (HCO), xii, 

4–9, 20, 42, 44, 47, 53, 105, 124, 135, 

137, 141, 154, 192, 196, 227, 250–251, 

253, 269–270; Arizona station proposal, 

196; call for long-range planning at SAO, 

255–257; decision to move the APO to, 

38–39; George Field appointed director of 

SAO and, 270–274; Goldberg resignation 

and, 258–260; Greenstein Committee and, 

260–267; interdisciplinarity at, 137–138; 

JILA model proposed for, 269, 275–276; 

Menzel as acting director of, 24–26; 

Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT) and, 

217–220; Oppenheimer Committee and, 

22–23; Optical Research Laboratory, 14; 

post–World War II period at, 21–27; radio 

astronomy at, 227–229; Shapley’s successor 

at, 26–27

Harvard College Observatory Council 

(HCOC), 21, 22, 41, 47–48, 195, 220, 255
Index • 393

Harvard Crimson (newspaper), 29, 42, 87–88, 

123, 283–284

Harvard Radio Research Laboratory (RRL), 

10–11, 17

Harvard Society of Fellows, 13

Haskins, Caryl, 274–276

Haviland, Robert P., 153

Hawkins, Gerald, 138–139, 141, 231

Haworth, Leland, 126, 234–235, 241, 244–245

Hayden Planetarium, 18

Hayes, Nelson, 93, 182

Heeschen, David S., 46, 227, 228, 241–242

Helmken, Henry, 199

Henderson, Edward Porter, 70, 139–140, 143

Henize, Karl, 65, 86, 88–91, 100, 112, 178

Henricksen, Søren, 188

Henry, Joseph, 30, 52, 101, 206

High Altitude Observatory (HAO), 37–39, 53, 

64, 141, 163, 167

Hirshhorn, Joseph H., 243

Hoffleit, Dorrit, 24, 49

Hoffmann, Thomas, 202–204

Howard, William E., 202, 228

Huchra, John, 284

Hulburt, Edward O., 13

Hynek, J. Allen, 43–46, 65, 68–69, 76–77, 79, 

84–85, 86, 89, 91, 93, 95, 97, 100, 103, 105–

109, 116–118, 177–178, 252; Baker-Nunn 

stations and, 89, 91; departure from SAO, 

118; Discoverer satellite remarks by, 98–99; 

Nunn and, 85–86; optical satellite tracking 

and, 77; Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

(OAO) and, 116–117; Project Cat Eye and, 

106; SAO’s first years and, 50; small space 

platform and, 106; space telescope project 

and, 109

“immediate crash” program, 84

“Interim Report on Observatory Problems” 

(Menzel), 24

International Astronautical Federation, 19

International Astronomical Union, 56, 178, 252

International Council of Scientific Unions 

(ICSU), 188

International Geophysical Year (IGY), 19, 

20, 29, 47, 51, 55, 66, 67, 112, 175, 177; 

Baker-Nunn system and, 83, 86, 90; end of, 

96–100

International Ultraviolet Explorer (IUE), 

170–171

International Year of the Quiet Sun, 176

Izsák, Imre G., 175, 178–179, 182, 184

Jacchia, Luigi, 13, 93, 94, 100, 175, 178–179, 

184–186, 199

Jameson, John, 246–247, 257–258

Jansky, Karl, 227

Jet Propulsion Laboratory (JPL), 66, 107, 110, 

114, 184, 205

Johnson, Lyndon B., 129, 133

Johnson, Thomas, 13

Joint Institute for Laboratory Astrophysics 

(JILA), University of Colorado, 269, 271, 

275–276

Kalkoffen, Wolfgang, 174, 254

Kaplan, Joseph, 68, 71–72

Karth, Joseph E., 161, 189

Keddy, John L., 34–37, 41, 56–61, 71, 

91, 254; fiscal control of SAO, 76–80; 

meteor research and, 69–70; proposal for 

optical satellite tracking by SAO and, 74; 

Smithsonian research concerns and, 59–60; 

solar radiation monitoring and, 57; Whipple, 

conflict with, 84–85, 89, 99–100; Whipple’s 

vision for the new SAO and, 56

Kennedy, John F., 27

Kistiakowsky, George, 43, 115, 187, 189; SAO 

committee on hiring and, 45

Kitt Peak National Observatory, 134, 196–197, 

199, 206, 214, 238, 246, 250, 252, 289; 

Goldberg at, 259, 264, 267; interpretation 

of data from, 252; “SAO Issue Paper” on, 

246–247; telescopes at, 197, 218

Kleinman, Doug, 219

Klopsteg, Paul, 69

Kodak Company, 153

Konkoly Observatory, 178

Kopal, Zdeněk, 13

Korean War, 35

Kozai, Yoshihide, 124, 178–179, 182, 184

Kramer, Andrew, 33, 36
394 • Index

Krook, Max, 43–46, 106, 156, 173–174

Kuiper, Gerard, 197, 210–211, 215, 222–224, 

260–261, 263–264, 270

Kupperian, James, 115, 154–155, 160, 165

Kurucz, Robert, 174

Langley, Samuel Pierpont, 4, 37, 55

Large Optical Reflector (LOR), 199–201, 

208, 279

Las Cruces Station, 78

Latham, David, 163, 167, 197, 202, 203, 217, 

255; Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT) and, 

222–224

Lautman, Don A., 175, 179

Layzer, David, 106, 195, 260–261

Leavis, F. R., 287

Lecar, Myron, 254, 283

LeMay, Curtis, 11

Leslie, Stuart, xi

Leuschner, Armin Otto, 2–4

Ley, Willy, 18, 286

Lick Observatory, 2–4, 22

Lilley, A. Edward, 46, 228, 235–236, 238–241, 

244, 248, 249, 261, 265, 277, 280; CAMROC 

and NEROC and, 232–233; radio astronomy, 

vision for, 228–233

Lincoln Laboratory, 43, 131, 196, 230–231, 

238, 242

Littauer Statistical Laboratory, 58

Little, Arthur D., 112

Lockheed Missiles and Space Co., 154

Los Alamos National Laboratory, 22

“Lost City Meteorite,” 144

Lovell, Bernard, 228, 230

Low, Frank, 210, 213, 217-218

Lowell Observatory, 3, 48, 67

Loweth, Hugh, 235, 245

Lunar Receiving Laboratory (LRL), 145, 

148–150

Lundquist, Charles A., 62, 63, 129–131, 

157–160, 166–169, 173, 176–177, 182, 

186, 190–192, 202, 210, 213, 231–232, 

245, 254–255, 259, 261–262, 277–281; 

Army Ballistic Missile Agency (ABMA) 

and, 186; building the CfA and, 277–281; 

Greenstein Committee and, 262; Major 

Optical Reflector (MOR) and, 210; military 

partnerships and, 190, 192; Mount Hopkins 

and, 202; Smithsonian Standard Earth and, 

182–184; Uvicon and, 157–160

Lutz, Ted, 246

Mack, Pamela E., 63

Major Optical Reflector (MOR), 208–212

Manhattan Project, 10, 22

Manned Orbiting Laboratory (MOL), 206–207, 

214

Manned Spacecraft Center (Houston), 148

Mansfield Amendment, 213–214, 242

Maran, Stephen, 93

Marsden, Brian, 133, 251

Marshall Space Flight Center, 62, 157, 208, 217, 

280–281

Martin Company, 80

Martz, E. P., Jr., 67, 75

Marvin, C. F., 31–32

Marvin, Ursula Bailey, 144–145, 146, 147–152, 

176–177

Mason, Brian, 145

Massachusetts Institute of Technology (MIT), 

13, 26, 131–132, 134; Lilley and, 229–230; 

Lincoln Laboratory, 43, 131, 196, 230, 231, 

238, 242; meteorology at, 39; Radio Research 

Laboratory (RRL) at, 10–11, 17

McCrosky, Richard E., 14, 15, 86, 91, 99, 142,

143, 154, 287; site surveys in South America, 

79; meteor research by, 68; Prairie Network 

and, 141–144; SAO staff building and, 

77–78; satellite tracking, early years and, 

100; western state proposals and, 196, 197

McElroy, William D., 215–216, 240–241, 244, 248

McGee, James D., 152

McMath, Robert R., 38

McPhee, Rosemary Sweeney, 183

Mead, Margaret, 132

Meinel, Aden, 206–208, 210–211, 213, 215–

217, 222–224

Menon, T. Kochu, 46, 228

Menzel, Donald, vii, xiii, 4, 6, 13, 16, 21, 23, 29, 

36–41, 45–49, 97, 102, 104, 114, 141, 165, 

183, 218, 227, 275; collegial competition and, 

109; decision to move the APO to Harvard 
Index • 395

and, 39–40, 41; Goldberg and, 252–254, 

256, 259-260, 266–267; High Altitude 

Observatory (HAO) and, 37; as HCO acting 

director, 24–27; interdisciplinarity at HCO 

and, 137–138; Leonard Carmichael and, 

36–38; merger of SAO and HCO and, 284; 

Orbiting Astronomical Observatory (OAO) 

and, 116; permanency of SAO and, 121–125; 

radio astronomy and, 229–231; retirement 

of, 104, 135, 195; Sacramento Peak Solar 

Observatory and, 193; SAO relations with 

NASA and, 118–119; small space platform 

and, 105, 106; space telescope project and, 

109; staffing of the APO and, 42–45; as 

successor to Shapley, 26–27; western station 

proposals and, 194–196; Whipple’s vision for 

the new SAO and, 55–56

Mertz, Lawrence, 208, 210–211

meteorites, 12, 15, 17; SAO as repository for, 

70–71, 129–130, 137–138, 138–141, 149–

150. See also Allende meteorites; chondrules; 

Lost City Meteorite

Meteoritical Society, 139

meteor research, 16, 68–71, 137; Allende 

fragments and chondrules in, 144–146; 

Apollo 11 lunar samples and, 148–150; 

campaign for lunar sample returns in, 

146–148; modernization of, 39; Prairie 

Network and, 141–144; as Whipple’s first 

love, 287–288; Whipple’s papers on, 138–141

Miller, George P., 187–189

Minitrack, 66, 72, 78–81, 110

Mitre Corporation, 99

Morrison, Phillip, 198, 232

“Motion of a Nearby Satellite with Highly 

Inclined Orbit, The” (Cunningham), 79

Mount Hopkins Observatory, 131, 143, 

193, 197, 217, 250, 285, 289; Greenstein 

Committee and, 261; Large Optical Reflector 

(LOR) at, 279; NASA and, 205–206; Multiple 

Mirror Telescope (MMT), 222–225; staff at, 

201–205, 255; Whipple’s goals for, 218

Mount Kilauea, 194–195

Mount Lemmon, 208, 213–214, 217, 222–223

Mount Wilson-Palomar Observatory, 8, 22, 48, 

107, 231, 269, 271, 275

Multiple Mirror Telescope (MMT), 193, 196, 

199, 206, 209, 214, 233, 255, 278; conflict 

between NSF and Smithsonian and, 215–

217; funding for, 213–215; Goldberg and, 

217–220; Greenstein Committee and, 261; 

Mount Hopkins as location of, 222–225

National Academy of Sciences (NAS), 79, 

84, 90, 91, 108, 177, 196; CAMROC and 

NEROC and, 233; on space science, 277. See 

also Space Science Board (SSB) 

National Advisory Committee on Aeronautics 

(NACA), 14, 107; Orbiting Astronomical 

Observatory (OAO) and, 115–116; 

Smithsonian’s “Standard Atmosphere” and, 

184–186

National Aeronautics and Space 

Administration (NASA), 96–100, 103, 111, 

130, 132, 141, 288–289; assumes control 

of optical tracking, 113–114; Greenstein 

Committee and, 241–242; Lunar Receiving 

Laboratory (LRL), 148–149; Marshall Space 

Flight Center, 157; Mount Hopkins site and, 

205–206; on national observatories, 168–

170; Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

(OAO) and, 116; Prairie Network and, 141–

144; SAO constrained by growth of, 117–

119; satellite tracking, replacement of NSF 

in, 187; Smithsonian, conflict with, 112–113; 

Space Sciences Steering Committee, 148; 

Stellar Observations division, 170; Uvicon 

and, 157–158. See also Project Celescope

National Bureau of Standards (NBS), 32, 38, 

39, 62, 231, 255, 269, 275

National Center for Atmospheric Research 

(NCAR), 205

National Defense Research Council, 13

National Geographic Society, 79

National Museum of Natural History, 35, 

128–129, 139–140, 143–144, 145, 147

National Radio Astronomy Observatory 

(NRAO), 214, 229–230

National Reconnaissance Office (NRO), 208

National Research Council (NRC), 4, 201, 252

National Science Board, 233; Ripley and, 

234–235
396 • Index

National Science Foundation (NSF), 36, 48, 

51–52, 66, 76, 79, 96, 109, 132, 187, 193, 213, 

225, 231, 273; CAMROC and NEROC and, 

232–233; conflict with Smithsonian, 215–

217; contracts with SAO, 121; House debates 

about responsibilities of, 126; Multiple 

Mirror Telescope (MMT) and, 220–222; 

national role for SAO and, 288–289; radio 

astronomy and, 227; replaced by NASA in 

satellite tracking, 187

Natural History Museum. See National 

Museum of Natural History

Naval Observatory, 48, 180, 214

Naval Radiological Defense Laboratory, 58

Naval Research Laboratory (NRL), 13, 58, 

66–67, 74–75, 78, 93, 114, 167, 232; Lilley 

and, 229; Minitrack, 72, 78, 81, 110; tentative 

optical observing program and, 72. See also

Vanguard program

Nedzi, Lucien, 248

New Deal, 27

Newell, Homer, 114–115, 148, 160–161, 165, 

172, 187, 189

New Horizons in Astronomy (Whipple), 52, 239

Ninth Aerospace Defense Division (NORAD), 

190

Nixon, Richard, 242

North East Radio Observatory Corporation 

(NEROC), 255, 272, 284, 288; campaign 

for radio-radar telescope, 228–229; 

establishment of, 232–233; Haystack facility, 

249; in the Nixon years, 242; Ripley’s 

strategy for SAO and, 237–239

“Notes on the Development and Operation 

of an Astronomical Telescope in a Satellite 

Orbit” (Whipple), 108

Noyes, Robert, 174, 202, 208, 210, 219,

241–242, 280

Nunn, Joseph, 85–86. See also Baker-Nunn 

system

Oak Ridge National Laboratory, 7–8, 21, 147

Oberth, Hermann, 63

Odishaw, Hugh, 71, 74–75, 79–80, 90–91, 

97, 100

Office of Naval Research (ONR), 13–14, 17, 19, 

29, 79, 139, 227, 229–230

Office of Ordnance Research (OOR), 67

Office of Scientific Research and Development 

(OSRD) Optics Division, National Defense 

Research Council, 13

Office of Space Flight Development, 114

“On the Lunar Dust Layer” (Whipple), 

138, 140

Öpik, Ernst, 8, 137

Oppenheimer, J. Robert, 10, 22–23, 26, 37, 38

Optical Research Laboratory, HCO, 14

optical satellite tracking, 65–66; site surveys 

for, 79–80; fiscal control and, 76–77; meteor 

research and, 68–71; NASA assumes control 

of, 113–114; positioning of SAO for, 66–68; 

question of visibility in, 75–76; SAO as 

central agency for, 78–79; staff building for, 

77–78; success of first years of, 100–104; 

tentative program for, 71–73. See also

Smithsonian Precision Optical Tracking 

(SPOT)

Optical Society of America, 207

Orbiting Astronomical Observatory (OAO), 

114–117, 152, 154, 155; Fazio and, 199; 

science of, 168–170. See also Project 

Celescope

Orbiting Solar Observatory (OSO), 152, 160, 

168, 174, 200–201, 253

Organ Pass Station, 77, 189–190, 196–197

Orlen, Joel, 232

Parade (magazine), 93

Payne, Cecilia. See Payne-Gaposchkin, Cecilia

Payne-Gaposchkin, Cecilia, 6, 8, 10, 24, 26, 38, 

46, 47, 173; collaboration with Whipple, 8–9; 

small space platform plans and, 105, 106; 

space telescope project and, 109, 111

Peabody Museum of Natural History, 126

Perkin, Richard S., 91, 251

Perkin-Elmer Corporation, 83–84, 85, 86, 153

Peterson, Charles M., 100, 101

Pickering, E. C., 4, 5, 44

Pickering, William H., 107, 110

Pollack, J. B., 198

Porter, R. W., 87–90, 100, 114

Powers, Peter, 129

Prairie Network, 141–144, 196

Pratt, H. Irving, 255
Index • 397

Pratt and Whitney, 99

President’s Science Advisory Committee 

(PSAC), 187, 206–207; CAMROC and 

NEROC and, 232–233

Project ANNA, 176, 187, 188

Project Cat Eye, 106–108, 110, 117, 153, 154

Project Celescope, 114–117, 121, 127, 135, 

151–152, 194, 279; failure and reassessment, 

160–161; Greenstein Committee and, 265; 

legacy of “research reserve,” 173–174; NASA 

coming to terms with, in late 1964, 158–

159; performance evaluation and review, 

163–168; predicting the brightness of stars, 

156–157; proposal for manned spaceflight 

and, 162–163; revised plans for, 159–160; 

science of, 168–170; SEC Vidicon, 161–162, 

170, 171; summation and assessment of, 

170–173; technical challenges with detectors 

for, 152–156; Uvicon, 157–158; Whipple’s 

role in, 151. See also Orbiting Astronomical 

Observatory (OAO); Davis, Robert

Project Lincoln, 43

Project Moonwatch, 50, 73, 93, 95, 

105, 121

Project Paperclip, 106

Project RAND, 12

Prospector (mission), 146

Pulkova Observatory, 189

Purcell, Edward M., 22, 43, 227, 230; 

CAMROC and NEROC and, 232–233; 

George Field and, 270; Goldberg and, 260, 

261, 264; SAO committee on hiring and, 45

Pusey, Nathan, 26–27, 39, 41, 44, 45–46, 259; 

western station proposals and, 195–196; 

Whitford Committee and, 231

Putnam, Roger Lowell, 48–49

radio astronomy, 227–229; CAMROC and 

NEROC in, 232–233; Greenstein and, 241–

242; Lilley’s vision for, 229–232; in the Nixon 

years, 242; Ripley’s strategy and activism in, 

234–239; Ripley’s testimony to Congress on, 

242–245; SAO’s role in, 240–241, 249–250; 

Senate hearing preparations concerning, 

248–249; Smithsonian takes initiative in, 

235–236. See also Bok, Bart

Radio Research Laboratory (RRL), 10–11, 17

Ramsay, Norman, 43; SAO committee on 

hiring and, 45

RCA, 107, 111, 118, 153

Reeves, Edmond, 261

Reike, George, 200

Research and Analysis Division, SAO, 175–

176; network data processing by, 177–179; 

relations with the military, 186–192; 

Smithsonian’s “Standard Atmosphere,” 184–

186; Smithsonian Standard Earth, 182–184; 

Smithsonian Star Catalog, 180–182; uses for 

satellite-tracking data, 176–177

Revelle, Roger, 189

Rinehart, John L., 43–46, 145; departure from 

SAO, 118; fiscal control of SAO and, 76; 

meteor research and, 68–69, 69–70

Ripley, S. Dillon, 128, 191, 204, 215, 222, 

225, 284, 288; activism on behalf of SAO, 

234–235; appointment of George Field 

and, 273–274; Congressional testimony 

of, 243–245; JILA model and, 274–276; on 

long-range planning at SAO, 255–257; press 

praise for, 283; radio astronomy and, 229, 

232; strategy for radio astronomy, 237–239; 

vision of Smithsonian’s role, 126–130

Ritterbush, Phil, 130

Roberts, Walter Orr, 34, 37–39, 64, 275

Rockefeller Foundation, 21

”Role of the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory in the Astronomical 

Community, The” (white paper), 

131, 135

“Role of the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory in the Cambridge Complex, 

The” (white paper), 131, 135

“Role of the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory in the Federal Structure, The” 

(white paper), 131, 135

“Role of the Smithsonian Astrophysical 

Observatory in the Great Society, The” 

(white paper), 131, 133, 135

Roman, Nancy, 154–155, 158, 167, 172

Roosevelt, Franklin D., 27

Rossi, Bruno, 231

Russell, Henry Norris, 4, 21

Russell, John, 139

Ryan, Cornelius, 18
398 • Index

Sacramento Peak Solar Observatory, 193

Salpeter, Ed, 260

Samuelson, Babette. See Whipple, Babette 

Samuelson

“SAO Issue Paper” (Schwartz), 246–248, 251

SAO News (newsletter), 123, 251

Saturday Evening Post (magazine), 94, 96, 151

Schaefer, John P., 222

Schild, Rudolph, 163, 167, 169, 210

Schilling, Gerhard F., 47, 93, 95, 100, 112; 

at Office of Space Flight Development, 

114; small space platform and, 106; space 

telescope project and, 109

Schmidt, Bernhard, 83

Schmidt catadioptric design, 9, 14, 21–22

Schott company, 84

Schwartz, Gunther, 143–144

Schwarzschild, Martin, 106, 108

Science (journal), 283

Scott, Hugh, 238, 248

Scott, Rod, 153

SCROGE, 179–180

Seamans, Robert, Jr., 213–214

SECOR technologies (Sequential Correlation 

of Range), 188

SEC Vidicon, 161–162, 170, 171

Shane, Charles D., 22–23, 36

Shapiro, Irwin, 65, 238–240, 283

Shapley, Harlow, 4, 9–10, 17, 24, 37, 44; Charles 

Greeley Abbot’s invitation to, 34; death of, 

276; Harvard College Observatory Council 

(HCOC) and, 21; interdisciplinarity at HCO 

and, 137–138; management of APO by, 5–7; 

postwar work of SAO and, 12, 14; retirement 

of, 20, 22; successor to, 26–27

Shepard, Alan, 123

Silverstein, Abe, 114

Simons, David G., 106–107

Simpson, John, 260

Singer, S. Fred, 18–19, 67

Sky & Telescope (magazine), 18, 52–53, 181

Slowey, Jack, 183, 185

Smithson, James, 46, 288

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory 

(SAO), 13; Arizona station proposal by, 

196; James Bradley at, 96–100; collegial 

competition in, 108–109; concerns about 

research by, 58–62; conflicts between leaders 

of, 251–252; conflict with NSF, 215–217; 

differential orbit improvement program 

(DOI), 178–180; Digital Computer Program, 

124, 179; George Field and, 270–274; first 

years of, 49–51; first years of “big science” at, 

100–104; fiscal control of, 76–77; Goldberg 

resignation and, 258–260; Greenstein 

Committee and, 241–242, 260–267; 

imbalance with HCO, 251; “SAO Issue 

Paper,” 246–247, 251; JILA model proposed 

for, 269, 275–276; long-range planning by 

HCO and, 255–257; major contracts secured 

by, 121; meteor research, 68–71; Multiple 

Mirror Telescope (MMT) (see Multiple 

Mirror Telescope [MMT]); office space 

needed by, 121–122, 123; OMB fact-finding 

mission at, 257–258; OMB questions about 

need for, 245–247; Orbiting Astronomical 

Observatory (OAO) and, 114–117; optical 

satellite tracking proposal by, 73–75; optical 

tracking, 66–68, 78–79; organizing for space 

research, 105–119; permanency at Harvard, 

122–125; public relations and infrastructure, 

52–53; Ripley’s activism on behalf of, 

234–235; Ripley’s testimony to Congress 

on behalf of, 242–245; satellite tracking 

responsibility acquired by, 65–66; second 

decade of, 134–135; small space platform, 

105–107; “Smithsonian Research Bill” and, 

127–131; solar radiation monitoring and, 

57–58, 62–64; space telescope proposal by, 

109–111; staff building at, 77–78; staking 

out territory, 51–52; “Standard Atmosphere,” 

184–186; tentative optical observing 

program, 71–73; versus NASA, 112–113; as 

Whipple’s “dear dream,” 286–287; Whipple’s 

proposal for optical satellite tracking by, 

73–75; white papers, 131–135, 137; Willard 

Report on, 94–96. See also Astrophysical 

Observatory (APO) of the Smithsonian 

Institution; ground-based projects; Project 

Celescope; radio astronomy; Research and 

Analysis Division, SAO

Smithsonian Astrophysical Observatory Star 

Atlas of Reference Stars and Nonstellar 

Objects (SAO), 181
Index • 399

“Smithsonian Computations Relating Orbital 

Glimpses Everywhere.” See SCROGE

Smithsonian Contributions to Astrophysics

(series), 52, 65

Smithsonian Institution, xi, xii, 29, 34; Leonard 

Carmichael and, 35, 36–37; role in American 

science, 126–127. See also Astrophysical 

Observatory (APO) of the Smithsonian 

Institution

Smithsonian Precision Optical Tracking 

(SPOT): final approval of, 81; renamed 

Baker-Nunn tracking network, 83. See also

optical satellite tracking

“Smithsonian Research Bill,” 127–131

Smithsonian Standard Earth (Gaposchkin), 

182–184, 191, 258

Smithsonian Star Catalog (SAO), 166, 175, 

180–182

Smithsonian Year (annual report), 131

Snow, C. P., 287

solar constant, 55–64; concerns about 

Smithsonian research and, 59–62; 

continuing debate over, 57–58; resolution of 

debate over, 62–64; Whipple’s vision for the 

new SAO and, 55–57

Space Act of 1958, 115

Space and Missile Systems Organization 

(SAMSO), 206

space exploration advocacy, 17–20

space science, vii, xiii, 132, 277–278; NASA 

downgrade of, 160; at SAO, 115; Whipple 

and, 67, 101–102, 113, 288

Space Science Board (SSB), 108, 113, 237

spaceflight advocacy, 17–20

SPACETRACK, 190

“Spectrophotometric Study of the Cepheid 

Variables Eta Aquilae and Delta Cephei, A” 

(Whipple, thesis), 4

Spitz, Armand, 50

Spitzer, Lyman, 12, 194; collegial competition 

and, 108–109; Greenstein Committee and, 

263–264; SAO as central agency for optical 

tracking and, 78–79; tentative optical 

observing program and, 71–73

Sputnik, xi, 50, 65, 83, 87–90, 93–94, 

100, 177

S. Ross & Company, 163

STAG (Smithsonian Telescope Advisory 

Group), 237–240

Stefanik, Robert, 203

Sterne, Theodore, 11–12, 64, 77, 100, 252; 

building and housing new staff of SAO and, 

42–45; concerns about Smithsonian research 

and, 59–62; departure from SAO, 118; SAO’s 

first years and, 49–50; scrutiny of others’ 

work by, 33–34; small space platform and, 

106; solar radiation monitoring and, 57–58; 

Whipple’s vision for the new SAO and, 

56–57

Stever, H. Guyford, 273–274

Steward Observatory, 224

Strittmatter, Peter, 224

Strom, Stephen, 202, 208, 265

Strömgren, Bengt, 22–23

Struve, Otto, 9–10, 56; SAO committee on 

hiring and, 45–46

Stuhlinger, Ernst, 68, 110

Sullivan, Walter, 225

Super-Schmidt meteor cameras, 15, 17, 68, 

83, 91; Greenstein Committee and, 265; 

SAO’s first years and, 50; Vanguard program 

and, 80

Sydor, Steve, 84, 117–118

Table Mountain (California), 41, 48, 49; closing 

of, 64; concerns about Smithsonian research 

and, 61, 62; solar radiation monitoring and, 

57–58

Tamboulian, T., 109, 111

Technical Panel of Earth Satellites (TPESP), 66, 

78, 80, 89

Terman, Frederick E., 10

Terry, Lawrence, 24

Thomas, Albert, 126–127, 234

Thomas, Richard N., 38, 39, 45, 46; SAO and, 

51–52; Whipple and, 55–56

Thompson, Frank, Jr., 242–243, 242–245, 248

Tillinghast, Carlton W., 131, 181, 183, 255; 

Mount Hopkins and, 202, 204–205; SAO’s 

operating funds report, 128; and SAO’s 

permanency and authority, 125, 129; Uvicon 

and, 157; as Whipple’s business manager, 99

TIROS Operational Satellite system, 153, 160

Tombaugh, Clyde, 67–68, 73, 76, 81, 85
400 • Index

Tougas, Charles A., 143, 197

Townes, Charles, 231

Townsend, John W., 160

Trackers of the Skies (Hayes), 182, 183

Tufts University, 36

Turner, Janice, 101

Udall, Morris K., 201, 206, 215, 220

Uhuru, 278, 280

University of Rochester, 153

University of Wisconsin, 109, 116, 117,

151–152, 157, 204

Upper Air Rocket Research Panel, 19

U.S. Coast and Geodetic Survey, 182

U.S. Geological Survey, 78, 143, 147

U.S. National Committee (USNC), 90

U.S. National Museum. See National Museum 

of Natural History

U.S. Weather Bureau, 58, 234

Van Allen, James, 43, 80, 93, 187

Vanguard program, 49–50, 60, 66–67, 75, 93; 

optical system to track, 80–81; tentative 

optical observing program, 72. See also

Naval Research Laboratory (NRL)

Van Vleck, J. H., 43

Varsavsky, Carlos Manuel, 141

Veis, George, 93, 124, 175, 177–182, 184, 191

Vernazza, Jorge E., 63

Very Large Array (VLA), 240–241, 242, 248, 

249–250, 272

Vestine, Harry, 47

Vidicon. See SEC Vidicon

Vistas in Astronautics (periodical), 138, 140

von Braun, Wernher, 18–19, 40, 63, 286; optical 

satellite tracking and, 66, 67, 68, 78

Walcott, Charles, 32

Watts, Raymond, 246–247

Weart, Spencer, xi

Weather Bureau, 31

Weaver, A. B., 223–224

Webb, James, 161, 191, 256, 274

Weekes, Trevor, 199, 200, 201–202, 206, 279

Westinghouse Company, 155–156, 158, 168

Wetmore, Alexander, 34–36

Weymann, Ray, 214–216, 220–221, 223

Whidden, Margie, 50

Whipple, Babette Samuelson, 16, 100, 103,

280, 285

Whipple, Celestia McFarland, 1, 2, 8, 103

Whipple, Dorothy Cornell Woods, 3, 8, 16

Whipple, Earle Raymond, 3, 8, 9, 10, 16, 103

Whipple, Fred L., xi, xii, 45–49, 176–177, 

281, 282, 285; Baker-Nunn stations and, 

91–94; “big science” at SAO and, 100–104; 

building and housing APO at Harvard, 

42–45; call for long-range planning at SAO 

and, 256–257; campaign for lunar sample 

returns, 147; career after retirement, 286; 

Carmichael, admiration by, 283; childhood 

of, 1, 2; college education of, 2–3; concerns 

about Smithsonian research and, 58–62; 

Congressional testimony by, 244–245; 

as critical of the APO, 37; “dear dream” 

of, 286–287; “Distinguished Federal 

Civilian Award,” 103; fiscal control of SAO 

and, 76–77; George Field and, 270–274; 

Goldberg, conflicts with 251; Greenstein 

Committee and, 265–266; at Harvard 

College Observatory, xii, 4–9; Hawaii 

station proposal and, 195; interdisciplinarity 

at HCO and, 137–138; JILA model and, 

274–276; Keddy, animosity with, 84–85, 

89, 99–100; Yoshihide Kozai and, 178; at 

Lick Observatory, 3–4; in Life magazine, 

289; Lilley and, 231–232; Major Optical 

Reflector (MOR) project and, 208–212; 

marriage and child of, 3, 8, 9, 10; mental 

breakdown of, 9–10; meteor research by, 

68–71, 138–141, 287–290; Mount Hopkins 

Observatory and, 202, 206, 224; Multiple 

Mirror Telescope (MMT) and, 216; NASA 

versus Smithsonian and, 97–100, 112–113, 

117–119; Oak Ridge Station assignment, 

7–8; OMB’s fact-finding mission to, 257–

258; optical observing program and, 71–73; 

optical satellite tracking and, 66, 73–75, 

77–80; Orbiting Astronomical Observatory 

(OAO) and, 114–117; permanency of SAO 
Index • 401

and, 122–125; postwar patrons for research 

of, 12–15; Project Celescope and, 153–154, 

163; radio astronomy and, 229, 250; 

reinvention of geoastronomy, 192; relations 

with the military, 186–192; remarriage of, 

16; retirement of, 276; Ripley’s vision for 

SAO and, 238–239; SAO’s first years and, 

49–51; SAO’s institutional identity and, 

94–96; SAO staking out territory and, 51–52; 

on Smithsonian’s arrival at Harvard, 29; 

“Smithsonian Research Bill” and, 127–131; 

Smithsonian Standard Earth and, 182–184; 

solar radiation monitoring and, 57–58, 

62–64; spaceflight, advocacy of, 17–20; space 

telescope project and, 109–111; suggested 

to lead APO, 38, 39–41; visibility of optical 

tracking objects and, 75–76; vision for the 

new SAO, 55–57; wartime work of, 10–12; 

western site proposals and, 196–198

Whipple, Harry Lawrence, 1, 103

Whipple, Laura, 16, 103

Whipple, Sandra, 16, 103

White, John, 100, 131

White Sands Proving Grounds, 12, 14, 

67, 196

Whitford, Albert, 193, 230–231, 241

Whitford Committee, 196, 230–231

Whitney, Charles, 44, 55, 106, 162, 254; data 

flow between NASA and SAO by, 111–112; 

first years of satellite-tracking program and, 

100; Greenstein Committee and, 265; papers 

written by, 173; skepticism of Menzel’s 

plan, 195

Wiesner, Jerome, 187, 232–233, 235, 238

Willard Report, 94–96

Wolbach, John G., 251

Wood, John, 144–146, 176, 261; campaign 

for lunar sample returns, 146–148; Lunar 

Receiving Laboratory and, 148–150

Woods, Dorothy Cornell. See Whipple, 

Dorothy Cornell Woods

Wright, F. W., 14

Wright Field, 14

Yale University Observatory, 126, 180

Yates, Donald, 187

Yerkes Observatory, 9, 22, 48

Young, John Donald, 240, 245

Zuckert, Eugene, 191